Read an Excerpt
Chapter One
It took six rings of the phone to reach a corner of
her sleeping brain. By the eighth, she managed to
slide a hand out from under the blankets. She
smacked the alarm clock first and slammed the cheery
face of Kermit the Frog to the floor. It was the third
dead Kermit that year.
Her long, unadorned fingers patted along the glossy
surface of the walnut nightstand, finally gripped the
receiver and pulled it under the covers with her.
"'Lo."
"It rang ten times."
With the blankets over her head, Laura MacGregor
winced at the booming accusation, then yawned.
"Did?"
"Ten times. One more ring and I'd have been calling
911. I was seeing you lying in a pool of blood."
"Bed," she managed, and snuggled into the pillow.
"Sleeping. Good night."
"It's nearly eight o'clock."
"When?"
"In the morning." He'd identified the voice now,
knew which one of his granddaughters was burrowed
in bed at what Daniel MacGregor considered the middle
of the day. "A fine, bright September morning.
You should be up enjoying it, little girl, instead of
sleeping it away."
"Why?"
He huffed. "Life's passing you by, Laura. Your
grandmother's worried about you. Why, she was just
saying last night how she could barely get a moment's
peace of mind, worrying about her oldest granddaughter."
Anna had said nothing of the kind, but the ploy of
using his wife to finagle his family into doing what
he wanted them to do was an old habit. The MacGregor
appreciated traditions.
"'S fine. Everything. Dandy. Sleeping now,
Grandpa."
"Well, get up. You haven't visited your grandmother
for weeks. She's pining. Just because you
think you're a grown-up woman of twenty-four
doesn't mean you should forget your dear old
granny."
He winced at that a bit himself and glanced toward
the door to make certain it was firmly shut. If Anna
heard him refer to her as a dear old granny, she'd
scalp him.
"Come up for the weekend," he demanded.
"Bring your cousins,"
"Got a brief to read," she muttered, and started
drifting off again. "But soon."
"Make it sooner. We're not going to live forever,
you know."
"Yes, you are."
"Ha. I've sent you a present. It'll be there this
morning. So get yourself out of bed and prettied up.
Wear a dress."
"Okay, sure. Thanks, Grandpa. Bye."
Laura dumped the receiver on the floor, burrowed
under the pillow and slid blissfully back into sleep.
Twenty minutes later She was rudely awakened
with a shake and a curse. "Damn it, Laura, you did
it again."
"What?" She Shot up in bed, dark eyes wide and
glazed, black hair tangled. "What?"
"Left the phone off the hook." Julia MacGregor
fisted her hands on her hips and smoldered. "I was
expecting a call."
"I, ah ..." Her mind was an unfocused blur. Laura
shoved her hands through her sleep-tousled hair, as if
to clear it. Mornings were just not her time of day.
"I think Grandpa called. Maybe. I can't remember."
"I didn't hear the phone." Julia shrugged. "I guess
I was in the shower. Gwen's already left for the hospital.
What did Grandpa want?" When Laura continued
to look blank, "Julia laughed and sat on the edge
of the bed. "Probably just the usual. `Your grandmother's
worried about you.'"
"I seem to remember something about that." Smiling
a little, Laura plopped back onto the pillows. "If
you'd have gotten out of the shower faster, you'd
have caught the call. Then Grandma would have been
worried about you."
"She was worried about me last week." Julia
checked her antique marcasite watch. "I've got to run
look at this property in Brookline."
"Another one? Didn't you just buy another house
last month?"
"It was two months ago, and it's nearly ready to
turn over." Julia shook back her curling mane of
flame-colored hair. "Time for a new project."
"Whatever works for you. My big plan was to
sleep until noon, then spend the rest of the afternoon
on a brief." Laura rolled her shoulders. "Fat chance
around here."
"You'll have the place to yourself for the next few
hours. Owen has a double shift at the hospital, and I
don't expect to be back until five."
"It's not my night to cook."
"I'll pick something up,"
"Pizza," Laura said immediately. "Double cheese
and black olives."
"It's never too early for you to think about dinner."
Julia rose, smoothed down the moss-green
jacket she wore over pleated trousers. "See you tonight,"
she called on her way out. "And don't leave
the phone off the hook."
Laura studied the ceiling, contemplating the sunlight,
and considered pulling the covers back over her
head. She could sleep another hour. Dropping off at
will or whim had never been a problem for her, and
the skill had served her well in law school.
But the idea of pizza had stirred her appetite. When
there was a choice between sleep and food, Laura
faced her biggest dilemma. Laura tossed the covers
back as food won the battle. She wore a simple white
athletic T-shirt and silk boxer shorts in electric blue.
She'd lived with her two female cousins all through
college and now for two years in the house in Boston's
Back Bay. The thought of grabbing a robe never
occurred to her. The attractive little town house--one
of Julia's recent renovations, and their newest
home--was decorated with an eclectic mix of their
three tastes, Gwen's love of antiques vied with Julia's
appreciation for modern art and Laura's own attraction
to kitsch.
She jogged downstairs, trailing her fingers over the
satin finish of the oak railing, glanced briefly through
the etched-glass window in the front door to see that
it was indeed a brilliantly sunny fall morning, then
swung down the hall toward the kitchen.
Though each of the cousins had a fine mind, conscientiously
applied to their individual areas of expertise,
none of them was especially gifted in that
particular room. Still. they'd made it homey, with soft
yellow paint setting off the deep blue counters and
glass-fronted cabinets.
Laura had always been grateful that the three of
them had melded so well. Gwen and Julia were her
closest friends, as well as her cousins. Along with the
rest of the MacGregor brood, as Laura thought of
them, the extended kin of Daniel and Anna were a
close, knit, if diverse, family,
She glanced at the sapphire-blue cat clock on the
wall, its eyes diamond, bright, its tail swinging rhythmically.
She thought of her parents and wondered if
they were enjoying their much-deserved holiday in
the West Indies, Undoubtedly they were. Caine and
Diana MacGregor were a solid unit, she mused. Husband
and wife, parents, law partners. Twenty-five
years of marriage, the raising of two children and the
building of one of the most respected law practices
in Boston hadn't dimmed their devotion.
She couldn't conceive of the amount of effort it
took to make it all work. Much easier, she decided,
to concentrate on one thing at a time. For her, for
now, that was law. Correction, she thought, and
grinned at the refrigerator. For right now, that was
breakfast.
She snagged the Walkman lying on the counter and
slipped on the headphones. A little music with the
morning meal, she decided, and cued up the tape.
Royce Cameron parked his Jeep behind a spiffy
little classic Spitfire convertible in flaming red. The
kind of car and color, he mused, that screamed out,
Officer, another speeding ticket here, please! He
shook his head at it, then shifted his gaze to study the
house.
It was a beaut. That was to be expected in this ritzy
area of the Back Bay--and given the lineage of the
owners. Boston was the Red Sox and Paul Revere.
And Boston was the MacGregors.
But he wasn't thinking of money or class as he
studied the house. His cool blue eyes scanned windows
and doors. A lot of glass, he mused, while the
crisp autumn breeze ruffled his thick, mink-colored
hair. A lot of glass meant a lot of access. He started
down the flagstone walk, with its brilliant edgings of
fall blooms, then cut across the neat sloping lawn to
consider the atrium doors that opened onto a small
patio.
He tested them, found them locked. Though one
good kick, he thought, one good yank, and he'd be
inside. His eyes stayed cool, his mouth hardened in a
face full of planes and angles. It was a face the
woman he nearly married had once called criminal.
He hadn't asked her what she meant by that as they'd
been well into their skid by then, and he just hadn't
wanted to know.
It could be cold, that face, and was now, as he
calculated access into the lovely old house, which undoubtedly
was packed with the antiques and jewelry
rich women of a certain class enjoyed. His eyes were
a pale, chilly blue that could warm and deepen unexpectedly.
His mouth was a firm line that could
curve into charm or straighten to ice. A small scar
marred his strong chin, the result of abrupt contact
with a diamond pinkie ring that had ridden on a curled
fist. He skimmed just under six feet, with the body of
a boxer, or a brawler.
He'd been both.
Now, as the freshening breeze whipped the wave
of his collar-length hair into disarray, he decided he
could be inside with pitifully little effort in under
thirty seconds.
Even if he didn't have a key to the front door.
He walked back around, gave a quick, loud series
of buzzes on the doorbell while he gazed through the
fancy glass, of the entryway. Looked pretty, he
thought, with the etching of flowers on frosted glass.
And was about as secure as tinfoil.
He buzzed one more time, then took the key out
of his pocket, slid it into the lock and let himself in.
It smelled female. That was his first thought as he
stepped into the foyer onto polished parquet. Citrus,
oils, flowers, and the lingering whiff of a nicely seductive
perfume in the air. The staircase was a fluid
sweep to his tight, the front parlor a welcoming opening
to his left.
Tidy as a nunnery, he thought, with the sensual
scent of a first-class bordello. Women, to Royce's
mind, were an amazement.
It was pretty much as he'd imagined. The beautiful
old furniture, the soft colors, the expensive dust-catchers.
And, he thought, noting the glitter of earrings
on a small round table, the pricey baubles one
of them left sitting around.
He slid a mini tape recorder out of the back pocket
of his jeans and began to make notes as he wandered
through.
The large canvas splashed with wild colors that
hung over the cherrywood mantel caught his eye. It
should have been jarring, that bold scream of brilliance
and shape in so quiet a room. Instead, he found
it compelling, a celebration of passion and life.
He'd just noted the signature in the corner--D. C.
MacGregor--and deduced that the painting was the
work of one of the many MacGregor cousins when
he heard the singing.
No, it couldn't, in all honesty, be called singing, he
decided, turning the recorder off and slipping it into
his pocket as he stepped back into the hall. Screaming,
howling, perhaps caterwauling, he reflected, were
better terms for such a vocal massacre of one of Whitney
Houston's anthems to love.
But it meant that he wasn't alone in the house after all. He
headed down hallway toward noise,
and as he stepped through the doorway into a sunny
kitchen, his face split with a grin of pure male appreciation.
She was a long one, he thought, and most of it was
leg. The smooth, golden length of them more than
made up, in his estimation, for the complete lack of
vocal talent. And the way she was bending over, head
in the fridge, hips bumping, grinding, circling, presented
such an entertaining show, no man alive or
dead would have complained that she sang off-key.
Her hair was black as midnight, straight as rain,
and tumbled to a waist that just begged to be spanned
by a man's two hands.
And she was wearing some of the sexiest underwear
it had ever been his pleasure to observe. If the
face lived up-to the body, it was really going to
brighten his morning.
"Excuse me," His brow lifted when, instead of
jolting or squealing as he'd expected--even hoped--she
continued to dig into the fridge and sing. "Okay,
not that I'm not enjoying the performance, but you
might want to take five on it."
Her hips did a quick, enthusiastic twitch that had
him whistling through his teeth. Then she reached for
a note that should have cracked crystal and turned
with a chicken leg in one hand and a soft-drink can
in the other.
She didn't jolt, but she did scream. Royce held up
a hand, palm out, and began to explain himself. With
the music still blaring through her headset, all Laura
saw was a strange man with windblown hair, faded
jeans and a face that held enough wickedness to fuel
a dozen devils.
Aiming for his head, she winged the soda. He
nipped it one-handed, an inch before it smacked between
his eyes. But she'd already whirled to the
counter. When she sprang back, she had a carving
knife gripped in her hand and a look in her eyes that
warned him she wouldn't think twice about gutting
him with it.
"Take it easy." He held up both hands, kept his
voice mild.
"Don't move. Don't even breathe," she said loudly
as she inched along the counter toward the phone,
"You take one step forward or back and I'll cut your
heart out."
He figured he could disarm her in about twenty
seconds, but one of them--most likely him--would
need some stitches afterward. "I'm not moving.
Look, you didn't answer when I knocked. I'm just
here to ..." It was then that he got past looking at the
face and saw the headphones, "Well, that explains
it," Very slowly, he tapped a finger to his ear, ran it
over his head to the other and said, with exaggerated
enunciation, "Take off the headphones."
She'd just become aware of the music over the
blood that was roaring in her head and tipped them
off. "I said don't move. I'm calling the cops."
"Okay." Royce tried an easy smile. "But you're
going to look pretty stupid, since I'm just doing my
job. Cameron Security? You didn't answer when I
knocked. I guess Whitney was singing too loud." He
kept his eyes on hers. "I'm just going to get out my
ID."
"Two fingers," she ordered. "And move slow."
That was his intention. Those big, dark eyes of hers
held-more temper and violence than fear. A woman
who could face a strange man down alone, kitchen
knife in hand, without trembling wasn't a woman to
challenge. "I had a nine-o'clock to assess the house
and discuss systems."
She flicked her gaze down to the identification he
held up. "An appointment with whom?"
"Laura MacGregor."
She closed her free hand around the phone. "I'm
Laura MacGregor, pal, and I didn't make an appointment
with you."
"Mr. MacGregor arranged the appointment."
She hesitated. "Which Mr. MacGregor?"
Royce smiled again. "The MacGregor. Daniel
MacGregor. I was to meet his granddaughter Laura
at nine, and design and install the best security system
known to man in order to protect his girls." The smile
flashed charmingly. "Your grandmother worries."
Laura took her hand from the phone, but didn't put
down the knife. It was precisely the kind of thing her
grandfather would do, and exactly what he'd say.
"When did he hire you?"
"Last week. I had to go up to that fortress of his
in Hyannis Port so he could check me out face-to-face. Hell
of a place. Hell of a man. We had a Scotch
and a cigar after we did the deal."
"Really?" She arched a brow. "And what did my
grandmother have to say about that?"
"About the deal?"
"About the cigars."
"She wasn't there when we closed the deal. And
since he locked the door of his office before he got
the cigars out of a hollowed-out copy of War and
Peace, I have to conclude she doesn't approve of cigars."
Laura let out a long breath, set the knife back in
the wooden knife block. "Okay, Mr. Cameron, you
pass."
"He said you'd be expecting me. I take it you
weren't."
"No, I wasn't. He called this morning, said something
about a present he was sending. I think." She
shrugged, her hair flowing with the movement, picked
up the drumstick she'd dropped and dumped it in the
wastecan. "How did you get in?"
"He gave me a key." Royce dug it out of his
pocket, and put it into the hand Laura held out. "I
did ring the bell. Several times."
"Uh-huh."
Royce glanced down at the soft-drink can.
"You've got a good arm, Ms. MacGregor." He
shifted his gaze back to her face. Cheekbones that
could cut glass, he thought, a mouth fashioned for
wild sex, and eyes the color of sinful dark chocolate.
"And possibly the most incredible face I've ever
seen."
She didn't like the way he was looking at it, savoring
it, she thought, with a stare that was arrogant,
rude and unnerving. "You have good reflexes, Mr.
Cameron. Or you'd be lying on my kitchen floor with
a concussion right now."
"Might have been worth it," he said with a grin
that tried to be disarming, but was just wicked, and
offered her back the soft drink.
"I'll get dressed, then we can discuss security systems."
"You don't have to change on my account."
She angled her head and gave him a look that encompassed
him from his overly appreciative expression
to his don't-mess-with-me stance. "Yes, I do.
Because if you keep looking at me that way for another
ten seconds, you will have a concussion. I won't
be long."
She sailed by him. Royce turned as she passed so
that he could enjoy watching her walk away on those
endless, fascinating legs. And he whistled through his
teeth again.
One way or the other, he thought with a long appreciative
sigh, Laura MacGregor was a knockout.