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  He stopped where he was, trying not to groan as she lifted her arms to the ceiling and rotated her hips. In time to the music, he was sure, as she bent from the waist, grabbed her ankles and slowly bent and straightened her knees.

  He’d seen the routine before. It was something she did once or twice during her four-hour stint. But she thought she was alone now, and she put a little more rhythm into it. Watching her, he realized that the ten-minute break he’d taken hadn’t been nearly long enough.

  She sat again, pattered a bit to the audience. Her headphones were around her neck now, as she’d turned the music up for her own pleasure. As it pulsed, she swayed.

  When he put a hand on her shoulder, she bolted out of the chair. “Easy, O’Roarke. I brought you some tea.”

  Her heart was like a trip-hammer in her chest. As it slowed, she lowered to the table. “What?”

  “Tea,” he repeated, offering her a cup. “I brought you some tea. You drink too much coffee. This is herbal. Jasmine or something.”

  She’d recovered enough to look at the cup in distaste. “I don’t drink flowers.”

  “Try it. You might not hit the ceiling the next time someone touches you.” He sipped a soft drink out of the bottle.

  “I’d rather have that.”

  He took another sip, a long one, then passed the bottle to her. “You’re almost halfway there.”

  Like Boyd, she looked at the clock. It was nearing midnight. This had once been her favorite leg of the show. Now, as she watched the second hand tick away, her palms began to sweat.

  “Maybe he won’t call tonight, since he got me at home.”

  He settled beside her again. “Maybe.”

  “But you don’t think so.”

  “I think we take it a step at a time.” He put a soothing hand at the back of her neck. “I want you to try to keep calm, keep him on the line longer. Ask questions. No matter what he says, just keep asking them, over and over. He may just answer one and give us something.”

  She nodded, then worked her way through the next ten minutes. “There’s a question I want to ask you,” she said at length.

  “All right.”

  She didn’t look at him, but drained the last swallow of the cold drink to ease her dry throat. “How long will they let me have a babysitter?”

  “You don’t have to worry about it.”

  “Let’s just say I know something about how police departments work.” It was there in her voice again, that touch of bitterness and regret. “A few nasty calls don’t warrant a hell of a lot of attention.”

  “Your life’s been threatened,” he said. “It helps that you’re a celebrity, and that there’s already been some press on it. I’ll be around for a while.”

  “Mixed blessings,” she muttered, then opened the request line.

  The call came, as she had known it would, but quickly this time. On call number five, she recognized the voice, battled back the urge to scream and switched to music. Without realizing it, she groped for Boyd’s hand.

  “You’re persistent, aren’t you?”

  “I want you dead. I’m almost ready now.”

  “Do I know you? I like to think I know everyone who wants to kill me.”

  She winced a little at the names he spewed at her and tried to concentrate on the steady pressure of Boyd’s fingers at the base of her neck.

  “Wow. I’ve really got you ticked off. You know, buddy, if you don’t like the show, you’ve just got to turn it off.”

  “You seduced him.” There was a sound of weeping now, fueled with fury. “You seduced him, tempted him, promised him. Then you murdered him.”

  “I …” She was more shocked by this than by any of the gutter names he had called her. “Who? I don’t know what you’re talking about. Please, who—”

  The line went dead.

  As she sat there, dazed and silent, Boyd snatched up the phone. “Any luck? Damn it.” He rose, stuffed his hands in his pockets and began pacing. “Another ten seconds. We’d have had him in another ten seconds. He has to know we’ve got it tapped.” His head snapped around when Nick Peters entered, his hands full of sloshing coffee. “What?”

  “I—I—I—” His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “Mark said it was okay if I stayed through the show.” He swallowed again. “I thought Cilla might want some coffee.”

  Boyd jerked a thumb toward the table. “We’ll let you know. Can you help her get through the rest of the show?”

  “I don’t need help.” Cilla’s voice was icy-calm. “I’m fine, Nick. Don’t worry about it.” She put a steady hand on the mike. “That was for Chuck from Laurie, with all her love.” She aimed a steady look at Boyd before she punched the phone again. “KHIP, you’re on the air.”

  ***

  She got through it. That was all that mattered. And she wasn’t going to fall apart the way she had the other night. Cilla was grateful for that. All she needed to do was think it all through.

  She hadn’t objected when Boyd took the wheel of her car. Relinquishing the right to drive was the least of her worries.

  “I’m coming in,” Boyd said after he parked the car. She just shrugged and started for the door.

  Very deliberately she hung up her coat and pried off her shoes. She sat, still without speaking, and lit a cigarette. The marked cruiser outside had relieved her mind. Deborah was safe and asleep.

  “Look,” she began once she’d marshaled her thoughts. “There really isn’t any use going into this. I think I have it figured out.”

  “Do you?” He didn’t sit down. Her icy calm disturbed him much more than hysterics or anger would have. “Fill me in.”

  “It’s obvious he’s made a mistake. He has me mixed up with someone else. I just have to convince him.”

  “Just have to convince him,” Boyd repeated. “And how do you intend to do that?”

  “The next time he calls, I’ll make him listen.” She crossed an arm across her body and began to rub at the chill in her shoulder. “For God’s sake, Fletcher, I haven’t murdered anyone.”

  “So you’ll tell him that and he’ll be perfectly reasonable and apologize for bothering you.”

  Her carefully built calm was wearing thin. “I’ll make him understand.”

  “You’re trying to make yourself believe he’s rational, Cilla. He’s not:”

  “What am I supposed to do?” she demanded, snapping the cigarette in two as she crushed it out. “Whether he’s rational or not, I have to make him see he’s made a mistake. I’ve never killed anyone.” Her laugh was strained as she pulled the band from her hair. “I’ve never seduced anyone.”

  “Give me a break.”

  Anger brought her out of the chair. “What do you see me as, some kind of black widow who goes around luring men, then knocking them off when I’m finished? Get the picture, Fletcher. I’m a voice, a damn good one. That’s where it ends.”

  “You’re a great deal more than a voice, Cilla. We both know that.” He paused, waiting for her to look at him again. “And so does he.”

  Something trembled inside her—part fear, part longing. She wanted neither. “Whatever I am, I’m no temptress. It’s an act, a show, and it has nothing to do with reality. My ex-husband would be the first to tell you I don’t even have a sex drive.”

  His eyes sharpened. “You never mentioned you’d been married.”

  And she hadn’t intended to, Cilla thought as she wearily combed a hand through her hair. “It was a million years ago. What does it matter?”

  “Everything applies. I want his name and address.”

  “I don’t know his address. We didn’t even last a year. I was twenty years old, for God’s sake.” She began to rub at her forehead.

  “His name, Cilla.”

  “Paul. Paul Lomax. I haven’t seen him for about eight years—since he divorced me.” She spun to the window, then back again. “The point is, this guy’s on the wrong frequency. He’s got it into his head I—what?—used my wi
les on some guy, and that doesn’t wash.”

  “Apparently he thinks it does.”

  “Well, he thinks wrong. I couldn’t even keep one man happy, so it’s a joke to think I could seduce legions.”

  “That’s a stupid remark, even for you.”

  “Do you think I like admitting that I’m all show, that I’m lousy in bed?” She bit off the words as she paced. “The last man I went out with told me I had ice water for blood. But I didn’t kill him.” She calmed a little, amused in spite of herself. “I thought about it, though.”

  “I think it’s time you start to take this whole business seriously. And I think it’s time you start taking yourself seriously.”

  “I take myself very seriously.”

  “Professionally,” he agreed. “You know exactly what to do and how to do it. Personally … you’re the first woman I’ve met who was so willing to concede she couldn’t make a man dance to her tune.”

  “I’m a realist.”

  “I think you’re a coward.”

  Her chin shot up. “Go to hell.”

  He wasn’t about to back off. He had a point to prove, to both of them. “I think you’re afraid to get close to a man, afraid to find out just what’s inside. Maybe you’d find out it’s something you can’t control.”

  “I don’t need this from you. You just get this man off my back.” She started to storm past him but was brought up short when he grabbed her arm.

  “What do you say to an experiment?”

  “An experiment?”

  “Why don’t you give it a try, O’Roarke—with me? It should be safe, since you can barely stand the sight of me. A test.” He took her other arm. “Low-risk.” He could feel the anger vibrate through her as he held her. Good. For reasons he couldn’t have begun to name, he was just as angry. “Five to one I don’t feel a thing.” He drew her inches closer. “Want to prove me wrong?”

  Chapter 4

  They were close. She had lifted one hand in an unconscious defensive gesture and now her fingers were splayed across his chest. She could feel his heartbeat, slow and steady, beneath her palm. She focused her resentment on that even rhythm as her own pulse jerked and scrambled.

  “I don’t have to prove anything to you.”

  He nodded. The barely banked fury in her eyes was easier for him to handle than the glaze of fear it replaced. “To yourself, then.” Deliberately he smiled, baiting her. “What’s the matter, O’Roarke? Do I scare you?”

  He’d pushed exactly the right button. They both knew it. He didn’t give a damn if it was temper that pushed her forward. As long as she moved.

  She tossed her hair back and slowly, purposefully slid her hand from his chest to his shoulder. She wanted a reaction, hang him. He only lifted a brow and, with that faint smile playing around his mouth, watched her.

  So he wanted to play games, she thought. Well, she was up for it. Tossing common sense aside, she pressed her lips to his.

  His were firm, cool. And unresponsive. With her eyes open, she watched his remain patient, steady and hatefully amused. As her hand balled into a fist on his shoulder, she snapped her head back.

  “Satisfied?”

  “Not hardly.” His eyes might have been calm. That was training. But if she had bothered to monitor his heartbeat she would have found it erratic. “You’re not trying, O’Roarke.” He slid a hand down to her hip, shifting her balance just enough to have her sway against him. “You want me to believe that’s the best you can do?”

  Angry humiliation rippled through her. Cursing him, she dragged his mouth to hers and poured herself into the kiss.

  His lips were still firm, but they were no longer cool. Nor were they unresponsive. For an instant the urge to retreat hammered at her. And then needs, almost forgotten needs, surged. A flood of longings, a storm of desires. Overwhelmed by them, she strained against him, letting the power and the heat whip through her, reminding her what it was like to sample passion again.

  Every other thought, every other wish, winked out. She could feel the long, hard length of him pressed against her, the slow, deliberate stroke of his hands as they moved up her back and into her hair. His mouth, no longer patient, took and took from hers until the blood pounded like thunder in her head.

  He’d known she would pack a punch. He’d thought he was prepared for it. In the days he’d known her he’d imagined tasting her like this dozens of times. He’d imagined what it would be like to hold her against him, to hear her sigh, to catch the fevered scent of her skin as he took his mouth over her.

  But reality was much more potent than any dream had been.

  Chain lightning. She was every bit as explosive, as turbulent, as potentially lethal. The current sparked and sizzled from her into him, leaving him breathless, dazed and churning. Even as he groaned against the onslaught, he felt her arch away from the power that snapped back into her.

  She shuddered against him and made a sound—part protest, part confusion—as she tried to struggle away.

  He’d wrapped her hair around his hand. He had only to tug gently to have her head fall back, to have her eyes dark and cloudy on his.

  He took his time, letting his gaze skim over her face. He wanted to see in her eyes what he had felt. The reflection was there, that most elemental yearning. He smiled again as her lips trembled open and her breath came fast and uneven.

  “I’m not finished yet,” he told her, then dragged her against him again and plundered.

  She needed to think, but her thoughts couldn’t fight their way through the sensations. Layers of them, thin and silky, seemed to cover her, fogging the reason, drugging the will. Before panic could slice through, she was rocketing up again, clinging to him, opening for him, demanding from him.

  He knew he could feast and never be full. Not when her mouth was hot and moist and ripe with flavor. He knew he could hold yet never control. Not when her body was vibrating from the explosion they had ignited together. The promise he had heard in her voice, seen in her eyes, was here for the taking.

  Unable to resist, he slid his hands under her sweatshirt to find the warmed satin skin beneath. He took, possessed, exploited, until the ache spreading through his body turned to pain.

  Too fast, he warned himself. Too soon. For both of them. Holding her steady, he lifted his head and waited for her to surface.

  She dragged her eyes open and saw only his face. She gulped in air and tasted only his flavor. Reeling, she pressed a hand to her temple, then let it fall to her side. “I … I want to sit down.”

  “That makes two of us.” Taking her arm, he led her to the couch and sat beside her.

  She worked on steadying her breathing, focused on the dark window across the room. Maybe with enough time, enough distance, she would be able to convince herself that what had just happened had not been life-altering.

  “That was stupid.”

  “It was a lot of things,” he pointed out. “Stupid doesn’t come to mind.”

  She took one more deep breath. “You made me angry.”

  “It isn’t hard.”

  “Listen, Boyd—”

  “So you can say it.” Before she could stop him, he stroked a hand down her hair in a casually intimate gesture that made her pulse rate soar again. “Does that mean you don’t use a man’s name until you’ve kissed him?”

  “It doesn’t mean anything.” She stood up, hoping she’d get the strength back in her legs quicker by pacing. “Obviously we’ve gotten off the track.”

  “There’s more than one.” He settled back, thinking it was a pleasure to watch her move. There was something just fine and dandy about watching the swing of long feminine legs. As she paced, nervous energy crackling, he tossed an arm over the back of the couch and stretched out his legs.

  “There’s only one for me.” She threw him a look over her shoulder. “You’d better understand that.”

  “Okay, we’ll ride on that one for a while.” He could afford to wait, since he had every inte
ntion of switching lines again, and soon. “You seem to have some kind of screwy notion that the only thing that attracts men to you is your voice, your act. I think we just proved you wrong.”

  “What just happened proved nothing.” If there was anything more infuriating than that slow, patient smile of his, she had yet to see it. “In any case, that has nothing to do with the man who’s calling me.”

  “You’re a smart woman, Cilla. Use your head. He’s fixed on you, but not for himself. He wants to pay you back for something you did to another man. Someone you knew,” he continued when she stopped long enough to pick up a cigarette. “Someone who was involved with you.”

  “I’ve already told you, there’s no one.”

  “No one now.”

  “No one now, no one before, no one for years.”

  Having experienced that first wave of her passion, he found that more than difficult to believe. Still, he nodded. “So it didn’t mean as much to you. Maybe that’s the problem.”

  “For God’s sake, Fletcher, I don’t even date. I don’t have the time or the inclination.”

  “We’ll talk about your inclinations later.”

  Weary, she turned away to stare blindly through the glass. “Damn it, Boyd, get out of my life.”

  “It’s your life we’re talking about.” There was an edge to his voice that had her holding back the snide comment she wanted to make. “If there’s been no one in Denver, we’ll start working our way back. But I want you to think, and think hard. Who’s shown an interest in you? Someone who calls the station more than normal. Who asks to meet you, asks personal questions. Someone who’s approached you, asked you out, made a play.”

  She gave a short, humorless laugh. “You have.”

  “Remind me to run a make on myself.” His voice was deceptively mild, but she caught the underlying annoyance and frustration in it. “Who else, Cilla?”

  “There’s no one, no one who’s pushed.” Wishing for a moment’s, just a moment’s, peace of mind, she pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes. “I get calls. That’s the idea. I get some that ask me for a date, some that even send presents. You know, candy-and-flower types. Nothing very sinister about a bunch of roses.”

  “There’s a lot sinister about death threats.”

  She wanted to speak calmly, practically, but she couldn’t keep the nastiness out of her voice. “I can’t remember everyone who’s called and flirted with me on the air. Guys I turn down stay turned down.”

  He could only shake his head. It was a wonder to him that such a sharp woman could be so naive in certain situations. “All right, we’ll shoot for a different angle. You work with men—almost all men—at the station.”

  “We’re professionals,” she snapped, and began biting her nails. “Mark’s happily married. Bob’s happily married. Jim’s a friend—a good one.”

  “You forgot Nick.”

  “Nick Peters? What about him?”

  “He’s crazy about you.”

  “What?” She was surprised enough to turn around. “That’s ridiculous. He’s a kid.”

  After a long study, he let out a sigh. “You really haven’t noticed, have you?”

  “There’s nothing to notice.” More disturbed than she wanted to admit, she turned away again. “Look, Slick, this is getting us nowhere, and I’m …” Her words trailed off, and her hand crept slowly toward her throat.

  “And you’re what?”

  “There’s a man across the street. He’s watching the house.”

  “Get away from the window.”

  “What?”

  Boyd was already up and jerking her aside. “Stay away from the windows and keep the door locked. Don’t open it again until I get back.”

  She nodded and followed him to the door. Her lips pressed together as she watched him take out his weapon. That single gesture snapped her back to reality. It had been a smooth movement, not so much practiced as instinctive. Ten years on