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  “Santiago didn’t call others,” she snapped. “He called me, talked to me. And if I had gotten to him first I would know everything I need to know. I don’t …” She trailed off as a thought struck. “My phone. Damn it, they’ve got a tap on my phone. They knew I was coming here tonight. My office phone, too. That’s how they knew I was about to get a court order to deal with the antique shop.” Her eyes blazed. “Well, we can fix that in a hurry.”

  She sprang up. The room spun. He caught her before she slid to the floor again.

  “You’re not going to be doing anything in a hurry for a day or two.” Smoothly he hooked an arm under her knees and lifted her.

  She liked the feeling of being carried by him, a bit too much. “I walked into this room, Zorro, I’ll walk out.”

  He carried her into the hall. “Are you always so thickheaded?”

  “Yes. I don’t need your help.”

  “I can see you’re doing just dandy on your own.”

  “I may have had some trouble before,” she said as he started down the stairs. “But now I have a name. Montega. Five-eight, a hundred and sixty. Brown hair, brown eyes, brown mustache. Two gold incisors. It shouldn’t be too hard to run a make on him.”

  He stopped and his eyes were ice. “Montega’s mine.”

  “The law doesn’t make room for personal vendettas.”

  “You’re right. The law doesn’t.” He shifted her slightly as he came to the base of the stairs.

  There was something in his tone—disillusionment?—that had her lifting a hand to his cheek. “Was it very bad?”

  “Yes.” God, how he wished he could turn to her, bury his face in her hair and let her soothe him. “It was very bad.”

  “Let me help you. Tell me what you know and I swear I’ll do everything I can do to see that Montega and whoever is behind him pays for what they’ve done to you.”

  She would try. Realizing it moved something in him, even as it frightened him. “I pay my own debts, my own way.”

  “Damn it, talk about thickheaded.” She squirmed as he carried her into the rain. “I’m willing to bend my principles and work with you, to form a partnership, and you—”

  “I don’t want a partner.”

  She could feel him stiffen with the words, all but feel the pain rush through him. But she wouldn’t soften. Not again. “Fine, just great. Oh, put me down, you can hardly carry me a hundred blocks.”

  “I don’t intend to.” But he could have. He could imagine carrying her through the rain to her apartment, inside, to the bed. Instead, he walked to the end of the block, toward the lights and the traffic. At the curb he stopped. “Hail a cab.”

  “Hail a cab? Like this?”

  He wondered why she could make him burn and want to laugh at the same time. He turned his head and watched the heat flare in her eyes as their lips hovered an inch apart. “You can still lift your arm, can’t you?”

  “Yes, I can lift my arm.” She did so, stewing as they stood and waited. After five soaking minutes, a cab cruised up to the curb. Miffed as she was, she had to bite back a smile at the way the driver’s mouth fell open when he got a load of her companion.

  “Jeez, you’re him, ain’t ya? You’re Nemesis. Hey, buddy, want a ride?”

  “No, but the lady does.” Effortlessly he slid Deborah into the backseat. His gloved hand brashed once over her cheek, like a memory. “I’d try an ice pack and some aspirin.”

  “Thanks. Thanks a lot. Listen, I’m not finished—”

  But he stepped back, disappearing into the dark, thin rain.

  “That was really him, wasn’t it?” The cabbie craned his neck around to Deborah, ignoring the bad-tempered honks around him. “What’d he do, save your life or something?”

  “Or something,” she muttered.

  “Jeez. Wait till I tell the wife.” Grinning, he switched off the meter. “This ride’s on me.”

  Chapter 6

  Grunting, his body running with sweat, Gage lifted the weights again. He was on his back on the bench press, stripped down to a pair of jogging shorts. His muscles were singing, but he was determined to reach his quota of a hundred presses. Perspiration soaked his sweatband and ran into his eyes as he concentrated on one small spot on the ceiling. There was a satisfaction even in pain.

  He remembered, too well, when he’d been so weak he’d barely been able to lift a magazine. There had been a time when his legs had turned to rubber and his breath had been ragged at trying to walk the length of the hospital corridor. He remembered the frustration of it, and more, the helplessness.

  He’d resisted therapy at first, preferring to sit alone and brood. Then he’d used it, like a punishment because he’d been alive and Jack had been dead. The pain had been excruciating.

  And one day, weak, sick, darkly depressed, he’d stood weaving in his hospital room, braced against the wall. He’d wished with all of his strength, with all of his will, that he could simply vanish.

  And he had.

  He’d thought he’d been hallucinating. Going mad. Then, terrified and fascinated, he’d tried it again and again, going so far as to tilt a mirror across the room so that he could watch himself fade back, fade into the pastel wall beside his bed.

  He would never forget the morning a nurse came in with his breakfast tray, walked right past him without seeing him, grumbling about patients who didn’t stay in bed where they belonged.

  And he’d known what he’d brought out of the coma with him. He’d known it had come with him for a purpose.

  So therapy had become like a religion, something he’d dedicated every ounce of strength to, every particle of will. He’d pushed himself harder, harder still, until his muscles had toned and firmed. He had thrown himself into lessons in the martial arts, spent hours with weight lifting, the treadmills, the punishing laps in the pool every day.

  He had exercised his mind, as well, reading everything, pushing himself to understand the myriad businesses he had inherited, spending hours day after day until he was skilled with complex computer systems.

  Now he was stronger, faster, sharper than he had been during his years on the force. But he would never wear a badge again. He would never take another partner.

  He would never be helpless.

  His breath hissed out, and he continued to lift when Frank strolled in with a tall glass of iced juice.

  Setting the glass on the table beside the bench press, Frank watched in silence for a moment. “Pushing it a bit today,” he commented. “’Course, you pushed it a bit yesterday, too, and the day before.” Frank grinned. “What is it about some women that makes guys go out and lift heavy objects?”

  “Go to hell, Frank.”

  “She’s a looker, all right,” he said, unoffended. “Smart, too, I guess, being a lawyer and all. Must be hard to think about her mind, though, when she looks at you with those big blue eyes.”

  With a last grunt, Gage set the bar in the safety. “Go lift a wallet.”

  “Now, you know I don’t do that anymore.” His wide face split with a new grin. “Nemesis might get me.” He plucked up a towel from the neatly folded pile beside the bench.

  Saying nothing, Gage took it and swiped at the sweat on his face and chest.

  “How’s the arm?”

  “Fine.” Gage didn’t bother to glance at the neat white bandage Frank had used to replace Deborah’s effort.

  “Must be getting slow. Never known you to catch one before.”

  “Do you want to be fired?”

  “Again? Nah.” He waited, patient, while Gage switched to leg presses. “I’m looking for job security. If you go out and get yourself killed, I’ll have to go back to fleecing tourists.”

  “Then I’ll have to stay alive. The tourists have enough trouble in Urbana.”

  “Wouldn’t have happened if I’d been with you.”

  Gage flashed him a look and continued to push. “I work alone. You know the deal.”

  “She was there.”
/>   “And that was the problem. She doesn’t belong on the streets, she belongs in a courtroom.”

  “You don’t want her in a courtroom, you want her in the bedroom.”

  The weights came down with a crash. “Drop it.”

  He’d known Gage too long to be intimidated. “Look, you’re crazy about her, and it’s throwing you off, messing up your concentration. It isn’t good for you.”

  “I’m not good for her.” He stood and grabbed the glass of juice. “She has feelings for me, and she has feelings for Nemesis. It’s making her unhappy.”

  “So tell her she’s only got feelings for one guy, and make her happy.”

  “What the hell am I supposed to do?” He drained the glass and barely prevented himself from heaving it against the wall. “Take her out to dinner, and over cocktails I could say, oh, by the way, Deborah, besides being a businessman and a pillar of the damn community, I have this sideline. An alter ego. The press likes to call him Nemesis. And we’re both nuts about you. So, when I take you to bed, do you want it with the mask or without?”

  Frank considered a moment. “Something like that.”

  With a half laugh, Gage set down the glass. “She’s a straight arrow, Frank. I know, because I used to be one myself. She sees things in black-and-white—the law and the crime.” Suddenly tired, he looked out over the sparkling water of the pool. “She’d never understand what I do or why I do it. And she’d hate me for lying to her, because every time I’m with her, I’m deceiving her.”

  “I don’t think you’re giving her enough credit. You’ve got reasons for what you do.”

  “Yeah.” Absently he touched the jagged scar on his chest. “I’ve got reasons.”

  “You could make her understand. If she really does have feelings for you, she’d have to understand.”

  “Maybe, just maybe, she’d listen, even accept without agreeing. She might even forgive the lies. But what about the rest?” He set his hand down on the bench, waited, watched it disappear into the damp leather. “How do I ask her to share her life with a freak?”

  Frank swore once, violently. “You’re not a freak. You’ve got a gift.”

  “Yeah.” Gage lifted his hand, flexed his fingers. “But I’m the one who has to live with it.”

  ***

  At 12:15 sharp, Deborah walked into City Hall. She made her way to the mayor’s office, walking under the stern-faced portraits of former mayors, governors, presidents. She moved past marble busts of the country’s founding fathers. The current mayor of Urbana liked having his walls lined with tradition, his floor carpeted in red.

  She didn’t begrudge him. In fact, Deborah appreciated the hushed, reverential feel of tradition. She enjoyed walking past the doors and hearing the quiet hum of keyboards, the click of copiers, the muted phone conversations as people worked for the city.

  She paused in the reception area. Tucker Fields’s secretary glanced up and, recognizing her, smiled. “Miss O’Roarke. He’s expecting you. Just let me buzz him.”

  Within an efficient twenty seconds, she was escorted into the mayor’s office. Fields sat behind his desk, a trim and tidy man with a fringe of snowy hair and the ruddy outdoor complexion of his farmer forebears. Beside him, Jerry looked like a preppy executive.

  Fields had earned a reputation during his six years in office as a man not afraid to get his hands dirty to keep his city clean.

  At the moment, his jacket was off, his white shirtsleeves rolled up his sinewy forearms. His tie was askew and he reached up to straighten it as Deborah entered.

  “Deborah, always a pleasure to see you.”

  “Good to see you, Mayor. Hello, Jerry.”

  “Have a seat, have a seat.” Fields gestured her to a chair as he settled back against the cushy leather of his own. “So, how’s the Slagerman trial going?”

  “Very well. I think he’ll take the stand after the noon recess.”

  “And you’re ready for him.”

  “More than.”

  “Good, good.” He waved in his secretary as she came to the door with a tray. “I thought since I’m making you miss lunch, I could at least offer you some coffee and a Danish.”

  “Thank you.” She took the cup, exchanged idle conversation, though she knew she hadn’t been sent for to drink coffee and chat.

  “Heard you had some excitement last night.”

  “Yes.” It was no more than she’d expected. “We lost Ray Santiago.”

  “Yes, I heard. It’s unfortunate. And this Nemesis character, he was there, as well?”

  “Yes, he was.”

  “He was also there the night the antique store on 7th blew up.” Steepling his fingers, Fields sat back. “One might begin to think he was involved.”

  “No, not in the way you mean. If he hadn’t been there last night, I wouldn’t be sitting here now.” Though it annoyed her, she was compelled to defend him. “He’s not a criminal—at least not in the standard sense.”

  The mayor merely lifted a brow. “In whatever sense, I prefer to have the police enforce the law in my city.”

  “Yes, I agree.”

  Satisfied, he nodded. “And this man …” He pushed through the papers on his desk. “Montega?”

  “Enrico Montega,” Deborah supplied. “Also known as Ricardo Sanchez and Enrico Toya. A Colombian national who entered the U.S. about six years ago. He’s suspected of the murder of two drug merchants in Colombia. He was based in Miami for a while, and Vice there has a fat file on him. As does Interpol. Allegedly, he is the top enforcer on the East Coast. Four years ago, he murdered a police officer, and seriously wounded another.” She paused, thinking of Gage.

  “You’ve been doing your homework,” Fields commented.

  “I always like a firm foundation when I go after someone.”

  “Hmm. You know, Deborah, Mitchell considers you his top prosecutor.” Fields grinned. “Not that he’d admit it. Mitch doesn’t like to hand out compliments.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “We’re all very pleased with your record, and particularly with the way the Slagerman case seems to be going. Both Mitch and I agree that we want you to concentrate more fully on your litigation. So we’ve decided to take you off this particular case.”

  She blinked, stunned. “I beg your pardon?”

  “We’ve decided you should turn your notes, your files, over to another D.A.”

  “You’re pulling me?”

  He held up a hand. “We’re simply beefing up the police investigation. With your caseload, we prefer to have you turn over your files on this to someone else.”

  She set her cup down with a snap. “Parino was mine.”

  “Parino is dead.”

  She shot a glance at Jerry, but he only lifted his hands. She rose, fighting to hold her temper. “This sprang out of that. All of it. This is my case. It has been all along.”

  “And you’ve endangered yourself, and the case, twice already.”

  “I’ve been doing my job.”

  “Someone else will be doing it, this part of it, after today.” He spread his hands. “Deborah, this isn’t a punishment, merely a shifting of responsibilities.”

  She shook her head and snatched up her briefcase. “Not good enough, not nearly. I’m going to speak with Mitchell myself.” Turning, she stormed out. She had to struggle to maintain her dignity and not give in to the urge to slam the door behind her.

  Jerry caught up with her at the elevators. “Deb, wait.”

  “Don’t even try it.”

  “What?”

  “To soothe and placate.” After jamming the Down button, she whirled on him. “What the hell is this, Jerry?”

  “Like the mayor said—”

  “Don’t hand me that. You knew, you knew what was going on, why I was being called in, and you didn’t tell me. Not even a warning so I could prepare myself.”

  “Deb—” He laid a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged it off. “Look, not that I don’t a
gree with everything the mayor said—”

  “You always do.”

  “I didn’t know. I didn’t know, damn it,” he repeated when she only stared at him. “Not until ten o’clock this morning. And whatever I think, I would have told you.”

  She stopped pounding her fist against the Down button. “Okay. I’m sorry I jumped all over you. But it’s not right. Something’s not right about all this.”

  “You nearly got yourself killed,” he reminded her. “When Guthrie came in this morning—”

  “Gage?” she interrupted. “Gage was here?”

  “The ten-o’clock appointment.”

  “I see.” Hands fisted, she whirled back to the elevator. “So he’s behind it.”

  “He was concerned, that’s all. He suggested—”

  “I get the picture.” She cut him off again and stepped into the elevator. “This isn’t finished. And you can tell your boss I said so.”

  She had to bank her temper when she walked into court. Personal feelings, personal problems, had no place here. There were two frightened young women and the justice system depending on her.

  She sat, taking careful notes as the defense counsel questioned Slagerman. She blanked Gage and his handiwork out of her mind.

  When it came time for cross-examination, she was ready. She remained seated a moment, studying Slagerman.

  “You consider yourself a businessman, Mr. Slagerman?”

  “Yes.”

  “And your business consists of hiring escorts, both male and female, for clients?”

  “That’s right. Elegant Escorts provides a service, finding suitable companions for other businessmen and -women, often from out of town.”

  She let him ramble a few moments, describing his profession. “I see.” Rising, she strolled past the jury. “And is it in … let’s say the job description … of any of your employees to exchange sex for money with these clients?”

  “Absolutely not.” Attractive and earnest, he leaned forward. “My staff is well-screened and well-trained. It’s a firm policy that if anyone on staff develops this kind of a relationship with a client, it would result in termination.”

  “Are you aware that any of your employees have indeed exchanged sex for money?”

  “I am now.” He aimed a pained look at Suzanne and Marjorie.

  “Did you request that Marjorie Lovitz or Suzanne McRoy entertain a client on a sexual level?”

  “No.”

  “But you’re aware that they did so?”

  If he was surprised by her train of questioning, he didn’t bat an eye. “Yes, of course. They admitted to it under oath.”

  “Yes, they were under oath, Mr. Slagerman. Just as you are. Have you ever struck an employee?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Yet both Miss Lovitz and Miss McRoy claim, under oath, that you did.”