Double Take

“Yes. I did read the papers.” To be honest, she’d stayed glued to CNN for days, hoping for any scrap of information, any statement from Destina that would allay the last of her fears. She’d seen a glimpse of his son at the prison gates, but only the briefest flash of the camera’s eye on Destina himself, and then later, outside his rural Connecticut compound. “There wasn’t much reported. What they didn’t tell me was why.”

“Supposedly he earned an early parole for health reasons. Compassionate release.” Scoffing at the very label, Ransom took a seat across from her on the folding chair she kept for rare guests in her sparsely furnished living room. “Nobody believes that,” he said, “but it’s the official word.”

“That means he’s ill?”

“Usually means it’s terminal.”

“My father is already dead. Destina killed him.” He’d always said he would.

Ransom lifted his eyebrows. “There’s no physical evidence, but I agree with you. Destina may have been in prison at the time, but he has a long reach. His organization employed any number of assassins when James testified against him.”

She couldn’t keep the reminder to herself. Her voice shook. “And Destina vowed revenge because my father spoke the truth.”

“That truth—if it was the whole truth—put Destina behind bars.”

She sighed. “Now he’s out. And presumably sick.”

“Either that or his lawyers are more clever than they were years ago. The assassins, too. All I know is, your father died in Denver and you’re in New York.” He hesitated, as if he had decided to keep something more to himself. “That’s why I’m here.”

Her mouth thinned with disapproval. “The U.S. Marshals to the rescue?”

“I know you don’t like that—or me—but it’s necessary. Just as you know James was in WITSEC when he died.” It was the official name for the more familiar Witness Protection program. “That made him our responsibility.”

“Looks like you did a lousy job.”

He flinched and Cameron cautioned herself to hold her temper. Ransom knew how she felt, but he was no longer her keeper. Twenty-two years in WP had been that many years too long. Now he had no jurisdiction over her.

Cameron tried to forget looking over her shoulder on the way home.

His mouth tightened. “James was secure in Denver for—”

“Three years. Since you brought me the happy news in Phoenix that my family would have to relocate again.”

“Because you had decided to leave. When your brother left WP, we couldn’t risk him inadvertently leading someone else—Destina—to James, your mother, or you.”

“How many times did we relocate, Ransom? Five? Fifteen?” A flash of guilt about Phoenix went through her, but she knew, of course. They were all losses, engraved on her heart like her father’s murder. “I left in Phoenix because what was the point, after all? Maybe my brother was right to leave, too. He just realized it first.” She didn’t know where Kyle—at least, that had been his WP name the last time she saw him—was living now, and the knowledge pained Cameron, but she felt too angry to stop. “If you people were doing what the taxpayers of this country hired you to do, my father wouldn’t be dead!”

The edges of his mouth had turned white. “I admit that we—”

“What kind of ‘protection’ did you really provide?”

This time he said nothing. His whole face had turned pale.

“News flash, Ransom. We lived in fear for my father’s life every day, of his being found and killed. And for what? Because he testified in a federal trial to get you a conviction.”

“Not my conviction,” he said. “The government’s.”

“You are the government.” She rose from the chair, still shaking. “It wasn’t you who spent all those years hiding behind closed blinds, afraid of every slam of a car door or backfire in the street! Afraid of telling something—anything—to a neighbor or a friend that would indicate another life.”

Ransom stood up, too. “I know that wasn’t easy. But putting that bastard behind bars, making a serious dent in Venuto Destina’s multicrime organization, had to seem worth it.”

“Spoken like a man who’s never lived behind closed doors.”

Ransom ran a not-quite-steady hand through his sun-streaked hair.

“Look,” he said again. “I could have sent another agent here. Instead, I came to see you because I thought familiarity—”

“Breeds contempt?”

He held up both hands. “I guess so.”

Cameron walked toward the door. “Thank you for coming, Deputy Marshal Ransom. If there’s nothing else—”

“I’m not finished. Sit down,” he said again.

“Why?” Cameron waved a hand in dismissal. “I have lived all over this country, in a dozen or more ratty little houses. Under a dozen or more different names, which, I might add, is why I now prefer the name I was born with. It’s my father’s name too—”

“The name he took back when he died,” Ransom said.

“And that’s why I gave the marshals my real name as their contact—your contact—when I left the program.” She dragged in a breath. “I learned very young, when I lost that name, to be careful what I did and said and who I said it to, and at this point when I no longer have to watch my tongue or hide who I really am I am extremely tempted to tell you to go to hell.” She took a breath. “However, my mother managed to instill in me a few manners. So instead of throwing you out right now, I’ll listen. For two minutes.” She paused. “Then I’ll toss you out into the hall.”

Cameron knew she was close to losing the last of her control. She didn’t want Ransom to know how shaken she’d felt tonight. Didn’t want to hear what else he’d come to say…

“Destina.” The name again shot fear along her nerve ends, as it had on the darkened street earlier. “I think you’re in danger,” Ransom said, holding her gaze. “I think you’re next.”

Cameron thought she’d heard him wrong. She hoped she had. “I’m in danger? But the only reason I lived in Witness Protection was because of my father. He’s dead now.” Saying the words still hurt. “Destina’s already had his threatened revenge.”

“Has he?” Ransom cleared his throat. “It would help if you could tell me about the money that’s still missing. Since Destina’s release, someone has been sniffing around. I’m sure James knew where it is.”

“The money?” To Cameron, it was just a shadowy mention, in hushed tones, between her parents long ago when she was a child. What did the still-missing funds in the case have to do with her? Or even her father now? The government didn’t pay its witnesses well. James, her mother, Kyle and Cameron had lived in near poverty. Surely Ransom didn’t think… “Why would my father know anything about that?” Unless he thought James was a crook, too. Which he seemed to. “Why would I?”

“Because the one thing that kept you all sane in WP was family. Maybe that didn’t mean as much to Kyle, or whatever he calls himself now, or maybe he got restless and left the program to stay sane himself. But you stayed. A lot longer.”

“I had to. I was still a kid—and then my mother was ill.”

“But after she died…?” he pressed.

“My father was all alone. He needed me while he adjusted to her loss.”

“See what I mean?” Ransom looked at her with raised eyebrows. “Family,” he repeated. “If James knew about that money, then you know about it, too.”

Cameron glared. “By what circuitous route of logic did you figure that out?”

“You love your father. He loved you. He’d tell you everything. No secrets.”

“He didn’t tell me about any money,” she said, her jaw tense, “because he…didn’t…know…about…it…himself.” She spaced the words so he’d understand.

Ransom looked around, as if he’d just now noticed her apartment. “I’d say you’ve already spent some of it.” He gestured at the room. “Look at this place. Fancy address, fancy building. Marble lobby. A doorman. You’re on a relatively high floor—with a good view, I bet—and in New York. Even I know this rent must be well into four figures. You’re what?” he said. “A cook?”

She stiffened. “A celebrity chef.”

“You feed other people. How much does that pay?”

“Not enough right now.” With the admission, she seemed to have walked into his trap again. “That doesn’t mean I steal. Don’t pat yourself on the back too hard, Marshal. You might fall on your face.”

“Deputy Marshal.” Giving her a look, Ransom strolled through the living room.

Her sparse living room.

Cameron watched him take in the old chair she’d bought at a flea market in SoHo, the bare windows. She wasn’t sure she’d ever buy draperies, because she couldn’t bear to shut out the light, the world outside. But she had plans, eventually, to furnish the place. To sink roots at last, for herself.

“It’s an investment,” she said, seeing his appraisal of the barren surroundings. “I need the good address. It gives me an air of respectability, of prosperity. I doubt the kind of clients I solicit—celebrities—would sign on with someone who worked out of a slum, which is more like what I can actually afford.” She hesitated, knowing she was again playing to his preconceived opinion of her. “I assure you, I do earn enough to pay the rent. That’s about all, but for now it has to do.”

Ransom remained silent.

“You don’t believe me.”

“I’m closer,” he admitted, “but not there yet.”

His steady gaze made Cameron’s eyes lower. Her pulse drummed with tension, and something more. She didn’t want to acknowledge the effect that blue gaze was having on her, yet his hot, hungry stare made her tremble inside. Desire flowed, thick and heavy, in her veins before Cameron pushed the response aside like an unwanted thought. This was Ransom. If he chose to believe she and her father were thieves like Destina, she couldn’t prevent it. She didn’t need to like him for it, though. She didn’t need to feel tainted herself.

Wasn’t it enough for him, for the U.S. Marshals, that in the end her father had given his life for justice? To accuse him now, when he could no longer defend himself, of stealing…to accuse her…

“Tell me one thing, Deputy Marshal. How did Destina’s men find my father in Denver?”

“I couldn’t say.” He frowned, his blue eyes turning even darker. “Unless you tipped someone off.”

Fresh anger boiled inside her. “There is no way I would lead anyone—most of all, Destina or his men—to my father. We had an elaborate system for communication, which we used as seldom as possible and always with extreme caution. It was foolproof.”

“Apparently not.”

“How dare you—” Unable to go on, she paced the room. “As for the missing money, I know nothing about it.”

“Destina must think you do.”

“And so do you,” she said to him.

Not answering, he studied the living room again. “Your decor doesn’t look too comfortable. Is there a spare bed I can borrow for the night?”

Cameron’s heart lurched. She had only one bed—actually, a new mattress but on the floor. Next payday she’d buy the frame, then, eventually, a headboard. In the meantime she’d lived too much of her life under the U.S. Marshals. Now, she was done with that.

“Forget it. You’re not staying here.”

“How about a sleeping bag?” He tested the carpet’s softness with a foot.

“I don’t have one.” Cameron flung open the door and pointed a finger. “Out.”

Ransom didn’t budge. “Look, until we can build a case against Destina and he’s back behind bars, I’m going to protect you. Like it or not.” He stared at her. “Until that money is entered as evidence.”

That evidence—which Ransom thought she was part of—seemed more important to him than it did to Cameron, who despised Destina with her very soul. He had ruined her childhood, destroyed her family, shattered her father and caused her mother’s death from overwork and a broken heart. That didn’t mean she believed Ransom.

“Do you have a court order?”

“Do I need one?”

“Definitely. Yes.” Cameron urged him into the hall. “Otherwise, I’m finished with government protection.” And you. “If you remember, the last time we talked was by phone after Dad died. I wanted it to be the last time. Thanks—again—for your condolences.”

Again, he hesitated then apparently changed his mind. His tone gentled. “I told you then I was with James when he died. And I’ve been thinking about what he said. I’ve decided that with his last words he was warning me—warning you.”

Cameron’s mouth trembled. Oh God, Dad. None of what Ransom had said thus far could be true. James wasn’t a thief. She wasn’t in danger.

“He said your name,” Ransom reminded her, his haunted blue eyes on hers. “And something else.” He paused, as if he didn’t want to finish. “He said ‘Ven.’”

“Meaning Destina?” Her blood chilled.

“Think about it.”

But to her surprise, Ransom didn’t argue about staying. He took out a small pad, scribbled on it, then tore off the sheet and handed it to her.

“My cell phone number,” he said, “and the place where I’m staying—with a friend from the NYPD.” Then he stepped into the elevator and, with the closing doors, disappeared—as if he, not Cameron, had vanished into Witness Protection.

Slowly, she crumpled the piece of paper.

She had the uneasy feeling she hadn’t seen the last of him.

Chapter Two

Blood dripped from her fingers.

The room spun around her and Cameron stared down at the knife she’d dropped on the counter. Her new employer’s personal assistant looked at the accident scene. And swallowed.

“I can’t believe I was that stupid,” Cameron said, her assurance seeming to come from a distance. This was all Ransom’s fault, she wanted to think. Ven… I’ve decided he was…warning you. She hadn’t slept at all last night after Ransom left but had startled awake at every sound. It was only the afternoon but she felt bone-tired. “You’d think I never attended culinary school, or learned how to cut an onion without dicing my own finger.”

Grace Jennings paled another shade. She wrung her hands. “Should I call 911?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then let me get the first-aid kit.”

While she was gone, Cameron grabbed a towel. Her heart was thumping, but she breathed deeply to get it under control. It wasn’t only Ransom who troubled her. She couldn’t seem to do her job today without thinking about her father.

After holding the two fingers that she’d clipped with the sharp blade under cold running water, she accepted a pair of bandages from Grace, who still looked as if she was about to faint.

Cameron hoped she wouldn’t pass out herself. She hadn’t seen Grace leave the kitchen of Emerald Greer’s large coop apartment, hadn’t heard her come back. Grace moved like a ghost. Or Cameron felt too shocked by her own negligence on top of her anger at Ransom to register anything but pain. Her fingers began to pulse with it.

“Hand me that bowl of zucchini, please.” She was still shaking but hoped Grace didn’t notice, Emerald Greer either if she happened to appear at just the wrong moment. Cameron shot a glance at the kitchen doorway but with relief found it empty. She added green squash to the other fresh vegetables sautéing on the industrial-style range, and another enticing aroma wafted upward into the warm, moist air.

Maybe she shouldn’t have tried to work. But activity seemed preferable to pacing her apartment all day, fretting. Or remembering Ransom.

He wasn’t easy to forget. Or to ignore, for that matter. She tried to think objectively. Broad shoulders, lean build, long legs, well-muscled arms and strong hands…he had a powerful physique, but so did other men. Ransom’s masculine appeal didn’t stop there. Her first sight of him last night might have stolen her breath, not to mention her will. His sensual mouth and piercing blue eyes could melt any woman’s defenses. But Cameron didn’t intend to let him—or his masculinity—slip under her guard.

With swift, abrupt motions she stirred the mixture in the pan. “If this doesn’t tempt the boss from her exercise room, I don’t know what will.”

“Emerald hates vegetables.”

“I’ll change her mind. Ratatouille Provençal has never failed me before.”

Brave words. Cameron wasn’t that sure about Emerald. Neither was Grace.

“She’ll change your mind first,” Grace said.

Cameron’s hand throbbed. She didn’t exactly regret her decision to work for Emerald Greer. Time in the celebrated but injured tennis star’s kitchen bought Cameron a valuable client—and time she hadn’t expected to need to calm her nerves about Ransom.

To her fury, he hadn’t given up as easily as she thought last night. He’d obviously followed her to work this morning, his footsteps echoing hers. Briefly at first, she had let her paranoia kick in again until she realized—this time—who walked behind her. A couple of weeks in this well-appointed setting couldn’t hurt, the money either, but Cameron refused to call it hiding out.

The money.

Ransom was wrong. Let him dog her trail if he liked. No one but him was after her.

“Now the yellow squash,” she said, tipping pieces into the pan. Fresh garlic had gone in first with salt and pepper then a splash of red wine. She added the onions that had led to her accident.

“How did your other clients go today?” From her perch on a stool at the center island, Grace brushed wispy brown bangs from her forehead. “Two, you said,” clearly trying to distract them both.

“A psychiatrist on West End Avenue and that dress designer in the Village. I saved time by making both of them similar menus. Did all my shopping at once—” She broke off. “Don’t let me bore you with Fulton Market. But that veal saltimbocca…”

“You leave everything in the refrigerator when you’re done?”

“For some clients, a week at a time. Three meals per day, seven days.” It usually took Cameron six hours at each of their apartments to cook and fill the containers. Today, she’d taken only four and hurried to leave time for Emerald. “I put their prepared foods in the fridge or the freezer. I don’t usually cook in-house for someone like Emerald and stay to serve.” She was being well paid to do so, however, and then there was Emerald’s upcoming wedding, a top story in all the newspapers. She stifled a yawn. “The doc wanted a huge fruit salad, the designer likes pasta. Everyone has favorites.”

Grace looked wistful. “Wish I could afford your services.”

“It’s not expensive. You’d be surprised. You will be surprised when I give you my bill for Emerald.” She stirred the vegetable mixture then added a waiting bowl of quartered tomatoes. Cameron would catch up on her sleep later, and the pay she earned was only part of her concerns. “After I cook for my clients, I clean their kitchens. That’s the worst part.” She held up her chapped hands. “If you can recommend a good dishwashing liquid, let me know. I do all the pots by hand. Are you staying for dinner, Grace?”

Sometimes she did, Cameron had discovered, sometimes not. It depended on the workload Emerald gave her, Grace claimed, but Cameron suspected the decision depended more on Emerald’s mood. Cameron had quickly learned that her newest client was not only a celebrity, she was a very difficult woman.

Before Grace could answer, Emerald entered the kitchen, still sweating from her workout with Ron, her personal trainer. Cameron’s exercise program consisted of her nightly walk home. Emerald wore hot-pink tights and a crop top today. Oh, and a frown. When the front door closed in the distance, Cameron remembered hearing raised voices earlier from the fitness room. So Ron wasn’t staying. Emerald cast a glance at the sink where the bloodstained towel lay.

“What happened in here?” She turned to Grace. “Attacking our new chef? What did she suggest—skim milk and dry toast?”

Despite Grace’s obvious embarrassment, which made Cameron uncomfortable, too, she decided the high color in Grace’s cheeks improved her looks. With her mousy brown hair and almost colorless eyes, she normally appeared bland, even invisible. Grace seemed to define the old term spinster, and even the little mole beside her mouth had more color than her drab beige clothes, which failed to hide Grace’s plump yet small-boned figure.

Cameron’s heart went out to her. She checked the pan of salmon fillets poaching on another burner. “It was my fault. I honed my knife too sharp.”

Grace looked thankful for Cameron’s intervention, but Emerald quickly dismissed the incident in favor of her own problems. She seemed to be Grace’s opposite, a classic blue-eyed blonde in contrast to Grace’s brown on brown, always outspoken compared to Grace’s softer tones. In the overhead light a huge diamond flashed on Emerald’s hand.

And a collage of recent media coverage went through Cameron’s mind.

Emerald was engaged to Theodore Kayne, a Wall Street success story who’d made his fortune buying up midsized companies then turning them into giants in their consumer specialties. Rich wasn’t the word for him.

“We’re still waiting to hear from that French bakery?” Emerald asked Grace as if she couldn’t wait another second for the answer. She slid onto the stool beside her. “Their quotes for the wedding cake and the groom’s cake were both too high. They promised to refigure by today.”

“They’ll call first thing tomorrow morning.”

Cameron smiled, hoping to lighten the mood.

“Piece of…cake. I could bake for you, Miss Greer, if you’d like me to.”

She was already handling the rehearsal dinner. What was another task? More income, she thought. She would use fresh edible flowers on the cake, purple and yellow and white pansies, maybe a few marigolds for trim…

“We’ll see.” Emerald shrugged. “Gracie, go home. I’m too tired to work tonight. Ron forced me to a near cardiac arrest today. Pure torture. He’ll have my biceps looking like Arnold Schwarzenegger’s before he’s done. I’ll be too muscle-bound to hold a racket. And my poor knee so soon after surgery…that man is a sadist.” She went to the refrigerator to get a soda. “Did Ted call?”

“Mr. Kayne’s assistant said he has meetings all evening. He’ll phone tomorrow.”

Emerald looked displeased with her fiancé. “What about the Zeus reception?”

Grace’s gaze flickered. With irritation?

That surprised Cameron. She didn’t imagine Grace had much passion. Zeus Sportswear was Emerald’s latest sponsor and Kayne’s newest acquisition. With Emerald as celebrity spokesperson for the company, he intended Zeus to move from its present middle-of-the-pack position to a dominant market share of the industry.

“Eight o’clock tomorrow night,” Grace told Emerald. “The limo will pick you up at seven-thirty.” She stopped. “Will you need me then?”

Emerald smirked. “I never need you, dearest. I keep you around for amusement.” She grabbed a carrot then slid off the stool, her assistant apparently forgotten. “Do I have time for a shower before dinner?”

Cameron sent Grace a look of commiseration.

“A half hour,” Cameron said. “I need to finish the endive salad, too.”

“I don’t need salad. I need fat, protein and cholesterol.”

Cameron forced the smile this time. “That’s not why you hired me.”

Without answering, Emerald stalked from the kitchen, limping a little every few paces, letting the door swing shut behind her. Cameron stirred the vegetable ratatouille, trying not to see Grace’s glare for her employer.

“She didn’t mean that,” Cameron murmured. “About you—or dinner.”

“You don’t know her. Yes. She did.”

“She’s a champion,” Cameron pointed out. “Temperamental.”

Which had a benefit for Cameron. Whether she wanted to admit it or not, Emerald’s rudeness had made her forget Ransom, at least for now.

Grace scoffed, “She’s worried about her career. You should have been here right after her knee surgery. The first time Ron worked with her, she turned the air blue.” Grace shrugged. “Wonder how Ted Kayne will deal with her.”

For the second time, Cameron saw that look of resentment.

“Everything comes easy to her,” Grace complained. “Too bad she doesn’t appreciate it.” She rose from the stool at the counter as if she knew she’d said too much. “With the ‘champ’s’ permission, I’m off.”