Forged In Desire

“Yes, but—”

“But nothing. You don’t owe anyone an explanation. But if you think you do, then tell Claudine, or anyone else who wants to know, that I’m the man you’re sleeping with.”

Striker was certain Margo would choke on her coffee. Had he known his words would get her all rattled, he would have thought twice before saying them. “What’s your problem? You’re twenty-six and you act like you’ve never had a lover before.”

She frowned at him. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point? What about Scotty?”

Her frown deepened. “Like I told you, his name is Scott. And my relationship with him is not up for discussion.”

“Suit yourself. But I still don’t see why you think you need to explain my presence to Claudine or anyone else. Do you know the woman? Did she come referred by someone you know?”

“No, but my business cards are everywhere and I run ads in several bridal magazines. She was one of several people who left messages while I was sequestered. That was before all this drama began with Erickson. The only reason I was able to take her on as a client and not some of the others was because she won’t need her wedding gown until September. The others either wanted them earlier or they wanted me to make the bridesmaid dresses as well. So if you’re thinking she’s connected to anything, then—”

“I didn’t say that she was.”

Her phone rang, and Margo immediately jerked at the sound. She looked over at Striker, and he nodded, pulling out his phone as well. She then pulled hers out of the pocket of her skirt and expressed a sigh of relief when she saw the number. Smiling, she said, “It’s Uncle Frazier.”

As if he hadn’t heard her, he hit a number. She glared at him. “This is a private call, Striker.”

He shrugged. “Not yet it’s not.” He pointed his head toward the ringing phone she still held in her hand. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

She glared at him but quickly answered. “Good morning, Uncle Frazier.”

“Margo! You okay? What took you so long to answer the phone?”

She peered over at Striker when she said, “I was preoccupied in the kitchen. What’s up?” She was glad Striker clicked off the call and placed his phone back in his pocket.

“I was just checking on you. How are you faring with Striker?”

Deciding she definitely needed privacy to answer that one, she was leaving the kitchen when Striker called out, “Only go where I can see you.”

She stiffened at Striker’s order and moved across the room to stand with her back to him. “I don’t know how long I can handle him here,” she whispered to her uncle. “He’s breathing down my neck and watching my every move.” Keeping me awake at night remembering how good he looks in his suit with those muscular shoulders and broad chest.

She heard Striker’s phone ring and refused to turn around. “Margo, we covered all that yesterday,” her uncle was saying. “Striker’s job is to keep you alive, and before I left yesterday you said you understood that.”

“I do, but—”

Suddenly she felt heat directly behind her and swung around to find Striker standing right there, an intense look on his face. She immediately knew something was wrong. “Uncle Frazier, I’ll call you back.”

Margo clicked off the phone. “Striker, what is it? What’s wrong?”

“The assassin has struck again.”

Her heart nearly stopped. “B-but it hasn’t been seventy-two hours since the last time,” she said, feeling weak in the knees.

“Apparently, he’s decided to play by a different set of rules.”

* * *

WITH HANDS CUFFED behind his back and chains on both of his legs, Murphy Erickson was led into the room by armed guards. He looked at the three men standing around the room. Federal agents. Men he despised and who probably despised him just as much. He had eluded them for years and had brought some of their fellow agents into his network, paying them well for their treachery.

The feds thought capturing him and putting him behind bars would be the end of it. Unfortunately, they’d found out it wasn’t—the last laugh would be his. He was showing them, shoving it in their faces quite nicely, that in jail or out he was still calling the shots. His loyal comrades were out there carrying out his orders.

“Unless you’re here to tell me I’ll be set free in a few hours, I have nothing to say to you bastards,” he said, knowing his words did more than piss them off.

“Sit down, Erickson,” one of the men ordered, and before he could tell the man to go to hell, he was shoved into a chair by one of the guards.

The federal agent who had ordered him to sit down leaned over the table, facing him. “You’re getting on our last nerve, Erickson.”

Erickson chuckled. “All of you can go fuck yourselves and your damn nerves.”

“Call off your assassin.”

“Not until I’m free. Like I said, everyone in that courtroom that day will die unless I walk out of here. And please don’t ask me to give a damn about the families of the victims because I don’t give a fuck about anyone but myself. Remember that. And, by the way, since it seems you guys are taking your time about giving me my freedom, the every-seventy-two-hours rule is no longer in effect. He can kill whenever he feels like it.”

“You’re a low-down, dirty bastard,” one of the agents said, losing his cool.

“Your mama,” Erickson tossed back and then added, “How is the lovely lady, Agent Flynn? I understand she likes living in Florida.”

At the surprised look on the agent’s face, Erickson laughed. “That’s right. I know about all of you and your families. Don’t tempt me to add their names to my hit list. I suggest you work out a deal. I won’t go along with anything where I don’t walk out of here a free man. Until then, the killings will continue.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

“I THOUGHT YOU weren’t hungry,” Striker said, watching Margo dig into the breakfast that had been delivered. It was a good thing he’d ordered as much as he had.

“I wasn’t at the time, but I have a tendency to overeat whenever I’m nervous.”

In that case, considering her size and curvaceous figure, she must not get nervous too often, he thought. “You have no reason to be nervous, Margo. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

That call from Stonewall only verified what he’d assumed. The assassin wasn’t an amateur. They were definitely dealing with someone who knew how to stay one step ahead of the law. So far none of the security cameras mounted around the crime scenes had picked up images of the killer. It made one wonder how the assassin knew when and where to make his hit. The feds weren’t happy they hadn’t captured the man, and the local authorities were dealing with a city on the edge of chaos.

“He asked me out.”

Striker raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

She shrugged her shoulders. “I said he asked me out. Carl Palmer.”

Carl Palmer had been the assassin’s latest victim. Another juror. Striker frowned. “The news reports said he was married.”

She released a deep breath. “He was...which is why I wouldn’t go out with him, although he claimed he was getting a divorce. Men lie a lot.”

Had she caught her Scotty lying? “Some do and some don’t.”

She pushed the empty plate aside. “And some like to be evasive.”

Did she think that was what he was doing because he refused to tell her everything she wanted to know? She had the right to think whatever she liked because it wouldn’t change a thing with him. He looked at his watch. “You sure you’re still up for Claudine’s visit this morning?”

“Yes, now more than ever. I need to stay busy and keep my mind occupied.”

He understood. An idle mind was not good. Five people were dead and two of them had been jurors. How many others would lose their lives before the assassin was apprehended? “You want some more?” he asked, indicating her clean plate and the food he still had on his.

She gave him a wry smile. “I thought you were the one who liked eating a big breakfast. I feel bad that I ate most of it.”

“Don’t. As you can see, it wouldn’t hurt me to miss a meal or two.”

Margo thought he had to be kidding. Striker Jennings was in great shape. Too great. The man had a body that would make any woman drool. He even had beautiful hands. She couldn’t help noticing them when he was spooning food off his plate onto hers. At one point her gaze had been practically fixed on them. When had calloused fingers become sexy?

She then thought of something she hadn’t asked him but wanted to know. “Are you married?”

He looked at her over the rim of his coffee cup. “Where did that question come from?”

“Just answer, Striker.”

He didn’t say anything for a minute. “No. I’m not married and never have been.”

She nodded. “Do you have a steady girlfriend?”

“Why? Are you interested in applying for the position if there’s an opening?”

She rolled her eyes. “No.”

“Then why is it any concern of yours?”

Margo wondered what type of woman could handle all that alpha-ness. All that testosterone. “I just want to know.”

He put his cup down and stared at her for a minute. Then, as if he’d made his mind up about something, he said, “No, I don’t have a steady girlfriend. Just unsteady ones. And that’s the way I like it. No promises and no entanglements.”

“So you’re one of those men who specialize in bed partners only.” It wasn’t a question and she made sure he knew that.

“You shouldn’t be so nosy, Margo.”

She shrugged. “I can’t help it. You’re such an interesting character.”

Striker’s cell phone rang and he quickly pulled it out of his pocket. He recognized that ringtone. “Why are you calling? Shouldn’t you be resting?” From Striker’s earlier conversation with Stonewall, he knew Roland had been released from the hospital with instructions from his doctor to get some rest.

“How is she, Striker?” Roland asked.

Striker knew Margo was listening to every word he said. “Okay. And I told you I would handle things.”

“And I know that you can, but I heard about the recent hit. Do you think we need to move her to another location that might be safer?”

“Not yet. Stonewall is my backup and, thanks to those security measures Bruce put in place, Stonewall is keeping an eye on things from where he is.”

“It’s a good thing I called Bruce in,” Roland said. “According to him, the security system she was using was a joke. Anyone could have disarmed it with no problem.”

“So I heard.” Striker had been told the same thing from Bruce. “I’m ending this call now, Roland. Get some rest, will you?”

“I will. Carson wouldn’t let me go to my place to recuperate. I’m at Sutton Hills.”

Sutton Hills was the Grangers’ estate that encompassed over two hundred acres near the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. “Talk to you later, Roland. And do like I said and get some rest.” He clicked off the phone and waited for the questions he knew were coming.

“Who’s Roland?”

If only you knew. “Roland Summers is my boss.”

“Sounds like he’s more than that. I can tell that he’s someone you care about.”

Striker lifted a brow. She’d deciphered that after eavesdropping on his conversation? “Yes, he’s more than my boss. He’s a friend. A good friend.”

“What’s wrong with him? Is he ill or something?”

Taking a sip of his coffee, Striker felt his neck get warm. She was asking too many damn questions. “What makes you think that?”

“You told him to get some rest. What’s wrong with him?”

There was no way he would tell her that Roland was recuperating from a gunshot wound. Instead he said, “He’s a little under the weather.”

“In that case, why would he take the time to call? He doesn’t think you can handle this assignment?”

Striker frowned. “Roland knows I can handle things. Once in a while he likes to be kept in the loop. My goal is to keep you alive.”

She leaned over the table. Something flashed in her eyes he hadn’t seen before. Fear. “That’s it, isn’t it?” she asked him quietly. Almost too quietly, to the point he had to strain to hear her. “You know for certain I’m on the assassin’s list.”

He sighed. “You were in the courtroom that day, so you’ve always been on his list, Margo.”

She slanted him an annoyed look. “You know what I mean. You think I might be next.”

Striker wondered where in the hell she had gotten that idea. The last thing he wanted was for her to feel frightened. A frightened person had a tendency to let fear control them and the first thing to go was their common sense. A lack of common sense could bring on mistakes. Costly ones. What he wanted was for her to be alert and cautious.

“Hold on, Margo. All I know is that two jurors have lost their lives, but I don’t know anything about you being next. All I’m doing is taking precautions. Don’t start freaking out on me.”

She stiffened. “I won’t.”

“Good.” He checked his watch, deciding to change the subject. Hopefully Claudine would be on time and keep Margo occupied while he talked to Stonewall. He’d gotten his friend’s text request that he call. Had it been of major importance, Stonewall would have called him instead of texting, but Striker couldn’t help wondering what Stonewall wanted.

He moved over to the coffeepot to pour another cup. “So, Margo, since you’ve asked a lot of questions of me, I have a few for you.”

What on earth did he want to ask her? Margo wondered. She twisted in her chair and studied him while he poured his coffee. Even from the back the man was very impressive. She’d never been a woman who enjoyed checking out a man’s backside until now. He was definitely a hottie by any woman’s standards. Her heart nearly skipped a beat when he shifted to reach for the container of sugar. Heat she’d tried keeping at bay was now flooding her. All she could do was sit there, totally mesmerized by him. No man should be as handsome as Striker or as ornery. Or was it that she had the ability to bring out the touchiness in him?

Moments later he rejoined her at the table.

“Why would you want to ask me any questions?” she asked him.

“Trust me, I have my reasons.”

She couldn’t help wondering what those reasons were. There was only one way to find out. “So what are your questions?”

Margo couldn’t help staring into his eyes while thinking how gorgeous they were. Her gaze shifted from his eyes to his mouth. Not for the first time, she thought he had a pair of lips that were downright sensuous.

“It’s not that this isn’t a nice community, but you’re wealthy. Why not live in one of those pricey penthouses in Cumberland Landing? And why are you self-employed and not running one of your family’s foundations?”

Margo pushed her fingers through her hair while thinking it wouldn’t be the first time someone had asked her that. “I went to college to become a fashion designer and I enjoy what I do. I worked with a major designer in New York for a while, but all the politics it took to move ahead turned me off. I like being my own boss and answering to no one. I guess you can say I work better by myself.”

She took a sip of her coffee and continued, “And this house suits me just fine and is just what I need. It’s my belief that just because a person has money, there’s no reason to flaunt it or use it unnecessarily.” That was one of the reasons she’d canceled her memberships at several of the country clubs. She’d discovered that some people with money could be total snobs.

“And what did Scotty think of you being loaded?”

“Scott,” she said, placing emphasis on the name he was intentionally getting wrong, “didn’t think anything about it because he didn’t know. I never told him my financial worth. I saw no reason to do so. It wasn’t about my money but about me.” At least it should have been, she thought. However, with Scott, it was about his money and how appreciative she should be that he made so much of it.

“Do you think the two of you will get back together?”

Margo couldn’t help wondering why Striker would want to know if there was a chance she and Scott would get back together. But then, he might think he had a right to ask since she’d just finished delving into his personal life. “No. There’s no way Scott and I will ever get back together and he knows my position.” And he hadn’t liked it. Scott quit women. They didn’t quit him. His ego had gotten more than bruised, but, as far as she was concerned, that wasn’t her problem. She had refused to take any more of his chauvinistic ways. In addition to that, he had begun spending less and less time with her.

Margo was spared finding out what Striker’s next question would be when the doorbell rang. He quickly stood and eased into his jacket. At least with his jacket on it wouldn’t be so obvious that he was wearing a gun. “I’ll get that,” he said.

She was right on his heels. “I think I’m capable of opening my own door, Striker.”

He stopped walking and Margo almost ran into him. He glanced down at her with that deep, dark scowl. “Too dangerous for you to do that. Stay right here while I open the door. And I suggest you figure out how you intend to introduce me.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“HI, I’M CLAUDINE BERNARD and I have an appointment with Margo.”

“I know,” Striker said, looking at the young woman who stood on the doorstep with a perky smile on her face. “Come in. She’s expecting you,” he said, closing the door behind her.

Margo quickly materialized by his side. “Claudine, it’s good seeing you again.” And then she turned to him and smiled. “Thanks for opening the door for me.” To Claudine, she said, “I’d like you to meet my good friend Lamar.”

Striker fought back a frown when Margo deliberately introduced him as Lamar instead of Striker. He reached out and shook Claudine’s hand, ignoring the way the woman was looking at him. Margo might have introduced him as nothing more than a good friend, but he could clearly see the wheels turning in Claudine’s head.

“If you’ll follow me, Claudine, we can get started with those measurements.”

“Alright. It was nice meeting you, Lamar.”

“Same here.” He watched the women disappear into Margo’s workroom and close the door behind them. He couldn’t very well follow them in that room, not when Claudine would be undressing for measurements. But he could certainly make himself comfortable right here on the sofa where he had a good view of that door. He decided to use that time to call Stonewall.

His friend answered on the first ring. “What’s up?” Striker asked.

“Just need to bring you up to date on a few things. First, we still haven’t figured out who actually made that call last night. But we checked the phone records and it seems that Margo’s number is the only one that’s been made from that phone.”

“And when was the phone activated?” Striker asked.

“A couple of days after Erickson was sentenced.”

Striker rubbed the back of his neck. There had to be a connection. “Is there anything else I need to know?” he asked.

“One other thing. I understand the FBI has asked for the assistance of one of the nation’s top psychic investigators to work on the case.”

“A psychic?”

“Yes. They’re hoping the person they’re bringing in will be able to assist them in some way. Right now the authorities don’t have a clue about anything. It’s obvious they’re up against a professional who seems to be one step ahead of them. They don’t even know if they’re looking for a man or woman. So far they haven’t received any good leads.”

Striker nodded. There was no doubt in his mind, and, he suspected, in a lot of other minds as well, that Erickson had people on the inside who were on his payroll. Spies. Traitors. Collaborators. Each hit was too tidy and tight for there not to be. “Thanks for the updates. Need I ask how you know so much?”

“No.”

Striker chuckled. Although Stonewall and Detective Joy Ingram might not have gone on their first date yet, evidently they were talking. It was obvious she’d become his unofficial contact in the police department.

After ending the call with Stonewall, Striker glanced at Margo’s closed office door and thought about all the questions he’d asked her before Claudine arrived. Mainly about her relationship with Scott Dylan. The one question he’d wanted to ask but had known better was when she’d last had some hot, mind-blowing sex.

He shook his head, knowing he had no right to even wonder about such a thing. But his curiosity would get the best of him each and every time he looked at her body, especially her mouth. The woman was pure sex on legs.

Suddenly he realized he didn’t hear any sound or movement behind Margo’s closed office door. He quickly pulled out his phone and speed-dialed the number connected to the audio monitoring device Bruce had installed in each room. Striker relaxed when he picked up conversation. That meant everything was okay.

Striker was about to click off the phone when he heard his name mentioned. He raised a brow. Since he was the topic of their conversation, part of him felt he had every right to listen in. But, then again, he knew that he didn’t. Doing so would be invading their privacy and crossing a line. It took everything he had to deny his curiosity, but he clicked off the phone.

* * *

MARGO PUT ASIDE her sketch pad. Every gown she designed was unique, and Claudine had given her full details as to what she wanted. Margo had offered Claudine advice on the best types of fabric to use to get the most stunning effect. That was the part of Margo’s job she enjoyed the most, when she would pull out her pad to make sketches based on her clients’ wants and desires. They’d gone through a number of them before Claudine selected one they thought would flatter the woman’s curvy figure, especially with the alençon lace she wanted. The only thing they hadn’t decided on was the material to use for the lining. Claudine wanted additional time to look around before making a decision.

“He’s hot.”

Margo raised a brow. “Who?”

“Your Lamar. Who else?” Claudine asked, laughing.

My Lamar? Margo thought. Now, that was truly a laugh, although she could see how Claudine thought Striker was hot. But hers? Not hardly.

“How did the two of you meet?”

Margo hadn’t expected the question and knew she had to come up with an answer quick. She decided to go with how she and Scott had met. “At a party.”

“Have the two of you been seeing each other long?”

“No, only a few months.”

“I can see the two of you getting married one day.”

Married? It was a good thing she was already sitting. Otherwise, Margo was certain she would have fallen flat on her face. “Trust me. Getting married is not anything I want to do.”

“Oh.”

Margo hoped she hadn’t offended Claudine since it was obvious that getting married was something Claudine wanted to do. “What I meant is that marriage isn’t for everyone.”

“Yes, but I’m sure you’d feel differently if someone like my Stan came along. He is simply wonderful.”

So she’d heard. Plenty of times today, Margo thought. The woman had been singing Stan’s praises since she arrived. It was Stan this and Stan that. It was apparent Claudine thought her fiancé was the perfect man. “Yes, you’re probably right.”

“I know I am. When I met Stan, marriage was the last thing on my mind as well. I bet in another month or so, you’ll begin thinking of marriage.”

Don’t hold your breath for that to happen, Margo thought, but to Claudine she said, “Maybe.”

Claudine laughed again. “No maybe about it. I have a feeling I’ll be hearing about your wedding by the end of the year. This is February, so you have ten months to work on him.”

It was apparent to Margo that Claudine was a romantic. Margo didn’t want to burst the woman’s bubble. Although she couldn’t speak for Striker, she could definitely speak for herself—she didn’t have a romantic bone in her body. At least that was what her boyfriend in college had claimed. Brock Ford had been the romantic one and loved watching television while holding her hand. And he would often text her sappy romantic messages during the day. She had fancied herself in love with Brock until she’d discovered his true reason for romancing her. He’d found out about her family’s wealth and decided marrying her would assure him part of that wealth. That was the main reason she’d never divulged anything about her family’s wealth to Scott.