It said a lot about the state she was in that Riley barely registered his reference to s.e.x. Under the circ.u.mstances, and to his credit, she hadn't thought he was coming on to her. The wasting of time was the part that was bothering her. With a quick, agitated shake of her head, Riley said, "Sleep? Are you serious? With Emma-"

He cut her off. "The people we've got looking for Emma are top-notch at their jobs. We can't add anything to what they're doing right now. The best thing you can do for Emma is keep yourself functional. You not sleeping, or eating, or doing anything else that keeps you going, doesn't help her."

Much as Riley hated to accept it, that made sense. For her to go running around like a chicken with its head cut off could do Emma no earthly good.

He continued, "I need sleep, too, and I can't sleep if I'm worrying about you. The only way I can know for sure you're safe is if you're with me, so we're both going back to my hotel room and going to sleep." He shot a glance at her. "Your ex-husband dead, you attacked, Emma kidnapped-that's a lot of violence aimed at your family in a short period of time. It's making me think that maybe something happened to stir the pot. There are a lot of players in this game. The people who grabbed Emma are probably not the same ones who went after you, and it's possible that neither of them were behind what happened to Jeff. Somebody could come after you again. I don't have time to worry about you, and do my job, too, so you're with me for the duration."

Again, Riley didn't protest. His a.s.sessment of the situation was chilling, but it made sense, and the thought of how she would feel if she wasn't with him-in a word, terrified-was enough to make her willing to stick to him like Velcro.

"Okay."

Then another fear arose that made her stomach cramp. "What about Margaret?"

"She's covered. She's been put under surveillance. n.o.body can get to her. Like I said, if I'm worried about people's safety, I can't do my job."

Riley breathed a little more easily. "What is your job, exactly?"

"Finding the money. Finding out if Jeff and/or any of those other four individuals whose deaths he was interested in were murdered, and who did it. And now, making sure Emma gets home safe and sound." He glanced at her, and something flickered in his eyes that she was too agitated to even try to identify. "So the kidnappers told you to go see George. Tomorrow, that's what we'll do. a.s.suming George knows where the money is, do you think he'll tell you?"

"I don't know."

"Would he be more likely to tell his wife?"

Okay, Riley told herself, focus. This was where things started to get tricky. This was where she had to keep her cool, be strong, play it smart.

"He and Margaret are estranged. She'd been planning to divorce him even before his arrest, and he knows that. But he loves Emma. If I go to him and tell him what's happened, I think he might tell me where the money is. a.s.suming he has it, of course, and knows."

"a.s.suming that." There was no mistaking the faint note of dryness in Finn's voice.

The thing was, she had no idea how George would react if she showed up demanding he tell her where the money was hidden on pain of Emma's life, but the other thing was, it didn't matter. She knew where the money was hidden, and exactly how to access it, and now she thanked G.o.d for that. She was prepared to do anything it took to save Emma, even if it meant exposing herself and Margaret completely, and she knew Margaret would agree wholeheartedly.

But she thought there might be a better way.

During the brief period between the time she'd called Finn and when he had actually shown up, she'd come up with a plan that she hoped might save them all. Her first thought had been that she would simply give George's black book to Finn, pray it was enough to ensure Emma's safety, and at the same time hope that investigators would believe she and Margaret had only just discovered it themselves, and would likewise fail to notice the ten-million-dollar sliver she'd taken from it. But if investigators didn't believe it, if they were suspicious (which they were) and eager to send more people to jail (which they seemed to be), and looked into the matter in any depth, they would undoubtedly learn that Margaret and Emma had recently returned from Bermuda, and probe around in the banks there to see what they could find. Riley would have still entertained a fair degree of hope that they would miss the numbered trust account she had created, except for the fact that any investigators worth their salt would look especially hard at new accounts. While she thought the account she'd set up could withstand their scrutiny even then (there was nothing to tie it to the Cowans, after all), they would almost certainly review withdrawals and possibly bank security footage for the dates Margaret had been in Bermuda, which was a tiny island with a limited number of banks. When they did that, they would find the thirty-thousand-dollar withdrawal, and see Margaret making it.

To imagine any other outcome would be foolish.

When that happened, she and Margaret would both look guilty as h.e.l.l, and the wrath of the law would almost certainly descend on them with a vengeance. Both of them might very well go to jail, and Emma's life would be shattered once more. Though, again, it was a small price to pay for Emma's survival.

Riley had anxiously rubbed at the sore spot on her forehead, commanding herself to think this through.

And then the solution had hit her.

If she went to visit George, had him tell her where he'd hidden information about the secret bank accounts (whether he really did tell her any such thing or not didn't matter, because she would pretend he did), and then pretend to discover the little black book all over again, she could keep the attention off her and Margaret and on the sudden discovery of so much money. Everything would go down under full view of Finn, so there would be no suspicion whatsoever of any prior knowledge on her or Margaret's part, and the ten million dollars she'd skimmed would almost certainly go unnoticed under those seemingly straightforward circ.u.mstances.

The best part was, once the money had been officially discovered, no one would be looking for it anymore, which meant that the bad guys would all go away along with the government and its agents. n.o.body would be at risk of being murdered any longer, Margaret and Emma would have the ten million, which was enough to make them secure, and the three of them could hopefully live in peace for the rest of their lives.

Going over the plan for possible flaws, Riley had come up with a few: her fingerprints, and Margaret's, would undoubtedly be all over George's black book; in her first burst of horror in hearing about Emma, Margaret might well blurt out something that revealed their guilty secret; and the information on the illicit bank accounts would have to be discovered in a place that George would have had access to and that did not bear signs of her and Margaret's recent tampering, which left Emma's Paris painting out.

All manageable problems, Riley concluded, even as she worked out ways to manage them.

All of a sudden, as the plan scrolled through her brain one more time, a huge problem flashed before her, obvious as a neon sign. How had she missed it the first time around?

"Wait a minute." She frowned at Finn in sudden stark suspicion as fear once again flooded her heart. "You're an FBI agent. You work for the government. Even if George does tell me where the money is, even if it is found, you're not just going to give it to the kidnappers to ransom Emma, are you? What happens to it after that will be up to the government!"

"Whatever happens, saving Emma is my top priority." Finn looked at her steadily. "I give you my word on that."

"If I help you find the money, you promise you'll use it to get Emma back." Riley gave him a hard look as she sought clarity.

"I promise I will if necessary. What I'm hoping is, she'll be recovered fast enough that the money won't need to play into it. But if giving the kidnappers the money is what it takes to save Emma's life, then that's what will happen."

There was enough light now that she could see his expression. Security lights, Riley saw, and realized that they had pulled into a parking lot. His face was hard and set. He looked tired and, with his hair ruffled and his jaw darkened by stubble and his white shirt open at the neck and slightly wrinkled, disheveled. Then he turned his head and looked at her, and in the calm, steady gaze of those blue-gray eyes Riley saw enough to make her believe him.

"Okay," she said. Then as he cut the engine and she saw the time flash on the dashboard clock as it died-it was 3:17-she added, "Margaret gets up at eight on Sat.u.r.days. I need to be home by then. I have to tell her what happened."

The thought made her nauseous, but that was the very longest she felt she could wait. The only reason she hadn't already insisted that she needed to rush instantly to Margaret's side was that telling her wouldn't change a thing. And jolting the poor woman out of what little sleep she was managing to get these days to relay the horrible news wouldn't exactly be a help, either.

"Fair enough."

Finn got out, and Riley followed. A glance told her that it was a chain hotel, eight stories, inexpensive. The parking lot was dimly lit, deserted, no attendant. The darkness beyond the parking lot was enough to make her shiver. Overhead, the moon barely lit the sky. Even the stars looked muted and cold.

Her legs felt rubbery, but Riley managed to walk across the parking lot and through the lobby unaided. They didn't talk, but she was aware of him looking at her as they rode up the elevator. His room was on the sixth floor; the hall was quiet, deserted.

When he opened the door to his room, she walked inside, glanced around. A typical hotel room: ugly green carpet, nondescript wallpaper, a chest with a flat-screen TV on top of it, a chair. Under any other circ.u.mstances, the single king-sized bed would have made her eyes narrow. But she merely glanced at it in pa.s.sing, then looked at him as he closed the door and turned to face her.

The room suddenly seemed much smaller with him in it.

"Bathroom's all yours," he said.

- CHAPTER -

NINETEEN.

Riley nodded, and started walking toward the bathroom that was just off the room's door, bringing her closer to Finn.

He stood in the small, corridor-like part of the room just inside the door, his hand still on the light switch, facing her. The bathroom was to his left.

His eyes narrowed as he watched her coming toward him.

"Hang on, I'll get you something to sleep in." He opened the closet door next to the bathroom, and crouched. As she reached him she saw two more dark suits and a couple of white shirts on hangers, and that he was rummaging in a small black suitcase on the floor of the closet.

Of course, it wasn't the kind of hotel that would offer guests the use of complimentary bathrobes. But her dress was covered with grime from the car and the road. Her stockings were ripped and dirty. Unless she wanted to sleep in her undies-a silky pink bra and matching panties, expensive like almost all her clothes because they'd been bought before the world had gone to h.e.l.l and she hadn't had the money to buy anything since-she needed something of his.

A moment later he pulled a white garment from the suitcase. As he stood up with it clutched in one hand and turned to face her, they were so close that their bodies brushed. The contact was inadvertent, she knew, but the electricity that sparked between them was instant and real and there was no way either of them missed it. In sheer self-defense, she took a step back to put some s.p.a.ce between them and saw in the hardening of his mouth that he knew what she'd done and why. Like on the dance floor of the Palm Room, Riley was supremely conscious of his size, and of the solid strength of his body, and not just because all those manly muscles turned her on. He looked like he could take on an army single-handedly, and under the circ.u.mstances she found that supremely comforting. The shoulder holster he was wearing helped, too: a big, strong, armed federal agent was probably about as good as it got, protection-wise.

If he'd been in the car with them when Emma was grabbed...

A wave of coldness. .h.i.t her, and she shivered. The hard knot that had been lodged in her chest ever since Emma had vanished in that van expanded so that she suddenly couldn't breathe.

His eyes narrowed as they slid over her face.

With no warning at all, he bent his head and kissed her, moving his lips against hers, sliding his tongue along the line where her lips met, in a soft, deliberate tasting that never penetrated but still acted on her like a defibrillator, jolting her back into the moment, slamming fireb.a.l.l.s of awareness through her system, making her gasp and breathe even as he broke the contact and lifted his head.

The increased rate of his respiration was scarcely noticeable. The hard glitter in his eyes was impossible to miss.

Suddenly dizzy, Riley steadied herself by clutching at his arm. The feel of his taut bicep beneath her hand seemed to burn itself into her palm.

Heat blazed between them as tangibly as if the air had ignited.

"Quit thinking about what happened," he said, as she stared at him. "You'll make yourself crazy, and it won't do any good."

That was when she understood that he'd kissed her to get her mind off Emma. The knowledge didn't do anything to calm the hungry quickening he'd awakened, but it did give her the presence of mind to let her hand drop away from his arm, to break eye contact with him, to center herself and remember why she was there. For protection. And to save Emma.

Sleeping with him wasn't it.

"Here." He thrust the wadded-up garment in his hand at her, and as she took it she saw it was a plain white T-shirt, size extra-large. "Best I can do. I don't sleep in pajamas, and everything else I've got will be way too big for you."

Talking, Riley discovered, was beyond her. She nodded, went into the bathroom, and closed and locked the door. Then she gave in to nerves, exhaustion, and stark, icy terror. Bracing both hands on the vanity, she leaned heavily against it while long shudders of reaction shook her. Staring into the mirrored wall above the twin sinks without even so much as seeing her reflection, she sucked in a series of ragged, unsatisfying breaths. Her shoulders sagged, her legs wobbled, and her stomach threatened to turn inside out.

The thought of Emma, terrified and in danger, that took possession of her mind would have been enough to take her to her knees if she hadn't deliberately forced it from her head.

Stop it. Get a grip.

As Finn had said, thinking about it wouldn't do any good.

Thinking about his kiss was equally unproductive, so she shoved that out of her head, too.

Instead she gritted her teeth, straightened away from the vanity, kicked off her shoes, and turned on the shower.

Putting one foot in front of the other and getting on with it: that's what she'd done all her life.

She could do it now, too.

Having taken a quick shower, brushed her teeth with his toothpaste and her finger, swallowed a couple of Tylenol from her purse to combat the throbbing headache and various other aches and pains that afflicted her, and checked her face for damage from that punch-she was relieved to find nothing more than a red mark up near her hairline-she emerged from the bathroom to discover that he'd made himself a bed on the floor: a beige blanket and a pair of pillows were spread out on the carpet at the foot of the bed.

He stood beside the chest that held the TV, his back to her. As she tucked her clothes inside the closet and dropped her shoes on the floor, a glance told her that his shoulder holster was gone now, although he was still fully dressed in the same rumpled dress shirt and trousers. She took in how nearly black his hair actually was, the color of the darkest coffee, along with how broad his shoulders looked above the trimness of his waist and the athletic tightness of his b.u.t.t. Her gaze was sliding down his long, muscular legs when he turned around and held something out to her.

"Take it," he said abruptly.

She stared at the object in his hands. It was easier than looking at him.

What he was holding out to her was a clear plastic gla.s.s, one of the two that had been wrapped in paper beside the ice bucket, she confirmed with a glance at that hotel room staple, which sat on a tray beside the TV. The gla.s.s appeared to be about half full of orange juice.

"What is it?" Her voice sounded croaky, a result no doubt of all the screaming she had done earlier. But she refused to think about that. Instead, she stepped forward and took the gla.s.s from him, eyeing its contents with a skeptical frown.

"A screwdriver. The minibar had orange juice and vodka." His gaze swept her. She'd kept her hair dry, and brushed it out after her shower with the small brush she kept, along with a few cosmetics and other essentials, in her purse. The soft fall of it hid the bruises on her neck, as well as the fresh mark near her hairline. Her face was washed clean of any makeup except for a slick of rosy balm on her lips. She was wearing his T-shirt, which was far too large. It hung on her like a sack and hit her at approximately mid-thigh. For modesty's sake, she was wearing her panties beneath it-short and loose equaled a wardrobe malfunction waiting to happen-but still she felt pretty bare.

"I'm not much of a drinker."

"It'll help you sleep."

With him watching her, she sipped cautiously, grimaced at the strong taste of the alcohol, then took a breath and gulped the rest down, determined to get it over with. He was right on two counts: she needed sleep, and she was going to need help to get it.

When she finished, he was regarding her with that slight uptick at the corner of his mouth that, for him, signified amus.e.m.e.nt.

"What?" she asked, nearly belligerent.

The uptick deepened and expanded into what was almost a real smile.

"I like women who chug their liquor."

"I wanted to get it over with." She set the gla.s.s down on the chest. The drink seemed to burn in her stomach, and she had to press her lips and swallow hard to suppress a hiccup.

His eyes were on her mouth. They flicked up and met hers as if he felt her looking at him. She barely had a chance to register the dark, hot gleam in them before he turned away.

"Go to bed," he said.

Then he walked into the bathroom and closed the door.

By the time he emerged, Riley was curled up in the big bed, lying on her side with the covers bunched around her ears to ward off the cold she couldn't seem to shake. The vodka was doing its work: fear and grief and terrifying images swirled through her mind, but none of them stayed in place long enough to be truly upsetting, and despite everything, she was feeling more and more drowsy. She'd turned out the light before getting into bed, but enough light still filtered through the curtains so that the room wasn't completely dark. The comfortingly familiar sounds of the bathroom-flushed toilet, running water-lulled her into a sort of half-awake stupor, and she realized it was because they meant she wasn't alone.

Then the bathroom door opened. Her eyes did, too.

In the brief glimpse she got before he turned out the bathroom light, she saw that Finn was bare to the waist. She got a flash of what looked like acres of muscles and bronzed skin, and then the light was gone and he was no more than a tall shape padding toward her in the dark, almost silent on bare feet.

Riley wasn't aware that she was holding her breath until he stopped at the foot of the bed and she had to exhale-quietly, she hoped. For a second she got the impression that he was looking at her, but he didn't say anything and neither did she.

Then she heard the sound of a zipper being lowered: he was shucking his pants.

Her pulse quickened, and she felt a welcome infusion of warmth along with an acute awareness of his every move.

His pants. .h.i.t the floor. A moment later, he did, too, settling into his makeshift bed.

Closing her eyes, she listened to him breathing, and felt her tense muscles slowly begin to relax.

Halfway between wakefulness and sleep, she realized that it wasn't the fact that she wasn't alone that she found comforting.

It was Finn.

He made her feel safe.