I'LL BE WATCHING YOU.

ANDREA KANE.

TO BRAD,.

WHO MAKES EACH "FIRST" A POSSIBILITY,.

A REALITY, AND A CELEBRATION.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

Each novel I write presents new challenges to me as I strive to convey every nuance and detail as authentically as possible. I'll Be Watching You was no exception.

The following people were instrumental in this process. Their patience and willingness to help were surpa.s.sed only by their astounding knowledge of all the subject matter in question. I thank each and every one of them for their significant contributions. As always, any departure from reality is my responsibility--a literary license I avail myself of only when it's absolutely necessary.

Detective Mike Oliver, who brought the NYPD to life for me; who, calmly and without missing a beat, handled phone calls from me that began "Mike, suppose someone's mangled to death ..."; who called me back in record time; and who had all the answers to my endless questions. Mike, you're a lifesaver. Murray, the cop, is a much-deserved tribute to you.

At WOR 710 AM, an amazing and dedicated radio family, I'd like to specifically thank: Eloise Maroney, director of operations, who graciously opened the door, and the world, of radio to me, answered a deluge of questions, and pointed me in all the right directions.

Tom R. Ray III, corporate director of engineering, who deciphered the complex world of radio engineering so that even a layperson could understand.

Maurice Tunick, vice president of programming, who took me through a day in the life of a program manager, and infused in me an awed respect for the talented people in this business. Ingrained in my mind forever are his words "Radio is the theater of the mind."

And, most especially, to the amazing team that makes The Dr. Joy Browne Show thrive: Bob Iorio, veteran technical engineer, who gave me a bird's-eye view of the audio control board and who demonstrated, from significant to routine, the responsibilities he handles daily.

Scott Lakefield, executive producer, a marvel himself, who has the proficiency, the maturity, and the mult.i.tasking ability of someone twice his age and with twice his experience. He managed to run an entire radio show, handle every curve thrown his way without ever losing his cool, and unfailingly answer the million questions being fired at him by the overzealous author leaning over his shoulder.

And Dr. Joy herself, who was gracious enough to let me into her inner sanctum--to sit in on her radio show, watch her in action, and listen while she expertly dealt with a wide range of psychological issues and crises. I left her studio with a feeling of admiration for and amazement at the caring, natural, and professional way she helped her callers. It's no wonder they turn to and rely on her. Thank you for helping me instill some of those qualities in Taylor.

I also want to thank:.

Robert Dekoff, who graciously shared his knowledge of the Hamptons with me, explaining everything from places to marinas. In addition, his expertise as a pilot helped familiarize me with airstrips and aircraft.

Bill and Michael Stock, who gave me a crash course on yachts, engines, bilge fans, and Zodiacs, as well as an education on navigating the waters surrounding Eastern Long Island. Thanks to their precision and patience, I was able to portray I'll Be Watching You's nautical settings with maximum suspense and authenticity.

Hillel Ben-Asher, M.D., whose vast knowledge of the medical field was invaluable in creating frighteningly realistic events.

Andrea Cirillo, for her unfaltering support, her input, and her ability to put me in touch with the right people at the right times. Andrea, I value your partnership more than words can express.

And my greatest blessing of all: my one-of-a-kind family--Brad, Wendi, Mom, and Dad--who, from outset to conclusion, perpetually offer me creative input, enthusiastic support, and a reason to believe.

I never take for granted how incredibly lucky I am to have you.

CHAPTER 1.

SAt.u.r.dAY, SEPTEMBER 14.

2:35 P.M.

WEST SEVENTY-SECOND STREET, NEW YORK CITY.

It had been a day from h.e.l.l.

Four hours in Dellinger Academy's conference room. Two five-minute bathroom breaks. Three sets of hostile parents in total denial. And another one of Taylor's precious Sat.u.r.days wasted by an elite private school administration that didn't want to rock the boat.

All the parties involved were so caught up in their own agendas, they seemed to forget that at the center of this storm were three seventeen-year-old kids about to implode.

As a counselor, Taylor had tried desperately to speak for the teens. She knew their fears--fear of failure, of inadequacy, of letting down their parents.

Fear of growing up.

Didn't anyone remember how traumatic that transition was?

Apparently not. Because today's scenario had been as maddening and familiar as always.

After doing her tactful, psychological dance for half a day and getting nowhere fast, Taylor left the boardroom at the close of the meeting frustrated, worried, and with a splitting headache.

By the time she got home and blew through the lobby of her apartment building, she was counting her blessings that her roommate, her cousin Stephanie, was en route to the Hamptons. Taylor had the place to herself. All she wanted was a hot bath, two extra-strength Excedrin, and a long nap.

The last thing she expected, or needed, was to find Gordon Mallory in her living room, as comfortable as if he owned the place.

She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw him, wishing she wasn't already halfway to her bedroom and in full view. If she'd just realized he and Steph were still at the apartment, she would have retraced her steps, waited until they'd taken off, then returned when she could have her peace and solitude.

But it was too late. She was directly across from the living room, and from Gordon. Steph was nowhere to be found, but knowing her cousin, Taylor a.s.sumed she was in her bedroom, throwing together some last-minute surprises for her nightlong bash on Gordon's yacht--a bash she'd be enjoying with about twenty other partygoers. After all, it wasn't every day that a bunch of lucky young Turk investors made a windfall off an investment partnership like the one Gordon had orchestrated. Kudos for the fast crowd.

"Taylor." Gordon tipped his lean, dark head in her direction, raising his old-fashioned in greeting. He'd been strolling from the sideboard to the sofa, sipping his Scotch while he reorganized the contents of Steph's overnight bag. The picture of self-a.s.surance. Right at home.

Then again, Steph had made sure he felt that way from day one. Gordon fit her boyfriend checklist to a tee and then some; rich and successful, good-looking, grand of gesture, glib of tongue. Really smooth.

He knew all the right people, went to all the right clubs. On top of that, he was older, s.e.xy, experienced, ambitious--fast-track all the way. Definitely the kind Steph fell for.

Except that this one had a dangerous edge to him that worried the h.e.l.l out of Taylor. It was there in his hard brown eyes--a kind of detached ruthlessness. Taylor just didn't trust the guy.

Unfortunately, Steph did.

"h.e.l.lo, Gordon." Taylor's tone was cordial but aloof.

He was dressed casually, in khakis, a golf shirt, and dock-siders, but there was nothing casual about the way he carried himself, or about his expression as he eyeballed Taylor. He was scrutinizing her, as one would a.s.sess a fine piece of art.

"What a beautiful interruption," he said. "I didn't hear you come in."

"So I gathered." Taylor was used to his I-want-you signals. It was all part of his MO. But this time he was blatant. His intensity was palpable.

And the bottle of Scotch was sitting open on the sideboard, ready for him to pour his next refill. How many drinks had he had?

Taylor tossed down her purse and folded her arms across her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, her eyes narrowing on his tumbler. "How many Scotches does that make?"

"Two." He set down the gla.s.s. "Don't worry. I'm chilling out. But I'm sober."

Yeah, right, she thought. Chilling out. More like revving up. "Good. Because you and Steph have a big weekend planned. Get drunk during the party, not before."

"Sage advice. I'll keep it in mind."

Her headache was getting worse. Taylor didn't want to spar with Gordon; she wanted him to go away.

"I didn't realize you and Steph would still be here," she said pointedly. "It's almost three o'clock. Doesn't your charter leave for Montauk soon? I wouldn't want you to miss it."

Gordon's sculpted features tightened. "That's why it's called a private charter. The helicopter will wait until we get there. As for your subtle shove out the door, why the rush? Are you expecting someone?"

"Just my privacy. Look, I didn't mean to be rude. But my day was a killer. I've got a miserable headache. I was hoping for some downtime--a hot bath and a long nap."

"Poor baby." The hostility vanished. Gordon closed the gap between them and planted his hands on her shoulders, gently kneading them. "Tension has no right ruining such a perfect package. How about a back rub to ease the stress?"

His words creeped her out. His gesture wasn't friendly. It was intimate. So was his proximity. And where he'd positioned himself was like a roadblock.

Taylor's instincts took over. She took an exaggerated step backward, breaking all contact. "No, thanks." She threw a quick glance at her cousin's bedroom, wondering when Steph would emerge. Now that she considered it, the apartment seemed strangely silent. No banging of closets, no thudding of drawers, no cheerful chatter emanating from Steph's neck of the woods. That was weird. Steph was animated and exuberant; you always knew when she was around.

A frisson of apprehension crept up Taylor's spine.

"Is Steph in her room?" she asked. "I'll go give her a hand."

"She's not here."

The frisson turned into a full-fledged knot. "What do you mean, she's not here? Where is she?"

"Finishing up an audition." Gordon glanced at his watch. "She's running late. I a.s.sume she'll meet me at the heliport."

"Then how did you get in?"

A hard smile curved his lips, and he jiggled a set of keys in the air. "With these. Steph asked me to stop by and pick up some last-minute things for her. Didn't Harry tell you?"

Harry. Their doorman. Come to think of it, he hadn't been in the lobby when she dashed through.

"I didn't see him."

"Oh. Right. I forgot. He left for his break."

"Really." Taylor's heart was beginning to pound. She took another backward step, gauging whether or not she'd left herself enough room to dart around Gordon and make a break for the door. "That's odd.

He doesn't usually take breaks in the middle of the afternoon."

"It's hot. He was thirsty. I gave him a few bucks so he could run over to Starbucks for an iced coffee."

"How long ago was that?"

"Ten minutes. When I glanced out the window and saw you heading up the street." Gordon moved closer, effectively cutting off her escape path. "I wanted this little visit of ours to stay private." He reached out and rubbed a lock of her dark red hair between his fingers. "Now, about that stress you were complaining about. .."

That did it. Taylor didn't know if Gordon was drunk or delusional. And she wasn't sticking around to find out. She had to get out of here.

She lunged toward the door.

Gordon grabbed her, his grip punishing. He locked one hard arm around her waist, capturing her wrists in his other hand. "Shhh," he muttered against her face, and she could smell the Scotch on his breath. "You're going to aggravate your headache." He half lifted her, carrying her toward her bedroom.

"I know how to make it better."

"Let me go!" Taylor began struggling, jerking her arms around in an attempt to free them, throwing her body weight against him to slow his progress.

It wasn't working. They were already at her room.

"Stop fighting me," he commanded. "You want this as much as I do."

"No. I don't. It isn't happening. Not now. Not ever." Taylor hooked her feet on either side of the door frame, anchoring herself and giving her the leverage she need to halt Gordon. She raised her head, gazed straight at him, and strove for reason in the midst of insanity. "I don't know what made you think I wanted this. But we got our signals crossed. So just put me down and leave. We'll forget this whole ugly scene ever took place."

He looked amused, using his legs to break her tenuous hold on the doorjamb. He then carried her the remaining distance to her bed. "You're wrong on all counts. This is going to happen. It won't be ugly.

And you definitely won't want to forget it ever took place."

White panic took over.

"No! No!" Taylor began fighting like a trapped animal, using every drop of strength she had. But the man had a grip of iron. And he seemed absolutely sure they were in this together. "Let me go!"

He pinned her to the bed, dodging the blows of her fists and the sharp jabs of her knees as she tried to kick him in the groin. He straddled her body, locking her legs in place and capturing her wrists over her head in one hand. His other hand ma.s.saged her neck as if to soothe her, his fingers threading through her hair. He crushed his mouth against hers to silence her screams. "Shhh," he whispered. "You have no idea how good this is going to be."

Taylor thought she was going to be sick.

"I know exactly what you need. I'll give it to you--all of it, and more."

"But... I... don't. . . want. . . you." She ground out each word, desperate to get through to him, to shatter whatever fantasy his mind had conjured up regarding the two of them.

"Yes, you do. I'll prove it to you. In a few minutes, you'll be begging for me. I promise." He was unb.u.t.toning her blouse, caressing her as he did--her shoulders, her arms, her cleavage. His grasp on her wrists tightened as she flinched away from his touch. "Enough games, Taylor. No more fighting.

And no more waiting. It's time."

"No, it's not!" She bit his lip, and he recoiled in pain. She used his moment of weakness to yank her arms free, slamming her fists against his chest with all her might. "Let me go, you crazy b.a.s.t.a.r.d! Get your filthy hands off me!"