Andy pounced. "So, I was right. It was Maxine. The marvellous, magical Maxine."

"No, smart a.s.s, it wasn't Maxine." His mind skittered over images of the redhead. "It was n.o.body. I was on a job."

Andy turned serious. "Any luck?"

Will groaned, not bothering to hide his frustration. "Not yet, but we're getting close. I put in a late one on Sat.u.r.day night and then made the mistake of poring over the file yesterday. The hours slipped away. I couldn't switch off. The answers are in there somewhere, I know it."

"Don't be too hard on yourself. You'll find them. It's what you do best."

Will picked up his coffee cup. Taking a grateful sip from the strong, black brew, he waited for the caffeine to work its magic. "So, how are you going with your course?"

There was silence on the other end of the phone. When Andy finally answered, his voice was heavy with disappointment.

"Not so good. I failed. Now I'll have to reapply and hope they give me another chance."

Will briefly closed his eyes. Memories of the stories Andy had shared about his f.u.c.ked-up childhood crowded Will's mind. He knew how much his mate wanted to be a police negotiator and he knew the reasons why. A decade as a detective in the New South Wales Police Service wasn't enough. Andy wanted to prevent people from suffering the agony he did as a child when communications between the police and the perpetrator broke down and there was nothing left to lose.

Desperate men did desperate things. Andy wanted to get into their heads, to get between them and the blackness that consumed them; to give them hope when all else had failed.

And now he'd failed. The negotiators' course was a tough one. It weeded out those officers not mentally strong enough to withstand the stresses they would experience during high pressure situations when a single wrong word could mean the difference between life and death.

Will felt Andy's failure as he would his own and his gut clenched in response, but as much as he wished it were otherwise, there wasn't a d.a.m.ned thing he could do to change it. His mate would simply have to try again.

Switching subjects, he tried to lift the mood. "I know it's only Monday, but what are you doing next weekend? Maybe we could take the yacht out? The weather should be good for it."

Andy's voice hitched. "Thanks, mate. Sounds perfect."

After a.s.suring him he would call him later in the week to firm up the details, Will ended the call. Sinking further into his chair, he took another mouthful of coffee and picked up the newspaper. His gaze flicked idly over the headline...and he choked in disbelief.

Hot black coffee sprayed across his desk. Staring incredulously, he shook his head and read the headline again.

'DARK DEALINGS DISCOVERED IN EXCLUSIVE SYDNEY BROTHEL'

The story was remarkably accurate: the million dollar crowd; the live show; the drugged girls. A further surprise was that the article went on to allege the prost.i.tutes were illegally tenured.

"What the h.e.l.l?" He searched for a byline and frowned when he didn't find one. The journo must have been inside the brothel, or at the very least, his source had been an insider. It wasn't easy to gain entrance to The Black Opal. The man either had an extremely valuable contact or was already a member of the elite circle of gentlemen who frequented the place. Either way, the story didn't bode well for Will's investigation.

"f.u.c.k." He was getting so close and now some d.a.m.ned fool of a journalist was also nosing around. It could ruin everything. And for what? Some blasted story that would get the bloke's name on the front page of the paper.

Except it hadn't. The name wasn't there. A technical glitch? Or had it been something else? Everyone knew how much a byline meant to a newspaper journalist.

Of course, if the journo was a member of the club, it would explain the need for secrecy. Maybe he knew how nasty the repercussions would be if Vince Maranoa discovered his ident.i.ty?

At least Will's presence had gone undetected. It was bad enough to have some idiot messing around with the investigation. The last thing he needed was to have a journalist recognize him. It was one of the reasons he stayed well clear of his father's multi-million dollar business empire. Will preferred anonymity and it sure as h.e.l.l made his job doing undercover work a lot easier.

Frustration surged through him. His Sat.u.r.day night stakeout had left him with too many questions and no answers. Most of the prost.i.tutes he'd seen were using. He could only a.s.sume they were being supplied by Maranoa. He frowned and took another sip of his coffee.

Why would a man like Maranoa, a man who would sell his mother if the price was right, bother supplying his employees with drugs when he could make a lot more money selling them to other dealers? And why did he only employ women of Asian appearance-apart from the redhead? Will's frown deepened. Where the h.e.l.l did she fit in?

It was obvious she hadn't been high. Those green eyes had been clear and bright and she'd been more than articulate. At the time, it had almost felt like she was probing him for information. It didn't make sense. Why would a prost.i.tute care where her next fix came from?

And then there was the way she'd fainted during the stage show and the even stranger way she'd acted on the bed. If he didn't know better, he'd have guessed it was her first time. She'd told him she'd known Vince long enough, but that could mean anything.

His thoughts centered on the scene he'd stumbled across earlier in the night. He hadn't forgotten the s.n.a.t.c.hes of conversation he'd caught between her and the girl named Malee. It was obvious Malee intended to leave the brothel and it was just as obvious the redhead had been aiding her escape. Were the girls illegally tenured, as the article suggested? It wouldn't be the first time.

He recalled the way the redhead had panicked when she'd discovered the bars across the window. Surely she should have already been aware of them? Her hasty departure from the room was also odd. Okay, she'd woken from a faint to find herself in a room with a strange man who had locked the door and taken the key, but surely that action hadn't warranted such a drastic reaction? She'd looked genuinely frightened.

As soon as he'd been able to stand without wincing, he'd stumbled to the door she'd departed through and had peered out into the dim corridor, but there had been nothing to see. A moment later, a security guard had appeared via the staff entry and Will had reluctantly withdrawn. Locating the mysterious redhead hadn't been worth blowing his cover, no matter how tempting.

Unbidden, her lush body now filled his mind. Like it had when he'd first spotted her, his body reacted. Blood rushed to his c.o.c.k.

He should never have touched her. He'd been on duty, for Christ's sake. Prost.i.tute or not, he knew better. Not once in the ten years since he'd joined the force had he put himself in a position where his professionalism could be brought into question. And yet, a pair of come-hither eyes, legs that went on forever and a more than bountiful chest had almost done him in.

While he'd been potentially putting his career on the line by letting his c.o.c.k lead the way, he hadn't bothered to wonder why a prost.i.tute would be so flighty when it came to finding a man in her room. Then there was the final insult when she'd kneed him in the b.a.l.l.s right when things were getting interesting.

He gritted his teeth at the reminder. Something didn't add up.

A handful of hours later and a scant half dozen blocks away, Savannah O'Neill relaxed into her office chair and opened the newspaper she'd collected from the stand on her way in. There it was in bold, black type.

After much internal deliberation, she'd decided to leave the presence of the mystery man out of it until she had more evidence, but she'd still managed to score her first front page story since her arrival at the Daily Mirror. She smiled at the zing of satisfaction and skimmed over the headline.

"Max!" Her shriek of outrage could be heard halfway across the room. Her editor poked his head out of his office, a frown darkening his face. A moment later, he waddled toward her, hitching his suit pants up as they strained around his formidable belly. He closed the distance between.

"Savannah, you're here. Good. I've been waiting for you. I wish you'd told me beforehand you were going to the Black Opal. I would have talked you out of it."

Coming out of her chair, she flung her arms wide in confusion. "Talked me out of it? Are you kidding?"

Heat rose from her chest, along her neck and spread across her cheeks. Even her forehead was hot. She took a breath and fought against her agitation.

"Max, you told me to go and find something sensational. So I did. You can't get more sensational than this! I've heard it's already sold out on the newspaper stands."

"What I mean is..." Max paused and appeared to consider his words. "You don't know anything about the people behind this thing. Vince Maranoa is a career criminal. Blowing the lid on his operation isn't the smartest thing you've done, regardless of the newspaper sales."

"But, Max, it's a great story! People want to know about-"

"Enough! The bean counters are going to have a conniption when they realize the risks you took. If you'd been injured on the job... Next time you want to go off on a jaunt fraught with such danger, you come to me first. Understand?"

Gritting her teeth, she made another effort to control her temper. "You left off the byline."

Max wet his lips and glanced away. "Savannah, something as big as this could have repercussions, nasty repercussions. You've raised a lot of serious allegations. I don't want some hit man running you down in the street over this."

"Don't be ridiculous, Max. This is Sydney, not New York."

His ears quivered, like they always did when he was irritated. She heaved a huge sigh of disappointment and turned away. The only reason she'd gone to such lengths was to gain recognition. She'd hoped a few scandalous articles would raise her profile in Sydney. She might have been a well-respected journalist among the political circles in Canberra, but that meant little on a paper like the Daily Mirror, where the toughest political questions were generally asked by the resident cartoonist.

If it hadn't been for her brother, she'd never have given up her lucrative job as a political reporter and headed north to Sydney. Dylan's drug addiction had demanded a change of scenery and Sydney boasted the best rehabilitation centers in Australia.

By lifting her profile and gaining a local readership, not only could she ask Max for a raise, but she'd reach an even greater audience when she eventually wrote about what was really close to her heart-serious social issues that affected people every day: the breakdown of the family unit, the rise of unemployment, domestic violence, homelessness, drug abuse. They were issues that affected everyone. People needed to be informed; people needed to be educated.

And now what? The entire escapade had been for nothing. Without the byline, n.o.body would even know the story was hers.

Knowing further argument would be useless, she threw herself back into her chair. Her gaze lit on the faded picture of her mother where it sat on the shelf above Savannah's computer. It was the last picture she had of her, taken right before her death. Savannah couldn't believe it had been six years.

Her anger folded. Another sigh escaped-this one heavy with sadness and regret.

What would you have done, Mom? You always knew how to get what you wanted.

Savannah's mother had been the most determined person she'd ever known. Even now, she couldn't help the sharp pang of regret at the thought that she'd never told her how much she'd admired her. And now it was too late...

Tears burned behind her eyes. She stared at the woman with mischievous hazel eyes who smiled back at the photographer. Savannah's father had taken the photo. It had been shot right outside her apartment, only hours before her parents had embarked on their ill-fated holiday around outback Australia.

Her mother had been a university English professor and Savannah knew her love of writing had come from her. Along with the innate sense of social justice she attributed to her politically active father, it was no wonder she was upset at not receiving recognition for her article.

What started out as a bit of scandalous fluff to satisfy her editor had turned into a serious story with monumental implications. If everything Malee told her was true, there was enough criminal activity going on in the Black Opal to put the owners behind bars for a very long time.

"Is everything all right?"

Savannah turned. Barbara Layton propped her hip against Savannah's desk. Upon discovering Savannah was an orphan, her much older colleague had taken it upon herself to watch out for her. Now, Barbara's warm brown eyes were filled with kindness and concern.

"Yes, thanks, Barb." Savannah scrabbled for a tissue in her handbag and blew her nose. Turning to face her, she offered her a wry smile. "I guess you heard?"

Barbara pushed back her heavy gray bangs. Her smile was wide and genuine. "It's a great story. You did well, kid. And your first front page in the paper with the largest circulation in Sydney! Whoopee do!"

A small smile curved Savannah's lips. "Yeah, my first front page. Not bad, hey?"

"You betcha. The first of many-you mark my words. I've been here a long time, hon, and I know talent when I see it. And you've got talent, kid. Don't let anyone tell you different."

Barbara left her with a rea.s.suring pat on her arm. Savannah's anger and disappointment faded. She was a good writer, dammit. There would be more front page stories and next time, her name would be right up there alongside it. She'd write the kind of stories n.o.body else had the courage to; the kind of stories her parents would be proud of.

Taking a deep calming breath, she squared her shoulders. Max may have gotten his way this time, but it wouldn't happen again. Danger, be d.a.m.ned. She wasn't a woman who frightened easily-not when it came to getting something she wanted.

Her thoughts strayed to the James Bond look-alike she'd met at the brothel. Well, not exactly met...

When he'd come onto her, it had taken her by surprise. Her adrenaline was already pumping... She was turned on by the rush of success but when he added himself to the mix... She recalled how easily she'd let her guard down, how wantonly she'd responded to him, and blushed. She couldn't believe how reckless she'd been. Her behavior had been so atypical. She barely recognized the woman she'd become in his arms.

She thought how easily he'd made her forget her recent vow of celibacy and a spark of annoyance shot through her.

Who was he? His clothes bespoke money and lots of it and his voice had hinted at an expensive private school education. The germ of a new story grew in her mind... She dragged her keyboard closer. She hadn't been in Sydney long enough to know the who's who of the social set, but her James Bond definitely looked like someone.

What if he was a judge or a doctor or a politician? No, not the last one. She'd spent the past few years warming a seat in the press gallery of Parliament House in Canberra. She'd have recognized him if he were one of those.

Besides, he seemed a little too...too... Dangerous was the only word that came to mind and she shivered as she recalled the sensual effect of his piercing blue eyes and the anger and disbelief that had filled them after she'd kneed him in the groin.

Not that it was likely she'd ever run into him again. Judging from his manner and bearing, to say nothing of his costly clothes, it was fair to say they didn't run in the same social circles.

Savannah typed in names of various local rags and surfed through endless photos and snippets from the social pages, hoping to catch a glimpse of the s.e.xy stranger that had her tied up in knots. Surely, a man that looked like he'd stepped off the cover of a glossy fashion magazine would show up somewhere in the gossip columns with a starlet or two on his arm?

A new email notification appeared on her screen and she opened the message. It was from Lucy, a friend she'd known since high school. Scanning the words, she couldn't help but smile.

Don't forget the ball is on tonight. Don't even think about chickening out. We both know you need to get out. IT'S TIME!!

Lucy knew her too well. They'd talked about the black-tie charity event more than six months ago and Savannah had agreed it would be fun to attend, but that was before Jonathan-before she knew what it felt like to have her heart broken. Not just broken, but mangled and in the most humiliating way. There was nothing like walking in on the man you thought was the love of your life, to find him rolling around naked on the sofa with another woman, to cause a little long-term suffering.

Her jaw set with determination. She was over the lying, cheating jerk and she was glad she'd discovered the truth about his character before she married him. The ball was probably just what she needed. The thought of a night out on the town with a close girlfriend was enough to brighten anyone's day.

Images of the elusive James Bond flashed once again through her mind. Lucy was just the person to talk to about this. She should have thought about it earlier. Lucy had lived all of her life in Sydney and with her father a prominent orthopedic surgeon, her family had always run in the upper circles of Sydney society. Lucy might even be able to put a name to the face Savannah simply couldn't seem to get out of her mind.

CHAPTER 4.

Detective Superintendent Peter Duncan, of the New South Wales Drug Enforcement Agency, or DEA as they were otherwise known, strode through the doorway of the squad room, his ever-present, battered leather briefcase in hand. Will pushed away from his desk.

"Pete, you got a minute?"

"What is it, Will? I have a meeting with the Director of Public Prosecutions in about five minutes. I only stopped in to pick up a file I left behind."

Will hesitated. The DPP didn't meet with police officers without a d.a.m.ned good reason. It was usually a prosecutor much lower down the food chain that did that. Something must be seriously wrong.

"Sorry, boss. It won't take long." Will picked up the newspaper and followed him into the cramped confines of his office. "Have you seen the story in today's paper?"

"Haven't had a chance. I've just come from the Police Minister's Office and now I have to front up to the DPP. No doubt there will be a meeting with the Attorney General before the day is out." He spared Will a glance as he searched distractedly under an avalanche of paperwork. "What's the problem?"

"A journalist at the Daily Mirror has decided to poke his nose into the city's brothels. The Black Opal, in particular."

"s.h.i.t." Pete groaned with irritation. "Just what we need." He picked up a thick warrant book and looked underneath it. "How bad is it?"

"Yeah, pretty bad. There's a s.h.i.tload of detail about the place-the girls, the live shows, the drugs. It must have been written by someone who was there-or else their source was. There's no other explanation."

"Which means we have a problem."

"I'm afraid it gets worse."

Pete stared at him, his face grim. "Let me get this straight: An overeager journalist without a clue what he's getting into is sniffing around a brothel owned by one of Sydney's most notorious drug dealers, smack in the middle of a year-long covert police operation we've only just started to make headway through. How could it get any worse?"

Will grimaced, but forged on. "The journo also alludes to a human trafficking scheme. According to the article, the girls at the brothel are being brought over here from Thailand under false pretenses."

"How would a journalist get information like that? Who the h.e.l.l is it?"

"No idea. There's no byline, but if the story's true, we know two things: one, that the drug dealing isn't the only criminal activity going on in the place and two, the journalist has got some b.a.l.l.s getting hold of information like that and printing it."

"Find out who that d.a.m.n writer is and warn him off before he starts interfering with the investigation, or even worse, ends up in the harbor," Pete growled. "Just make sure you're discreet about it. The last thing we need is the media wising up to our investigation."