Whatever it was, Elizabeth wasn't having any of it. "You're just being stubborn."

Ben nodded agreeably. "Yup."

Elizabeth straightened her already ramrod-straight back. Muscles tensed all the way down her well-toned thighs and calves. "We're too old to play these sorts of games, Ben."

"I'm not playing, Liz." With barely a change in expression, his eyes shifted toward Rocky. "Afternoon, Rocky. How's she doing?"

He'd called them from the hospital, but played down the incident, not wanting to cause unnecessary worry. With the panic over, they deserved the details. "She's fine now, probably sound asleep. They tested her blood levels at the hospital and gave her a ton of painkillers. They thought it might have been a small dose of sarin. Very small," he rushed to add as Ben stiffened, no doubt recognizing the favorite gas of terrorists. "She still has a headache, but they said there'd be no lasting effect."

A plaintive sound carried through the open window of his car. Elizabeth looked past him with a frown, seeming to notice his car for the first time. "Roberto. Why is there a cat in your car?"

Rocky's gaze went to the cat carrier in the back seat. He saw a bit of long, white fur, and heard the pitiful meows that sounded like, "Help. Help. Help." The typical cat aversion to riding in cars. "She exaggerates. She's fine; I left the window open."

"I realize that. Why are you transporting a cat in your car?" He knew he was getting a bit of the anger she'd shown Ben and was glad he didn't have to face her full fury. Everything about Elizabeth Westfield screamed breeding and elegance, traits he'd been raised to respect. He couldn't look as unconcerned as Ben in that intimidating presence.

"I'm taking her to a kennel. It's just a precaution. If that little practical joke with the gas was really meant for me and it happens again, I want my cat out of danger." The suggestion that the incident with the box was a poorly executed joke was weak; he couldn't believe Ben had bought it. The fight with Elizabeth must have put him off his game.

Good. Rocky didn't want the police getting involved; he intended to exact his own revenge on Easy.

Elizabeth pinned him with her stern gray eyes. "You mean you're going to make your cat live in a small cage in a strange place, with none of the people and things she's used to, until you decide it's safe to bring her home again? And how long will that be?"

"Uh . . . I'm not sure. But she'll be okay." Even though Elizabeth's description made him feel like a horribly mean owner.

"Of course she won't. How would you like being caged up all day?"

He couldn't help flashing back to a time when he had been caged up, days and weeks on end. He hadn't liked it at all. "Um . . ."

"Take her in the house and give her to Peters. She'll be much better off here."

His mouth opened in surprise. "I couldn't impose like that."

Ben brushed it off. "Oh, don't worry. She likes moving people and animals into her house. The more the merrier."

Elizabeth shot a furious look at him. "I have plenty of room."

"You do," Ben agreed. "Maybe you should go to the shelter and pick up a few more cats."

With a final glare, she whirled away and stomped across the lawn toward the tennis court. Ben looked at Rocky and smiled. "Temperamental."

Not in Rocky's experience. In the year he'd known Elizabeth Westfield, he'd never seen her be anything but cool and collected. But there was definitely some tension around the subject of her taking in people and animals. And it had to do with Ben. "Do you have something against me leaving my cat here?"

"Nope. Doesn't affect me one way or the other. I don't live here."

It was the total disinterest on Ben's face that made him suspect he'd stumbled onto the crux of the argument, though he couldn't imagine how not living here could be a problem for Ben, since Elizabeth had extended an open invitation. There was more going on here than he knew.

Best to keep it that way. Elizabeth and Ben were two of those special people who made love look easy, but even the happiest lovers were ent.i.tled to disagreements now and then. He should take his cat and leave. But the way Elizabeth was smashing tennis b.a.l.l.s across the court, anger driving each serve, made him hesitant to cross her just now. What the h.e.l.l, Fluff was adaptable. The former street cat had spent her first two years living off sc.r.a.ps in Detroit alleys while dodging the a.s.sholes who found helpless animals fair game. She could handle a life of extreme privilege for a few days.

Hefting the cat carrier, he left Ben to brood over Elizabeth's foul mood and headed back toward the house. Jingles might not appreciate the company, but Fluff was sc.r.a.ppy enough to hold her own. He just hoped Mr. Peters had a couple more lint brushes.

Chapter.

Nine.

Janet had been having a lot of s.e.x dreams lately, so she wasn't surprised when it happened again. But sitting on a countertop with a man standing between her open thighs was new. It was pure fantasy, of course, because countertops were too tall for that in real life-weren't they? She'd dug her fingernails into strong shoulders, m.u.f.fled her low cry of joy in his neck, kissed her way toward his mouth-then recognized Banner's smooth as sin smile and woke with a scream.

She sat up in bed, her pelvis still pulsing with heat and her heart racing with terror. There was a logical explanation. Rocky had mentioned the countertop, and she'd decided to visit Banner in jail. But putting the two of them together was just plain freaky.

At least it reminded her of the first job on her to-do list for the day-the distasteful task of arranging to meet with Banner.

Visiting a prisoner at the county jail required following a lot of procedures. Inmates submitted names of allowed visitors; if you weren't on the list, you didn't get in. She was probably still on Banner's list from the one time she'd met with him to discuss their divorce. But even if she was on the list, it didn't mean he'd agree to see her just because she put in a request. Unless they were having s...o...b..ll fights in h.e.l.l while pigs flew overhead, his answer to her request would be no. She had to entice him into a meeting. Fortunately, she knew his Achilles's heel.

The fastest route was through his lawyers. Daily calls between Banner and his law firm probably weren't necessary, but from the fast response times during the divorce it was obvious they had regular contact. She looked up the number for the law firm and punched it into the phone.

"Sterling, Seabrook, and Holden," a woman answered. She had one of those smooth, amorphous voices like the ones in airports that announced, "The tram is approaching the station. Please exit to the right." It sounded soulless-just like the senior law partners.

"Mr. Seabrook, please." The evil troll. The senior partner was tall and imposing, with a voice that thundered in the courtroom. She would have been intimidated if she hadn't already learned that Banner's quiet composure was far more dangerous.

Still polite in case this impertinent request came from someone important, the receptionist asked, "Who's calling please?"

"This is Janet Aims, calling in regard to Mr. Seabrook's client, Banner Westfield."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Seabrook is unavailable." She didn't sound sorry-more like condescending. "May I take a message? Or would you care to make an appointment?"

Janet ignored the suggestions. "Please tell Mr. Seabrook that this involves an appallingly large amount of money and yet another potential criminal charge against his client. I'll hold."

After a few seconds of hesitation, the phone switched over to canned music interspersed with ads advising her that Sterling, Seabrook, and Holden did everything in their power to seek justice for victims of medical malpractice to dog bites.

It took him less than a minute. "Miss Aims. This is Bill Seabrook. How may I help you?"

Good old Bill. The man who claimed in a pre-trial hearing that she had not only married Banner to get her hands on the Westfield millions, but had colluded with drug runners and faked her own attempted murder in order to destroy his reputation. A man with a vivid imagination and frightening lack of moral fiber.

"h.e.l.lo, Bill. I need to meet with Banner as soon as possible."

She knew calling him by his first name followed by a demand would get her a flat denial. She did it just for the satisfaction of making him reverse his decision a minute later.

"Considering Banner's upcoming trial and your part in it, I don't think that's a wise decision, Miss Aims."

"Actually, it is, Bill. And I need to do it right away. This afternoon would be perfect." The sooner she could find out what he did with the diamonds and the Pellinni Jewels, the sooner people would stop targeting her.

She heard a derisive snort from Bill's end. "That's impossible. There's a waiting list, and visiting days are in alphabetical rotation, as I'm sure you know. Banner's isn't until next Wednesday."

Examining a chip in her fingernail, she rubbed it on her jeans to smooth out the rough spot. "But you're such an influential man, Bill, I'm sure they'd make an exception if you asked." They had before, when Banner had met with his lawyers on an almost daily basis. Infamy had its privileges.

Janet could hear him grinding his teeth on the other end of the line. "Would you care to tell me what you find so important?"

Faking disappointment, she said, "I'm afraid I can't." Bill was good at down and dirty verbal battles, but she suspected nice people threw him off balance.

"Then I'm afraid the answer is no." Actually, like his secretary, he sounded quite pleased that the answer was no.

She continued as if he hadn't spoken. "But if Banner cares to tell you, he can pa.s.s the information on. I suspect he'll be in need of legal advice anyway. Or-" she drew it out, emphasizing the choice he had here "-I suppose you could advise him not to see me. I'm sure he'll trust whatever you say. Of course, when this little problem blows up . . ." She clicked her tongue in sympathy. "I'm afraid he'll fire you."

"Miss Aims, I don't take kindly to threats. Nor does my client."

"I know exactly how you feel, Bill." Thanks to all the threats from Banner and his slavering pack of lawyers.

He was quiet for several seconds. "As you know, Banner has expressed a desire to never see you again." That would refer to her ex-husband's warning to "Stay the f.u.c.k out of his life" at their divorce proceedings.

"I remember." And she couldn't afford to waste time with repeated requests to talk with him. "Perhaps I could be a touch more specific. Tell him it involves diamonds. Lots of diamonds. I'm afraid anything else is confidential."

"Whose diamonds?" Bill's question was sharp with curiosity.

"You can reach me at this number to confirm the visit for this afternoon." She rattled off her cell number. "Good-bye, Bill." She hung up, feeling an unexpected sense of exhilaration. Power. Control. She wasn't used to experiencing them in relation to Banner, and it felt good.

It wouldn't last, though. She was certain she'd feel the familiar creepy shivers he always gave her when she was face-to-face with Banner. It would be nice to take Rocky along for support, but Banner would only be allowed one visitor. She'd have to face him alone.

Rocky wasn't sure if the silver Mercedes was following him. He'd noticed one yesterday evening outside his apartment when he'd picked up his mail, and he was pretty sure he'd seen one cruise by the Westfield place when he'd dropped Janet off from the ER. But the city was full of expensive foreign cars, and he'd probably seen a dozen Mercedes already today. Still, those smoke gray windows raised the hairs on the back of his neck, and he'd come to trust that intuition. He cut off Woodward onto a shaded side street, following a winding route. The Mercedes didn't follow.

So it was just a case of paranoia. Knowing that Janet had been stalked spooked him. If they were still after her, it would make sense that they'd switch their attention to him. The only time she left the Westfield residence was with Rocky. And today would be no different.

On top of it all, Rocky was exhausted. He'd spent several fitful hours trying to sleep, but thoughts of Janet naked on his couch kept his mind-and his groin-fully alert. He hadn't been so persistently hard since he was a teenager.

But he wasn't a kid anymore, and he wouldn't rush Janet into bed as if she were an easy lay. He had a nice evening planned. Then bed. Or the kitchen counter, or the floor. Any one of those fantasies was enough to drive him mad with desire.

d.a.m.n. There was the Mercedes again. At least it was the same silver E-Cla.s.s, coming toward him from the other direction as he pulled into Elizabeth's drive. He took his time at the gates, watching as it pa.s.sed behind him. Two men were visible in the front seats before the car disappeared around a curve. This time Rocky didn't fool himself into believing that they were really gone.

This was bad. They'd known where he was going, and instead of falling for his ruse, they just waited for him to show up.

They wouldn't go far; they'd probably pull over up the street and wait for him to leave. He should call Ben, have him send out a squad car to ha.s.sle them a bit and get some ID. But Rocky couldn't prove the guys had done anything, and he was fairly certain the IDs would be phony and the car rented. All he'd be doing was showing them Janet had a layer of protection around her, something they already knew. He just needed to know why they were after her. Either they were early opportunists looking for the rest of the Pellinni Jewels, or they were with the Colombian cartel that had dealt with Banner. Based strictly on potential danger to Janet, he was rooting for the former. And he didn't need the cops to find out for sure.

He searched through the console between the seats, selecting a four-inch-long nail. It wouldn't work as well as a knife, but he wasn't going to chance some aggressive cop charging him with carrying a concealed weapon. One brush with the legal system had been more than enough. Nails weren't weapons-not technically.

Cutting across Elizabeth's yard, he pulled out his cell phone and hit four on his speed dial. The call was answered after two rings.

"Westfield residence."

"Hey, Mr. Peters, it's Rocky. Did Mrs. Westfield have you arrange for security patrols around the property?"

"Yes, sir. Chief Thatcher did."

"Well, I'm about to cut through the hedges on the west side, and I'd appreciate it if they didn't shoot me."

"Yes, sir. I'll let them know. Do you need a.s.sistance?"

"No, thanks. Just tell them the Hispanic man in the blue-and-green Hawaiian shirt isn't a prowler."

He pocketed the phone as he neared the dense hedge of rhododendrons and lilacs that screened the property from the street. From behind the house female voices floated on the humid breeze, punctuated by laughter and squeals. And splashing. Janet and Libby were obviously in the pool.

A peek over the low fieldstone wall confirmed his suspicions-the Mercedes was parked a few dozen feet into the neighbor's long driveway, out of sight of the house and inconspicuous from the street. From there they could wait for him to drive by without fear of arousing anyone's suspicion. If the homeowner showed up, they'd just claim to have the wrong address, apologize, and drive on.

He needed a stone. Searching beneath the lilacs, he cursed Elizabeth's dedicated lawn service for removing all the rocks from the area. After a couple of fruitless minutes, he gave up on the immaculate ground and used the nail to pry and wiggle a stone loose from the mortar of the old wall. Perfect.

The Mercedes had backed in, waiting for him to pa.s.s by on the street. He probably didn't even need the dense cover of spruce, maples, and oaks in the neighbor's yard that sheltered his approach from behind; the occupants were looking straight ahead. Both men jumped when Rocky tapped on the driver's door beneath the open window.

He leaned down to take a close look at the two startled faces. Black hair, white skin-he was betting on Spanish extraction, similar to his own. Colombians. s.h.i.t.

"Morning, gentlemen. Sorry to bother you, but I thought you might not be aware you have a flat tire."

Both men had stiffened, then looked confused when the information registered. "Flat tire?" the driver said.

Decent English, but a slight accent. He tried not to jump to conclusions, even though he already had. "Yeah, back here." As the driver stepped out of the car to examine the tire, Rocky pulled the nail from his pocket, held it against the tire, and rapped it with the stone. It drove in nearly to the head.

"See, that's not gonna last long. Especially if I do this." Wrapping his fingers under the head, he pulled the nail out. A sharp hiss of air followed.

The man released a string of angry Spanish and lunged toward Rocky. He blocked the outstretched arm and whirled with one strategically placed kick, slamming the man just below the rib cage. He fell to the ground, clutching his midsection and gasping.

"Be glad I'm a nice guy and hit your diaphragm instead of your cojones," Rocky muttered.

The pa.s.senger had watched through the window, hesitating for the two seconds it took to dispatch the driver. Finally realizing what was happening, he jerked the door open. Through the tinted back window, Rocky saw him open the glove compartment. In another two seconds, he'd be facing a gun.

Dashing around the back of the car would take too long; he'd round the trunk just in time to meet a bullet head-on. Better to use the shortest distance between two points: a straight line over the roof. Using both hands, he vaulted himself onto the trunk. The second man opened the pa.s.senger door and stood, turning toward the rear of the car looking for Rocky. But the man never completed his turn. Rocky slammed into the back of his head, carrying them both into the open car door. The man's skull broke the impact.

Staggering and groaning, they both fell to the ground. Rocky rolled free, jumping to his feet. The other man didn't. In fact, it looked like he wouldn't be getting up for a while. Blood ran freely from his suddenly crooked nose, and a long "Ahhhh" died into a hoa.r.s.e sob.

The gun lay several feet from the man's outstretched hands. Rocky picked it up, checked the safety, and tucked it into the back of his waistband.

"Hijo de puta!" The low, gravely words in Spanish made him look back. They matched the deadly look in the man's eyes. Or one eye rather, since one side of the man's face still lay against the cement.

"Yeah, yeah, tell it to the cops." Not that any one of them was going to report this little scuffle.

"Matare tu," the man snarled, his words a little more distinct this time.

The words weren't even necessary; the hate in his narrowed eyes made the death threat perfectly clear. Rocky made sure to step on the man's outstretched fingers as he walked away.

Cutting through the overgrown and upward-sloping backyard, Rocky listened eagerly for shouts and laughter from the pool. The yard was quiet save for the rushing sound of the fountain in the koi pond.

Mr. Peters met him at the front door. "Problem taken care of, sir?"

"Yes, thanks. Where can I find the ladies?"

"They're waiting for you in the solarium."