Hot off the Presses

by Rebecca York
Chapter One

"Who does that jerk Daniel Brady think he is?" M. J. Carter muttered under her breath, then raised her
head to glance quickly around the newsroom of the Denver Star. Nobody was paying attention to her,
and she breathed a small sigh of relief.

Swiping a hand through her short brown hair, she made an effort to get a grip on her frustration. A
message had just come to her in-house computer mailbox, turning down her latest proposal—to do a
story on evidence planting by the Denver P.D.

The email was from her immediate boss, news editor Hank Mooney, but she was pretty sure Daniel
Brady was the one who had nixed the piece. Brady was the new editor of the Star—which meant his
word was law around here.

She sighed. Four months ago she'd been so pleased about coming back home. Aunt Martha had told
her about an opening at the Star. And after her success of getting half a dozen Chicago mobsters
arrested, she'd been a hot property. Of course, it hadn't hurt that her aunt was friends with the Star's
news editor. She'd submitted her résumé, interviewed for the job, and won out over several candidates.
And she'd produced some blockbuster stories—until Daniel Brady had come on board.

When she'd started working for the Star, he had still been in Afghanistan filing reports from various hot
spots. Then his father, the paper's owner and editor-in-chief, had died of a heart attack. And the heir
apparent had been called back to take over the reins. She'd heard he thought women should stay out of
the war correspondent business. She hadn't realized he had the same prejudices about investigative
reporting. She'd been working on a juicy story about a murder-for-hire gang. Brady had forced her to
share the assignment with another reporter, Arnold Findlay. And somehow Findlay had made it look as if
he'd done most of the digging when the series of stories was published.

M.J. had gnashed her teeth and vowed to get her fair share of the recognition next time. And as far as
her friends and Aunt Martha were concerned, she was doing great at work. With the crowd down at
Sunny Jones's elegant beauty salon, it was a matter of pride. With Aunt Martha, it was a matter of
expediency. Her aunt's health was fragile, and she wasn't going to burden her with any work-related
complaints.

The phone on her desk rang, and she picked up the receiver. "M.J. Carter."

"Thank God I reached you," a low, urgent voice responded.

She knew at once who it was. Anita Mangani, the daughter of Gianni Mangani, head of the Chicago
crime family who had been gunned down over a plate of veal parmigiana in an Italian restaurant. His
daughter had vowed to get even with the rival family, the Detellos, who had killed him, and she'd secretly
contacted M.J. For months, she'd fed M.J. leads—and the information had led to a number of arrests
and convictions.

"Anita? What's wrong?"

"I'm taking a big chance calling you. But I have to. Your boss is in danger."

"Hank Mooney? The news editor."

"No. I'm talking about Mr. Brady. They're going to kill him."
M.J. felt her skin go cold. "When? Why?"

"His father had some...business dealings with the wrong people."

"Who?"

"I can't tell you. But I know they want the son to stay away from stories on certain subjects. But he won't
give them that guarantee."

"He wouldn't," M.J. muttered. She might be frustrated by Daniel Brady's sex discrimination policies, but
she was sure of his integrity.

"It's going to happen at his luncheon meeting—at the Windsor Park Hotel."

"But that's today," she answered, feeling her heart begin to pound. She'd read about it on the schedule
this morning.

"Stop him. And don't trust anybody."

"You can't mean the police?"

"Yes, I do."

The line went dead, and M.J. was left with the words "Don't trust anybody" ringing in her ears.

God, now what?

With icy fingers, she dialed the executive suite on the tenth floor. "Is Mr. Brady there?" she asked his
secretary.

"I'm sorry. He just left for a luncheon meeting. Can I take a message?"

"I'll get back to him." Slamming down the receiver, M.J. retrieved her leather backpack from her bottom
right desk drawer and hurried out of the newsroom. As she crossed the lobby, she spotted Arnold
Findlay watching her.

"Late for an interview?" he asked, sounding as if he was anxious to go along.

"Something like that," she answered, as she bolted for the employees' parking lot.

Once in her car, she had time to reflect on what she was doing. Every scrap of information she'd gotten
from Anita in the past had been reliable. Which was why she was going to catch Daniel before he got to
that luncheon meeting.

Daniel. She hated the way he was running roughshod over her career. Yet at the same time, from the
moment the two of them had laid eyes on each other, she'd sensed a simmering man-woman attraction
between them.

She'd tried to talk herself out of it. She'd tried to pretend it was all in her imagination. He wasn't even her
type. He was too blond. Too blue-eyed. Too handsome. Too rich. Think Robert Redford in All the
President's Men, and you had him pegged. It was a movie she'd watched dozens of times because she'd
admired the young reporters who'd brought down Richard Nixon. They'd provided much of her
inspiration for going into investigative journalism.
Daniel Brady might look like Robert Redford, but she'd cautioned herself often enough not to get them
mixed up.

He'd been born with a silver spoon in his mouth. She was from the wrong side of the tracks. She'd
worked for everything she'd ever gotten. Success had been handed to him.

Well—to be fair, he'd worked hard, too. You didn't cover the dangerous beats around the world from an
easy chair. She'd admired the way he'd gotten into the rough-and-tumble of reporting, but that didn't
mean they saw eye to eye on anything now.

Still, the attraction between them was there, interfering with their working relationship. And to her
annoyance, none of her silent lectures about the stupidity of office romances stopped her from having
wild, erotic dreams about the man. She'd wake up in bed, her skin prickly, her overheated body slick with
a fine sheen of moisture. As she'd throw off the covers, she'd know that she'd been imagining herself
making love with him.

It would be impossible to get back to sleep. Not after those steamy dreams. So she'd come to work
rumpled and bleary-eyed. Sometimes Daniel would look the same way, and she'd wonder if he were
awake at night for the same reason.

Her heart was pounding hard as she reached the Windsor Park Hotel and pulled down the ramp to the
garage—praying that he'd pulled into the VIP area near the elevators.

When she didn't immediately spot him, her hands clenched on the wheel and her gaze darted around
the specially marked section of the garage.

Then she breathed out a grateful sigh as she spotted him getting out of his car. A group of women
stepped into the elevator. Then she and Daniel were alone in the parking area—except for a man in a
trench coat and rain hat, hiding behind one of the concrete pillars. He was standing stiffly, his arm held
down beside his leg. As M.J. focused on him, she saw a gun in his hand. Terror leaped inside her chest.
Terror so great it threatened to swallow her whole.

Chapter Two

M.J. had only seconds to react. The man with the gun was leaning around the pillar, raising his hand
pointing the weapon at Daniel.

Oh, Lord, no. Pressing the button that opened her window, she shouted, "Daniel, he's got a gun. Get
down."

The warning was less than useless. At the high, frightened sound of her voice, Daniel looked up, his
eyes fixing on her instead of the assailant—who had also heard her. He whirled, facing her, the weapon
pointed at her now. The only thing she could think to do was duck low and tramp on the accelerator. The
car leaped forward as the sound of a gunshot reverberated like a cannon blast in the enclosed garage.

Two more shots rang out, and she felt a pain in her arm—like a bee sting, she thought vaguely.

When she heard the sound of running feet, she peered above the windshield. The hit man was tearing
across the garage floor, heading for the exit—with Daniel right behind him. Before the man made his
escape, his forward progress was stopped by a tackle worthy of a defensive end.

Her boss had brought the gunman down, but keeping him down was another matter. As she watched,
they rolled across the cement floor of the garage, each trying to get the better of the other.
Daniel looked to be the more agile. But the bulging muscles and sheer size of the other guy gave him a
tremendous advantage. More than that, he still clenched the gun in his right hand, trying to bring it up
into firing position.

"No!" Shouting in protest, M.J. leaped from the car and pounded toward the writhing men, then lashed
out with her foot, kicking the hand with the gun.

The assailant screamed in pain, and the weapon skittered across the floor and under a nearby SUV. As
she knelt to retrieve it, a shout from behind stopped her cold. Looking back, she saw the man had
wrenched himself free and was running for the exit again. This time he made it, and the door slammed
behind him.

She might have gone after him if she hadn't heard a groan from behind her. Whirling, she saw Daniel
pushing himself up, looking both angry and abashed.

"He's getting away."

"Maybe we can catch him on the street." She turned and hurried back to her car, which was still sitting
there with the engine running.

Footsteps echoed behind her, and when she would have climbed behind the wheel, Daniel blocked her
way. "I'll drive."

"It's my car!"

"You want to waste time arguing about it?"

She shook her head, making for the passenger seat, thinking that at least he wasn't going to order her to
stay out of the action.

Before she could fasten her seat belt, he shoved the gear lever into reverse and backed up.

She wondered what Daniel was going to do when he reached the pay station at the entrance to the
garage. To her astonishment, he barreled up the down ramp, his horn blaring to warn anyone
unfortunate enough to get in his way. Luckily nobody was heading into the garage.

They reached the street in record time. But the gunman had vanished into the noontime crowd. Daniel
circled the block as they both tried to locate their quarry.

"The bastard's made a clean getaway," he growled.

"Did you recognize him?"

"No. But I could pick him out of a lineup."

She nodded, and as her adrenaline rush subsided, she felt a twinge in her left arm. Focusing on her
sleeve, she was astonished to see her gray jacket was soaked with blood.

"Oh my," she murmured, fighting a suddenly light-headed sensation.

Daniel's gaze followed the direction of hers, and he cursed. "You've been hit," he said, braking and
pulling into a loading zone at the curb.

Her vision clouded into a kind of dark mist. Then, to her utter chagrin, she found herself blacking out.
When she came to, Daniel was leaning over her, his large warm hands on her flesh. He was opening the
buttons of her blouse, and for a moment she forgot where they were, forgot why he was touching her so
intimately. This was like her dreams, only better, more real. She loved the warmth and strength of his
fingers where they slid over her skin. He brushed her collarbone, then the swell of her breasts at the top
of her bra.

She touched the back of his hand, letting her fingers trail over his knuckles, feeling his reaction. "That's
nice," she murmured. "Don't stop."

All at once, his hands went very still, and she realized why he was touching her. She felt her face heat
as she sat up straighter in her seat, leaning back against the headrest.

He cleared his throat. "You've been shot."

"It's just a flesh wound."

He tipped his head to one side, fixing his blue gaze on her. "How do you know? You can't even see it."

"I know because I kept moving my arm—and I barely felt it until…"

"Until you fainted," he supplied. "I need to get you to a hospital."

"No!"

"What do you mean no? You're hurt."

She took a breath, struggled for coherence. "They might look for me—look for you there. And the…the
person who called me said not to trust anyone."

"What person?"

M.J. swallowed. "I can't tell you who it was. But they called to warn me that someone was going to try
and kill you—when you went to the luncheon meeting at the Windsor Park Hotel. That's how I knew
where to find you."

"Who was the informant?" he demanded again. "What was his motive?"

She shook her head. "I can't put their life in danger."

"Who am I going to tell?"

She raised her gaze to his. "The person who called said that your father had been playing ball with…with
one of the crime syndicates in town. The person said they'd contacted you."

She saw the blood drain from his face.

"Is that correct?" she asked.

"That's not your business!"

"I think it is. We're going to talk about it, but first, you need to take off your tie."

He stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. "I beg your pardon?"
She cast her eyes over the spreading red blotch on her sleeve. "I think your tie will cut off the bleeding,
until I can get a look at my arm. Now we've just got to think of somewhere safe."

He thought for a moment. "How about if I take you to my love nest?"

She caught her breath. "Your…love nest?"

Daniel's features hardened. "Actually, it's my father's pied-à-terre. I seem to have inherited it. A nice
private little town house in LoDo where he apparently entertained his friends."

The tight feeling in her chest eased. Then she gave herself a mental kick. What did it matter to her
whether or not Daniel Brady had a mistress. "Is it safe?"

"Dad kept it secret." He heaved a sigh. "The only reason I know about it is that the woman he used to
meet there called me up after he died and said she wanted to retrieve some of her personal belongings.
She gave me the code for the security alarm."

M.J. gazed up at him through lowered lashes. His face was etched in stone, and she knew that while
she'd been angry with him all these months, he'd been dealing with personal issues she could only
guess at.

Chapter Three

"The sooner we get to my dad's private hideout, the sooner I can look at your gunshot wound," Daniel
muttered.

"Okay," M.J. answered, when what she wanted to do was reach for Daniel and gather him close. She
wanted to say she understood what it was like to think you knew somebody and find out otherwise. But
her arm was throbbing, and she realized this wasn't the right time for anything personal.

Apparently taking her silence for acquiescence, he started the engine again, driving just under the speed
limit through the downtown area to a quiet street of restored town houses. There was an alley around
back and a parking pad behind the locked back gate.

M.J. was annoyed to find that she swayed on her feet as she got out of the car. Daniel came swiftly
around to her side, steadying her as he unlocked the gate and led the way up a flight of stairs to the
back door.

They stepped into a gourmet kitchen, then a comfortable sitting area with two plush couches arranged
on either side of a Georgian fireplace.

The security alarm was beeping, and Daniel stopped to key in the access code. As she watched him
move comfortably around the luxury setting, she decided that her fantasies about him were just that—
fantasies. This place was a hundred times more grand then the modest bungalow where she had grown
up. And it wasn't even his real home. He had a mansion on the west side of town, a second home in
Aspen, and one in Florida.

Daniel's voice cut into her thoughts. "You're not looking so great. Can you make it up the stairs?"

"Of course!" she snapped, then marched up the wide flight of steps, keeping herself going on pure
willpower. By the time she reached the top she was forced to grab the banister to keep herself from
tumbling backward down the stairs. Daniel moved quickly to her side and steered her down the hall—
into a masculine-looking bedroom furnished in grays and burgundies.
"Lie down," he said, gesturing toward the king-size bed.

"Aren't you afraid I'm going to get blood on the bedspread?"

"I don't care about the damn bedspread," he snapped. "But I guess it's better not to leave any
incriminating evidence. We wouldn't want anybody to think I'd brought a woman here and murdered her."

M.J. shot him a startled look. Was that supposed to be a joke? While she was still trying to figure it out,
he left her standing in the middle of the rug and hurried out of the room. Moments later, he was back
with several thick towels, which he laid on the bed. "Lie down," he said again.

She swallowed. Although she knew perfectly well why they were here, and she was in no shape for
anything but first aid, the bed and the room carried a whole raft of connotations for her to deal with. But
she simply didn't have the energy to keep standing there—or the brain power to make a better
suggestion.

So she dropped her knapsack on the floor and stretched out on the towels. For heartbeats, Daniel stood
looking down at her, then he eased onto the bed beside her, the mattress shifting under his weight.
When he reached toward her, she closed her eyes. The lack of visual stimulation and his silence
sharpened her sense of touch. She felt every small pressure of his fingers as he removed the tie she'd
used to stanch the bleeding.

The sensations were even more intense as his hands went to the front of her blouse again and began
undoing buttons. She felt his warm fingers brush her flesh, felt cool air as he folded the fabric back.

"Sit up," he said, his voice thick, and at least she knew she wasn't the only one affected by the intimacy.
Gently he eased her ruined blouse off her shoulders, taking her jacket with it. He was slow and careful.
Still, she winced as the fabric slid down her injured arm.

"Sorry."

"That's okay. What do you think?"

He didn't answer, and she raised her lids just a little and peered at him. He was leaning over her, looking
down, and she saw that instead of inspecting the wound, his gaze was fixed on her breasts. They were
covered only by the sheer cups of her lace-edged bra, and she knew that her nipples were clearly
visible. Worse, she felt them bead and tighten—right before his eyes. She might be injured, she might be
in pain, but she couldn't stop her body from responding to Daniel Brady.

"My arm?" she managed.

He made a strangled sound, and she wondered what would happen if she lifted her hand, curved it
around the back of his head and brought his mouth down to hers. The image was so vivid that she
almost acted on it.

Before she could make a fool of herself, he turned his attention to first aid. "You're right, it's a flesh
wound," he muttered.

Dispassionately, she switched her attention to her mangled flesh. The bullet had grazed her arm, leaving
broken skin and discolored flesh. She'd been very lucky.

"Let's hope there's something to disinfect it." Daniel left the room, and she lay back against the pillows
with her eyes closed. They snapped open again when he returned with supplies.

"This may hurt," he said, as he pressed a wet cloth against the injury and began to clean it.
She clamped her teeth against the pain, clamped them tighter when he progressed to antiseptic. When
he'd covered the area with a sterile bandage, she breathed out a little sigh.

***

Daniel pressed his fingers over hers just for a moment before releasing his grip. "I didn't like hurting
you," he said, hearing the grittiness in his own voice. "You should have gone to the emergency room."

"So a doctor could hurt me?" the maddening woman lying on the bed asked.

"I'm just a battlefield medic. A doctor would have done a more professional job."

"You've treated the wounded in the field?"

"Yeah." He stood abruptly and gathered up the first aid supplies, hoping the clipped syllable told her he
didn't want to talk about his war correspondent experiences.

Crossing to the television set, he switched on the monitor channels that provided views from the
surveillance cameras.

He watched M.J. looking at the shifting pictures on the screen before she brought her gaze back to him.
"Quite a security system. But we can't hide out here forever, so we'd better figure out who's trying to kill
us," she said.

"Right, and we're going to start with you telling me your source of information, Mary Jane."

"Don't call me that!"

He knew she hated her name, and he'd used it deliberately. Still he felt the outrage in her voice like the
stab of a sharp blade.

She had brought her tone under control by the time she spoke her next words. "No. We're going to start
with your telling me what kind of dirty business your father was into."

He stared down at the woman lying on the wide bed. M.J. Carter might look innocent and fragile. In fact,
he knew she was as tough as any of the soldiers he'd interviewed in Afghanistan. She'd come charging
into the garage at the Windsor Park Hotel, saved his life—and gotten shot for her trouble. Now he owed
her an explanation. But the words clogged his throat.

Chapter Four

Unable to meet M.J.'s questioning gaze, Daniel paced to the window and pulled aside the blinds, looking
down at the street.

Since stepping into the mess his father had left at the Denver Star, he'd kept his own counsel. He didn't
want to talk about his heartache and disillusionment. But he guessed he'd better get this over with.

When he turned back to M.J., her eyes were closed again, and it flashed into his mind that maybe he
could take the chicken's way out. If she were sleeping, it would be cruel to disturb her, he told himself.
Once again, he couldn't pull his gaze away from her. She was injured—because of him—and he cursed
himself for his wayward thoughts. But, still, she was a powerful temptation, lying on a bed, wearing
nothing above the waist but her lacy bra.

From the moment he'd walked into his first staff meeting and seen her, he'd felt a zing of sexual
awareness. She'd pulled him like a magnet, yet he'd ruthlessly kept the attraction under wraps. He'd told
himself he had enough problems and that anyone he got involved with would only be dragged into the
swamp with him. That had been enough reason to hold her at a distance. There were other reasons as
well. But he carefully kept from examining them as he crossed to the walk-in closet and grabbed one of
the expensive short-sleeved shirts that his father had left behind.

When he came back to the bed, he found her watching him.

"You can wear this," he said, hearing the thick quality of his own voice.

She accepted the shirt, but when he saw she had trouble getting her arm through the sleeve, he took
over the job. Even though he tried to minimize the contact, he was vividly aware of so many small
details. The swell of her breasts under his hands as he buttoned the shirt. Her warm skin. The way she
kept her breath shallow and her face averted as he touched her.

Still, when he took a step back, she raised her eyes to his, and he saw she had made her expression
fierce.

"Stop stalling! Tell me what your father was up to," she demanded.

His breath caught. "You're pretty direct."

"Yes."

To give himself a little more time, he sat down in the easy chair beside the dresser. When he realized his
hands were clenched in front of him, he made a deliberate effort to relax.

"I've spent some time piecing it together." He cleared his throat. "There are three newspapers in Denver.
Dad wanted to stay number one, and he found out that someone else was going to a faster press
system that would give them the edge. He wanted to stay competitive, and he'd already borrowed a lot
of money from the bank for a new computer system. When one of his golf buddies offered to put him in
touch with a businessman looking for investments, he said he was interested."

He had thought that would be hard to say; it hadn't been as difficult as he'd thought.

"Did he ever figure out the guy was connected to the mob?"

Daniel winced inwardly at the speed with which she'd drawn the correct conclusion. "I think so. I know he
tried to borrow the money to pay back the loan, but he was already too far extended. I think he was
offered a deal then—in exchange for a favor. Not anything big. All his contact wanted was for Dad to let
them know if the cops were planning any major initiatives against organized crime. The demands got
heavier after that." Daniel looked down at his hands, seeing they were knit so tightly together that the
knuckles were white. Deliberately, he eased up the pressure.

"I think Dad found himself in a situation he couldn't stand. He'd dug himself into a hole, and he didn't
know how to climb back out. I think that's why he had a heart attack. Or maybe it wasn't a heart attack.
Maybe —"

Before he could finish, M.J. had scrambled off the bed and crossed the room. She lowered herself to the
floor beside his chair and laid one hand gently on his knee.
"Oh, Daniel, I'm so sorry. I didn't know. All I saw was your coming in and taking control of the paper—
making decisions that…surprised me."

"Yeah, right," he managed. He'd been holding himself together for months, and now in one swift stroke,
she had broken through the defenses he'd so carefully erected.

"It must have been so awful for you."

He struggled to speak around the lump that blocked his windpipe. "I didn't tell you any of that so you'd
feel sorry for me, M.J.."

"I pushed you to tell me. It's my reporter's instincts. I push…"

"That's what makes you good at your job!"

She tipped her head, her eyes going wide. "I thought you felt like I wasn't pulling my weight. "

"Maybe that's what I wanted you to think." He realized he'd revealed too much—again. About his
feelings and his motivation. "You shouldn't be out of bed," he said gruffly. Bending, he picked her up in
his arms, carrying her back toward the bed, but her hands clutched his shoulder.

"Maybe I need you to hold me," she murmured, laying her head against his shoulder.

His arms tightened around her, and he lowered himself to the edge of the bed, cradling her in his lap.
She was so lithe and light, so perfect in his embrace. He brushed his lips against the top of her hair, a
small caress.

Her head tipped up, and he found himself staring down at her lips. Needs and desires surged through
him. He wanted her. Wanted more from her than he had any right to ask.

***

As M.J. stared up at Daniel, seeing his parted lips, her own lips opened in response.

There was a breathless moment when the world seemed to contract around them. Then slowly, oh so
slowly—giving her ample time to refuse, his head bent toward her.

His mouth brushed against hers, then settled gently, softly.

The kiss felt good—right. And she found herself experimenting with the sensations, rubbing her mouth
back and forth against his, nibbling, then increasing the pressure.

He gathered her closer, and she knew he had forgotten why they had come here. She wanted him to
forget—wanted more of what he was offering. When she tightened her good arm around him, the kiss
turned hot and hungry.

Again she answered him, unable to damp down the desire she'd been fighting since the first moment
she'd set eyes on him. He angled his head, his mouth sexy and skillful, and the last shreds of coherent
thought fled from her brain.

All he had to do was lean back, and they'd be lying on the bed instead of sitting.
But when he moved his hand to her arm, his fingers pressed against the recent injury. He'd made her
forget about it. Now she couldn't hold back a small strangled sound of pain.

Abruptly, he lifted his head, and she saw his eyes go from smoldering passion to self-accusation. Very
deliberately, he moved his hand to her waist. "God, M.J., I'm sorry. You got yourself shot a few hours
ago—saving my life. And now here I am taking advantage of you."

"You made me forget about that," she murmured, looking up at him from below her half-lowered lashes.

He shifted his position, setting her against the pillows, then climbed off the bed. "I should be figuring out
how to protect you instead of coming on to you." His words might have been meant to reassure her, but
they had the opposite effect. He'd lulled her into thinking they were working together—that they were
establishing a relationship. Now he'd neatly shattered the illusion.

She hid her bitter disappointment with a sharp retort. "I don't need protection!"

Chapter Five

Daniel couldn't believe M. J.'s reaction. He'd said he was going to protect her, and she'd answered with
an angry retort.

He kept his voice steady as he asked, "What are you planning to do? Go back home tonight? And then
when the hired killers come charging through the back door, both you and your aunt will get hurt."

The sentence was so loaded that she hardly knew how to respond, but she heard herself saying, "You
know I live with Aunt Martha?"

"Of course. I've read your personnel file."

"You read the personnel file of everyone who works at the Star?"

"Only if I've taken an interest in them."

What kind of interest exactly. Like—what did it mean when you kissed me?

She'd felt the heat of that kiss all the way to her bones. Had it been the same for him? She wanted to
ask that question—among others. But she carefully steered away from the personal and asked, "You
think Aunt Martha could be in danger?"

"I'm sorry. If they figure out who you are, they could come looking for you."

"I've got to get her out of the house."

"You can't. In the first place it's too dangerous to go back there. In the second place, you're in no shape
for a rescue mission."

His voice had taken on such a steely tone that she felt a shiver travel over her skin. As she studied the
taut lines of his face, she understood that he meant what he said, and he wasn't going to accept what he
considered the wrong answer.

She swallowed. "Do you have a better suggestion?"

"Is there someone you trust? Someone who could take her in for a few days?"

The answer came to her instantly. "Sunny. Or one of my other friends from high school. We were close.
We took care of each other back then, and we still do."

"Okay. Good." It was obvious from the intense expression on Daniel's face that he was working out the
details in his mind.

"I know you don't want your aunt to worry. So call her and explain you're on an undercover assignment
and can't get away. Tell her…" He stopped and ran his hand through his blond hair. "Tell her that you
had a threatening phone call down at the paper and don't want her at home right now."

She nodded, thinking he'd come up with a very clever approach—in a minimum amount of time. "You're
good." Better than I gave you credit for, she added silently.

"Thanks."

Picking up the phone on the bedside table, she called home.

"Aunt Martha," she began when the familiar voice answered. "I need to talk to you about some stuff."

"Is everything all right, dear?"

"It sounds kind of bad, but I don't want you to worry, okay?"

After making sure that her aunt wasn't going to freak out, she relayed Daniel's plans.

Next, she called Sunny. "I'm in kind of a bind," she began.

"So what do you need?" her friend asked instantly.

M.J. launched into another explanation, providing a few more details than she'd given Aunt Martha.

Fifteen minutes after making the call, she was breathing easier.

"That was perfect," Daniel said when she hung up.

She wasn't sure why his praise made her feel vulnerable. To counteract the sensation, she almost said,
So, as my reward, are you going to tell me exactly why you limited my assignments?

But just as she'd stopped herself from asking about the kiss, she bottled up the question about their
working relationship, too, knowing it was a bad idea to make the situation any more tense between them.

"So now that that's taken care of, what are we going to do?" she asked.

"Call the cops."

Her response was instantaneous. "No!"

"What do you mean no?"

She raised her chin, spoke her words slowly. "My contact said not to trust anyone."
His eyes narrowed. "We're back to your contact. Perhaps you'd better tell me who it is."

She sucked in a sharp breath, then deliberately let it out while she tried to decide what to do.

"If you read my file, you know about my investigative work for the Chicago Sun."

"Yes."

"The person who called me to say you were in danger is the same person I worked with in Chicago. The
person who fingered the top guy in the Detello family for me. But I don't feel comfortable giving you her
name. Not when it could get her killed."

"So it's a woman."

The way he said it made her bristle. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Forget it!"

"No. I'd like you to explain that remark."

"I should have kept my mouth shut."

"But you didn't."

Before he could come back with another evasive answer, movement on the television screen caught her
eye, and she stared in shock at the image in the upper right-hand corner. A car had pulled up in the
space beside hers. As she watched, two men got out and headed swiftly for the back door.

M.J. watched with narrowed eyes. "One of them is the thug who was shooting at us in the garage," she
breathed.

"Yeah. I think we'd better get out of here." Daniel turned to her, then cursed under his breath as he
looked at her arm. "You're in no shape for climbing."

"I'm fine!"

He studied her for long seconds, then grabbed her hand and led her toward the bathroom. On the way,
she picked up her leather backpack from the floor and slung it over her good shoulder, then watched in
surprise as he flipped a switch under the vanity sink.

One of the decorative ceiling panels slid open. Inside was a folding ladder.

"I guess your father figured he might have to make a quick getaway."

"Yeah. He must have had this installed after the mob started making threats. You go first."

Dutifully, she climbed upward, gritting her teeth to keep from wincing. She emerged into a dark closed-in
space, where she waited for Daniel to join her.

As soon as he retrieved the ladder and closed the panel, they were thrown into pitch darkness.

Disoriented, she reached to grab his arm.

Swiftly, he turned and held her tightly, then gave her a quick squeeze before easing away. In the next
moment, he switched on a flashlight, and a powerful beam illuminated the attic. Leading her across the
low space, he stopped at another door that opened onto the flat roof of the breakfast room.

As she and Daniel stood out of sight with their backs pressed to the wall, she could hear the thugs down
at the back door. Her eyes stayed focused on the windows of the house across the alley. There was no
point in telling him she hated heights. No point in giving him any reason to doubt her abilities. Because
she was pretty sure his remark after the phone call meant more than he'd intended.

A million years seemed to go by as she waited for something to happen. Finally, below her, she heard
the door open, then the beeping sound warning that the alarm was engaged. But it didn't ring.

"Either they have the combination, or they have some way to disable the system," Daniel growled. "We'd
better be gone by the time they figure out we're not inside."

After hurrying her across the roof, he put one foot over the edge, and she saw that the cleats holding the
downspout in place could function as a ladder.

A spasm of fear grabbed her. She couldn't climb down that thing!

Chapter Six

M.J. wanted to scream that she was afraid of heights, that she'd faint on the way down the makeshift
ladder. But she kept the protest locked in her throat as she watched Daniel expertly descend.

The ladder ended about three yards from the ground. He hung by his hands, letting himself drop the last
few yards.

Turning, he held up his arms. "I'll catch you at the bottom."

Knowing there was no alternative, she gritted her teeth and followed him down, ignoring the throbbing
pain in her arm. When she reached the last rung, she hesitated.

"Come on!" he growled. "We've got to get out of here."

With a silent prayer, she forced herself to let go.

Daniel caught her, and she fell against him. As he turned her and tightened his arms around her, she
pressed her face into his shoulder.

"You don't like heights," he said as he stroked his lips against the top of her head. "But you didn't let that
stop you."

"How did you know?"

"Like you—I've learned to read people."

"Yeah, well, I do what I have to."

"And more." He raised his head, then looked toward the back door. "We'd better make tracks before they
figure out we're not inside."
They'd just reached the car when a shout sounded from the kitchen doorway.

"Out here! They're getting away."

A bullet whizzed past M.J.'s head as she scrambled into the car. Before she'd closed the door, Daniel hit
the gas, backing up at what felt like a hundred miles an hour. More shots sounded as they screeched
into a tight turn and sped down the alley.

Behind her she heard the squeal of tires and knew the bad guys were right on their tail. Daniel made a
sharp turn, then another, and another, weaving through the neighborhood at speeds so fast she kept
expecting him to plow into cars parked along the street. But he would have made an excellent stunt car
driver.

There was a loud crash behind them. Jerking around in her seat, she saw that whoever was driving the
other car wasn't quite so skilled as Daniel.

"I think they're out of commission," she said. "They just plowed into a truck at the last cross street."

"I hope the truck driver's okay."

"He's driving a big sucker. Big enough to flatten them."

Daniel snorted, then sobered almost immediately as he slowed the car and asked, "Are you all right?"

"Yes. What about you?"

"In one piece," he answered, his voice low and gravelly.

She breathed out a sigh of relief. In the distance, she could hear the sound of police sirens.

Once they were out of the neighborhood, he pulled to the curb under the shade of a low-hanging tree.

"What?"

Without speaking, he reached across the console and crushed her against him. Then his mouth came
down on hers. The kiss might have started out as a celebration of their escape from death, but it quickly
turned passionate as he angled his head first one way and then the other, tasting, feasting, demanding.

She was helpless to do anything but give him what he wanted, her passion rising to match his. His
hands slipped under her borrowed shirt, stroked against her back and shoulders, then came around to
cup her breasts.

She forgot she was in a bullet-riddled car, forgot everything but the taste and touch of Daniel Brady as
he kissed her and caressed her.

When his fingers found her hardened nipples, she gave a glad little cry. And when he lifted her into his
lap, she straddled his body, pressing her throbbing center to the hard shaft of the erection she could feel
through the fabric of his slacks.

She made small, pleading sounds as she rocked against him, wanting more—needing more. They had
almost been killed. Now they were gloriously alive and in each other's arms.
The sound of a horn blaring made her head snap up. Headlights blinded her, and for a terrible moment,
her befuddled brain thought that the thugs had found them. Then an angry voice shouted, "Find
somewhere else for your nasty activities."

She laughed, partly in relief and partly in mortification. Daniel kept his gaze straight ahead as he set her
back in her own seat, started the engine, and lurched out of the parking space.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"About kissing me. Or getting caught?"

"It was a little more than kissing."

Always mindful of the truth, she answered, "It was what we both wanted."

His tight nod had her leaning back against the seat. When she slid him a sidewise look, she saw his
features were grim.

A few blocks later, he pulled into a gas station, parked in front of the office, and climbed out. She
wondered what he was doing as he stood talking to a man in gray coveralls. "Come on," he said when
he strode back, a satisfied look on his face. "I've rented us another car. I'll replace this one for you later."
His casual assurance was a reminder that she and Daniel Brady lived in different worlds.

But there was little time to dwell on their relative social status. As they climbed into their new vehicle, she
saw his jaw tighten.

"What's wrong?" she asked

He gave the ignition key a vicious twist, then backed quickly out of the parking space. "I'm wondering
how those guys found us."

"A phone tap?" she answered, because she'd been pondering the same subject.

"If that's the case—I shouldn't have suggested you make any calls."

She laid her hand over his. "You weren't thinking about phone taps, and neither was I."

"I should have been!" he said as he took an on-ramp to I70.

"Don't beat yourself up." She saw his expression hadn't changed and decided to take a wild guess.
"Um…is taking the blame a pattern for you?" she asked.

"No!"

Figuring she had nothing to lose, she said, "I think you're lying."

His head snapped toward her. "Is this how you get people to talk when you interview them?"

Shrugging, she answered, "As you pointed out earlier, sometimes the direct approach is the best."

He sighed. "Not necessarily with your editor."

"You think I overstepped the bounds?"

"Yeah, but I'm going to answer anyway, since I think you need to understand what kind of guy you've
gotten mixed up with. I'm not taking any blame I don't deserve. I screwed up in Afghanistan."

Her throat had gone dry, but she managed to ask, "What happened?"

She saw his hands tighten on the wheel.

"One of the reporters I was traveling with, Cindi White, got a hot tip that there were some villagers willing
to talk about an al Qaeda hideout in the mountains. Cindi always did have lousy judgment. I should have
vetoed the trip into the countryside. But I wanted the scoop as much as she did, so we teamed up with a
CNN guy, and the three of us hired a driver to take us to the village."

"And all of you came back alive!"

"By dumb luck. The road was mined. If we hadn't been stopped by bandits and turned back, we would
have gotten blown up."

She stared at him, processing the information. "So that's why you don't trust women reporters when it
comes to the hard stories. But I'm not Cindi White. My judgment is very good."

"The way I heard it, you put yourself in danger in Chicago."

"Who told you that?"

"Now who's being asked to reveal sources?"

Chapter Seven

M. J. held her breath. Somebody had told Daniel she'd taken dangerous chances on the job in Chicago.
Would he tell her who it was?

After a long pause, he answered, "Okay, it was my news editor, Hank Mooney."

She was torn between relief that Daniel had trusted her with the name—and outrage that Hank would
have sabotaged her like that.

"But he's Aunt Martha's friend. Why did he hire me if he thought I couldn't cut it?" she sputtered.

Daniel shrugged. "He knew your aunt wanted you back in Denver?"

She grimaced. If she'd known that was how she'd gotten the job, she would have turned it down.

The conversation halted abruptly as the car slowed. She looked up and saw they had left the highway
behind and turned into the parking lot of a motel. Daniel pulled up under the canopy.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice suddenly tighter than it had been—even during the previous
tense conversation.

"Getting us off the streets while we figure out our next move. Wait here, so the clerk doesn't see both of
us."
She gave him a small nod, then slouched down in her seat while he went inside. He returned five
minutes later, dangling a room key in his hand. "It's around the back. Where we have some privacy," he
said.

Probably he was talking about a place where they could settle down for a long discussion. But after the
passionate scene in the car a little while ago, she couldn't help imagining other activities as he pulled up
in front of room 72. When he fumbled with the key in the lock, she wondered if his nerves might be
jangling the way hers were.

They stepped into the room, and he turned to lock the door and set the chain. She told herself to calm
down. They'd just spent hours together in a bedroom. They'd gotten to know each other pretty well in a
very short time. But that was precisely the problem. Between their arrival at his father's house and their
escape, the stakes had gone up.

Or maybe she'd changed her priorities, she silently admitted, then told herself to be very careful.
Because no matter her feelings now, she still thought there was no way there could be anything
permanent between them.

Once again, she'd gotten mixed up with a man who was all wrong for her. It had happened while she
was in school at Berkeley. She'd been in love with Julian Tindall, and she'd dreamed of a partnership of
a marriage, with all the things she'd always longed for. A house in the country. Babies. But Julian hadn't
wanted any of that. He'd wanted a kind of working partnership where she'd make life comfortable for him
and entertain his political cronies at their town house in the city.

So she'd bailed out, and she was prepared to do it again, because she'd learned that you couldn't
depend on a guy for your happiness. You had to make your own life. In fact, if they got out of this alive,
the smart thing would be to quit her job and find something else—even if it meant giving up journalism.

"I'm thinking that the mob has someone working for them at the Star," Daniel said, breaking into her
thoughts.

"How about Arnold Findlay," she said promptly.

"No way."

"You paired us up, so he's been following my every move. In fact, he was waiting for me when I left the
building. And he's one of your dad's old friends, isn't he?"

Daniel nodded tightly. "Probably another mistake on my part."

"That's not what I meant at all." Swiftly she closed the distance between them, reached for him. "You
stepped into a big job, and you've done better than anyone could expect."

"Yeah, and I almost got both of us killed."

"Because of your integrity. Your honesty. Your determination to do the right thing." As she spoke, she
silently acknowledged for the first time how strong her feelings were for this man. Before she could stop
herself, she brought her lips to his—for a long, deep kiss.

***

When she finally drew back, Daniel's gaze burned down into M.J.'s.
"Integrity. Right. That's why I can't bring you to a motel room for the purpose of making love with you!
Because if we keep kissing like that, it's where we're headed, Mary Jane," he said, deliberately using the
name he knew she hated.

She gave him a look that told him she understood exactly what he was doing. Instead of getting
sidetracked, she answered, "I think it's my choice."

Cupping her hands around his head, she brought his mouth back to hers, and the passion that was
always simmering just below the surface flared again. She tasted of summer sweetness, of his heart's
desire. Of forbidden pleasure.

When he broke the kiss, they were both struggling for breath.

"We can't," he said, making one last protest. "What about your arm?"

"I think you've got the right medicine for what ails me." As she spoke, she covered his hand, pressing her
fingers against his.

All it took was that touch for a shock wave to go through him. She must have felt it, too, because her
hands went to his shoulders and hung on as though she needed to anchor herself to something solid.

He watched her eyes drift closed as he strung tiny kisses over her face and chin and neck. Watched her
back arch as he slowly began to undo the buttons of her shirt—still giving her time to draw back.

"Touch me," she murmured. "I need you to touch me." The request ended in a choked exclamation as he
cupped her breasts through the lacy bra he'd admired earlier, then found her nipples where they beaded
the delicate fabric.

He reached to unhook her bra, caressing her with his face, then his lips and teeth and tongue, drinking in
her exclamation of pleasure.

She swayed on her feet. "I can barely stand up," she breathed, her fingers digging more tightly into his
shoulders.

"Yeah." He brought her down to the surface of the bed, holding her, rocking her against him.

"Am I hurting you?" he asked when she made a strangled sound deep in her throat.

"No. You're making me feel a whole lot better."

He turned her onto her back so he could strip off the rest her clothing, kissing each bit of skin he
exposed.

"Lord, you are so beautiful," he exclaimed, his fingers trailing down her body, touching her breasts, her
hips, and the dark thatch of hair at the base of her legs, before finding the slick, hot core of her.

She gasped out her pleasure, then reached for his belt buckle as she whispered, "I want you naked,
too."

He started tearing at his shirt, and it took the two of them only moments to remove his unwanted
clothing.
Then he was pulling her into his arms, mesmerized by the feel of her naked body against his. She wasn't
a passive lover. Her hands were busy, stroking the length of his back and over his buttocks, then moving
to the front of him for caresses that drove him near madness.

"Don't," he choked out.

"Daniel…I need you now," she gasped, "Please, now."

"Yes!"

He rose over her, claiming her in one sure thrust. His eyes locked with hers as he began to move with
slow, gliding strokes that quickly became more urgent as she matched his rhythm.

He watched her face, gauged her readiness, sensing that her pleasure was building toward climax—then
felt her contract around him as she cried out in joy. Seconds later, he was there with her, his own shout
of pleasure mingling with hers.

He shifted his weight off her, but she kept her fingers knit with his as he lay back against the sheets.

Mindful of her arm, he gathered her carefully to him, and she snuggled trustingly against him.

"Daniel, thank you for that."

"Thank me after I figure out who's trying to kill us," he couldn't stop himself from saying.

M.J. shifted in the bed, staring at him, obviously cut by the sharp tone of his voice. "You just made love
to me—and it was as wonderful as I dreamed it would be. Are you trying to take that away?"

Chapter Eight

Daniel folded M.J. close. There was so much he wanted to say to her. But he didn't have the right—not
yet, not when he'd dragged her into danger with him.

Still, the wounded look in her eyes told him he'd hurt her. "You know that making love was spectacular.
But those guys are still out there looking for us—and we have to do something about it."

"Yes," she whispered. "I know."

He let himself hold her a little longer, then helped her on with her shirt. Crossing to the minibar, he
unlocked the door and gestured toward the contents. "Junk food always helps me think. What about
you?"

"Right, comfort food." As they settled down at the table with bottles of soda and sour cream and chive
potato chips, she said, "I was thinking about what to do. I have a contact in the police department.
Jackson Hunter."

He tipped his head to one side. "You said we couldn't trust them."

"Jackson's different. He's going to marry one of my oldest friends."

"You'd trust this guy with your life?"

"Yes," M.J. answered, waiting tensely to see if Daniel trusted her judgment.

He gestured toward the phone. "Make the call."

She reached for the receiver, her hand trembling as she dialed.

"Kelly," she said when her friend answered. "I'm in kind of a jam. And I'm hoping Detective Hunter can
help me out of it."

"I'll put him right on," Kelly answered.

When he came on the line, she quickly filled him in on what had been happening since—lunch time, she
realized. Although it seemed more like a lifetime ago.

***

On the way to the safe house where they agreed to meet Jackson, she and Daniel began working out a
sting operation—including making sure that key people at the Star knew they were hoping to make a
deal with the mob.

The plans firmed up quickly. An hour before dawn the next morning, they were at the municipal park in
Aurora, sitting in the front seat of their rented car, waiting for the show to begin.

M.J. knew she should be exhausted, but her adrenaline was pumping. And when another vehicle pulled
up a few yards from them, she felt every nerve in her body go taut. Although they'd worked this out
carefully, based on certain assumptions, things could still go wrong.

When her aunt's friend, Hank Mooney, stepped onto the blacktop, she struggled to hold back a small
gasp. Daniel had argued that the spy at the Star would show up, acting as if he wanted to help. And now
here was Hank—hurrying toward their car.

He cast a worried glance over his shoulder. "Thank God I'm in time," he called out. "You've got to get out
of here. Findlay knows where you are, and he's coming to get you."

"Findlay!" Daniel growled.

The word was hardly out of his mouth when another vehicle lurched into the parking lot—and the man in
question climbed out. When he saw Hank, he pulled a gun and fired at the news editor.

As Hank went down, all hell broke loose.

"Police! Freeze!" a voice rang out, as the cops hiding in the bushes surrounded Findlay. When he saw
he was outnumbered, he dropped his gun and raised his hands in the air.

At the edge of her vision, M.J. saw Jackson cuff the reporter. She'd hated working with him, but she
hadn't wanted to believe he was a spy planted at the Star by the mob.

Rushing past him, she knelt beside Hank and took his hand.

"I'm glad I was in time," Hank wheezed. "I suspected he was up to something. So I followed him down
the hall to the men's room, and I heard him talking on his cell phone…"

"Oh, Hank. You shouldn't have put yourself at risk. I'm so sorry you got hurt."
As she spoke, an ambulance roared up. Paramedics brushed her aside. In minutes she knew that
Hank's wound was not life-threatening.

"Findlay's already talking," Jackson told them. "He's willing to give us information in exchange for
protection. I expect it's only going to be a matter of hours before we find out who ordered your murder."

"Good." Daniel nodded in satisfaction.

They spent the next few hours at police headquarters—first with the anti-crime squad, then with
reporters from the Star, who were given an exclusive story that would make headlines the next morning.

Finally Daniel bundled M.J. into a cab, where she promptly fell asleep. She was vaguely aware that he
carried her into a house, then into a comfortable bedroom. But she was too out of it to ask where they
were.

Hours later, she woke up to find herself in a strange bed—lying beside Daniel, who was wearing only a
pair of jeans and sitting propped against the pillows.

She was still dressed in the borrowed shirt from yesterday, although she realized that Daniel had
removed her slacks and shoes.

"Where are we?" she asked.

"My bed."

"What are we doing here?"

"I'm holding you captive until you agree to marry me."

THE END