Yeah, that one hadn’t been about trust.

Unfortunately, she decided as she yanked on the door to her gym, he’d been the only one.

Rachel exchanged greetings with the receptionist in the too-tight sports bra, waved her ID card under the barcode reader, and, after scoring a bottled water from the vending machine, jumped on the first empty tread-mill she saw, the one with the broken distance meter. She groaned, but opted to use the clock on the opposite wall as her gauge. Not that she had anything pressing to do today. In fact, her life seemed incredibly up in the air-and she suspected it would remain that way until she figured out just what Roman was hiding from her.

And Lord knew when that would be.


A WEEK. ROMAN SNUGGLED closer to Rachel and lamented the fact that he’d only managed to stay away from her for a measly seven days. In his younger years, he would have cursed his lack of willpower. Now that he was older and wiser, he knew he was playing with fire, auburn-haired, green-eyed fire. Recklessness hadn’t gotten him to where he was in business. But taking chances with Rachel had invigorated his life to a level he hadn’t experienced in years.

“Was that your pager?”

Roman glanced at the bedside table. The annoying cube of technology was completely still and silent.

He rolled over and caught a momentary glimpse of panic in Rachel’s dark-green eyes.

Odd.

“Duty’s not calling just yet. Why?” he said, slipping his hands over her bare belly and inhaling the musky, sweaty scent of recent, delicious sex. “Anxious for me to go?”

She forced a smile. Forced. What was that about?

“Of course not. I guess you’ve been here a little longer than usual. Call me Pavlov’s dog, but the longer you’re here, the more I expect you to leave.”

He chuckled, but her instincts weren’t far off. He knew the pager would likely go off at any moment. His operation had been at a virtual standstill until last week, when new data had started to filter through. The Agency, the code name for the covert group of the highest level agents from various organizations under Homeland Security had sent word that a contact from a separate, even more secret division would soon provide needed information for his case. In all honesty, he’d had no business visiting Rachel on the eve of something so crucial to his mission. He should have been at the office, monitoring the situation firsthand rather than leaving the task to a subordinate or waiting for the contact to make himself known. But once this assignment was over, he knew the Agency would shuttle him out of New York at the speed of light.

His obligations to the mission kept him from revealing the true nature of his job to Rachel, so he couldn’t utter anything close to a goodbye. And for all he knew, this was their last night together-his last chance to imprint her silky skin, sweet scent and warm touch into his consciousness. He didn’t want to waste time anticipating the moment he’d have to leave-this time, perhaps, for good.

“You look nothing like anyone’s dog,” he said, his voice rough with renewed lust as his fingers inched over her breasts, eliciting a soft, seductive whimper from the back of her throat. God, the woman was like a drug.

“You always say the right things,” she whispered.

“And do the right things?”

He scooted the sheet out of his way and encircled one taut, brown nipple with his tongue. The heady saltiness of her flesh danced in his mouth like the bite of fine caviar.

She threaded her fingers into his hair, massaging his temples as he plied his mouth against her oh-so-sensitive breasts. He could make her come like this. He’d done it before, stirring her to madness when his own body wasn’t quite ready yet for another orgasm, but hers was primed and pliant.

Her breath came in shallow pants and he could hear her accelerated heartbeat in her chest. She writhed on the bed and he knew if he dipped a hand lower, he’d find her sex wet with readiness. If he timed his ministrations just right, one flick of her clit would send her over the edge. Then he could kiss her hard and swallow the sounds of her release.

With Rachel, he was no less than a hungry carnivore and no more than a man ensnared by an attraction more powerful than any other he’d ever encountered.

Unfortunately, just before he could slide his hand to that precise spot that would drive her wild, the bedside table buzzed with the sound of his pager. He should finish what he started, ignore the device and his responsibilities and obligations and give this woman what she so richly deserved, but on the second, longer vibration, Rachel stiffened.

The moment was lost.

Damn.

He curled away from her, grabbed the pager and pressed the button that lit the LCD.

The number he expected flashed across the screen, along with the code that told him he had no time to lose.

Rachel sat up, the sheet yanked tight across her chest.

“Looks like our fun is over,” she said.

He nodded. If she only knew.

CHAPTER THREE

“YOU’RE OUT EARLY.”

Mario looked up guiltily, his mind grasping for an explanation for Iris, who’d caught him in the act of working out the pain in his sacroiliac. Rachel had called him just after midnight and for whatever insane reason, he’d decided to forgo his comfortable bed and instead spent his night off in the backseat of his cab, parked around the corner from his usual spot near Iris’s coffee stand. He’d paid a night’s wages to his pal Sam to meet him before sunrise and wait outside Rachel’s building. This Roman Brach person had piqued his curiosity. He didn’t want to see Rachel hurt.

Unfortunately, pulling all-nighters in the backseat of a cramped vehicle wasn’t as kind to his old body as it used to be when he was on the force. Stakeouts had been his specialty back then. Now, they were literally a pain in the ass. And the back. And the neck.

“Morning,” he said by way of greeting, trying to look as nonchalant as any man who was hanging out on the sidewalk long before the sun came up over Manhattan. “How you doing?”

“I’ve been up since three baking, that’s how I’m doing.”

Even when she was grousing, Iris’s melodious, accented voice caused a thrill in the center of Mario’s belly. Suddenly, sleeping in his cramped backseat didn’t seem so bad.

“You smell great,” he said, inhaling the sugary scent of the fresh baked goods clinging to her worn pink sweater, the one she wore every morning until the sun came up, when she’d toss it over the back of the stool she kept near the cash register.

“I smell like lard.” She smoothed a hand over her thick, bunned black hair as she moved in the direction of her stand.

“More like fresh-baked dough sizzling with creamy butter and a dusting of cinnamon.”

She stopped, the rolling cooler she tugged behind her knocking against her heels.

“That was almost…poético.”

He knew little Spanish, but he got her point. Besides, he was fluent in Italian and the languages weren’t so different. Just like the cultures. Just like the people.

“I can wax with the best of them when it comes to food. Can I help you set up?”

She resumed her walk, and like the dog he was, he followed. The minute they reached the front of Rachel’s building, she immediately started unlocking the door with the impressive collection of keys she extracted from inside her blouse.

Oh, to be those keys.

Stop it, Mario! Have you lost all your respect for women?

He cleared his throat and looked away, suddenly feeling more like sixteen than sixty. He glanced up at what he thought was Rachel’s window. The lights were off. Or perhaps, on in the adjacent room only.

“Where’s your cab?” she asked, once she had the coffee brewing and had tossed him a roll of paper towels and some Windex to clean the front of her display case.

“Around the corner. I didn’t want any fares this morning.”

“You still on the clock?”

“Nah, it was my night off.”

She eyed him suspiciously but didn’t ask any more questions until she had her stand nearly ready for operation. He’d helped her set up once before, about three months ago when she’d sprained her wrist. She hadn’t accepted assistance easily, but Mario could be fairly stubborn when he wanted to be.

He could remember the first day he saw Iris again, the fateful morning three years ago when he’d picked Rachel Marlowe up outside a real estate agent’s office. She’d promised him a big tip if he drove her around so she could find a new place, but the twenty she’d slipped him that day in addition to her fare had been nothing compared to what she’d really started. The first question out of her mouth had been, “Where can a girl get a decent cup of real Cuban coffee around here?”

The answer had brought him to Iris, a woman he hadn’t seen in years.

The whole scenario-his attraction to Iris, his friendship with Rachel, his inability to keep his half-crooked Italian nose out of other people’s business-had led him right here after getting little sleep the night before, his adrenaline buzz spawned by an attraction he didn’t know if he could ignore much longer. And then there was his cockamamie plan to find out if Roman Brach was who he said he was.

Which Mario doubted. His cop instincts wailed that Brach wasn’t just some liar leading on his latest squeeze, or a married dude who wanted Rachel on the side. He’d had a friend at the precinct run the plates on the car that had picked Roman up yesterday and got nothing but one of the million car services available throughout town. And a quick search of the guy’s name scored nothing by way of priors. What little he’d told Rachel checked out.

Still, Mario had a strong feeling that this guy wasn’t on the up-and-up. And if the man turned out to be the worst kind of con, Mario would be there. He owed Rachel, since she’d been entirely responsible for Iris coming back into his life.