Alias

He was powerful without saying a word. His rare smiles made her stomach pitch, and Charlie adored him. That alone warned her that Jack Turner was in her life too much already. Yet Jack was so unlike Maurice. He respected her views, cared less what people thought and dressed more for comfort than style—his black hat was shaped with wear, his brown bomber jacket a relic from the fifties. He was rarely without either. Or his gun.

Like her, he played everything close to the vest, as if testing people. He didn’t play games. Didn’t waste time or words. If she succumbed to even a scrap of her feelings, he would take her heart. And she’d made too many mistakes to invite more trouble.

“You’re thinking too hard, I can tell,” he said softly, his gaze riveted to her.

His gentle tone rippled over her skin, making it tighten. “Yeah, I know.” She shifted, hitched her bag on her shoulder, stuck her hands in her jacket pockets. “I have a lot on my mind.” Before he could lend those big shoulders to lean on she said, “Go to your room, Jack. You must be tired, too. I’m fine.”

He frowned, his gaze scouring her features as if he could see into her soul. It unnerved the hell out of her.

“You sure? You haven’t been still for two seconds since you got out of that car.”

She pushed her fingers into her short layered hair, unknowingly making herself look a little wilder. “Yeah, but it’s nothing that some sleep won’t cure.”

He didn’t look satisfied, yet he took her room key, opening the door and pushing it wide then leaning against the doorjamb.

Across the parking lot, the Sleep Easy neon sign sputtered and flashed, splashing blue light over him. He looked her over, long and slow, the single glance telling her he knew what she looked like naked. Darcy’s insides clenched with bubbling need, her nerve endings raw near him, her body too aware of his. Desire spiraled and she closed her eyes, wishing him away, wishing he’d come to her.

She felt suddenly lost. Disconnected to everything.

No Rainy.

No freedom.

No solutions.

She raked her fingers through her hair again and gripped the back of her neck. Her eyes burned.

Damn, damn, damn.

“Piper?”

She slammed her eyes shut, craving to hear her own name. Darcy, she wanted to shout at him. I’m Darcy Allen. I’m here, behind all these disguises and lies, I’m here!

Then he was there. Up close. She didn’t have to look to know. She could feel him, warm and male. And oh, he smelled good. Hunger flushed through her body, begging for a man’s touch, to be a woman and not someone else’s savior when she couldn’t even be her own.

She opened her eyes, snared by the blue patience in his.

“I’m down there.” He gestured to the long corridor of street-front rooms.

She didn’t look. That made him too accessible—and tonight she was so on edge, she could feel it scraping up her spine and dancing on her last nerve.

She moved into the room, pulled the key from the lock and faced him.

He stayed where he was, a gentleman despite his jagged edges.

“Thanks for watching my back, cowboy,” she said.

“Anytime.” No pushing, no prying, just accepting as he stepped back. She closed the door. He didn’t leave till she locked it behind herself.

Darcy sighed, more with relief that she hadn’t done something stupid than at the prospect of a hot shower and some rest.

She dropped her bags and headed straight for the bath.

For nearly a half hour, she let the hot spray of the shower beat down on her body, washing away the tension in her muscles. With her hands braced on the wall, head down, she forgot about Mary Jo, about Eli Archer, and let her mind wander.

It was a mistake.

Her thoughts went immediately back to Rainy. The last time she’d seen her. In a coffin. Knowing Rainy was gone forever. Having to face it. Her heart broke all over again, and she relented to her pain, sinking to the floor of the stall and sobbing like a baby.

She missed Rainy. She missed her Athena sisters. And she felt very alone and worn.

Rainy had been the best, leading the Cassandra squad when they were young, coaching them, pushing them to be stronger, better. Without Rainy, the chain felt broken. Darcy didn’t have many people in her life, even fewer who knew who she really was, but Alex, Josie, Tory, Kayla and Samantha were the people she could count on in a crunch. They were bound together by more than an oath to each other. They were bound by the trials of Athena.

Pushing her hair off her face, she tipped her head back. Her heart felt like a wounded prisoner in her chest. Captured and hurting.

Turmoil boiled inside her and exploded.

She smacked the tile floor.

She wanted her life back, dammit! She wanted to hear her name spoken aloud, to stop being suspicious of everyone new in her life and constantly looking over her shoulder. She wanted to tell the Cassandras the whole truth about her marriage and wash away the shame of her weakness. She deserved better.

Charlie deserved better. Yet her own fear of losing her son kept her from finding a way to take her life back with both hands. It was by skill, caution and a hell of a lot of luck that Maurice hadn’t found her yet. There was no telling what he’d do if he did. He had it in him to kill her. She’d seen that when he put a knife to her pregnant belly and threatened to kill his own child if she didn’t behave. For the sake of her unborn child, she’d backed down then, smothering the urge to hit her husband.

Charlie was nearly four now, a happy, lively little boy and her entire world. He was the reason she’d planned her escape from Maurice’s estate. Charlie was the reason she had bitten back her pride and called Rainy for help.

Her throat tightened, knotting like old rope.

I can’t live like this anymore. With this crippling fear. Because without her freedom, she was just a shadow hiding in Piper Daniel’s clothes.

Maurice Steele strolled through his home, inspecting the staff’s work, then setting the alarms for the night. He was reluctant to go to bed just yet, with the house feeling extraordinarily empty. He supposed he should have gotten used to it, and a starlet in his bed would have eased his solitude, but he wasn’t in the mood. Besides, he didn’t want to look at some well-used wanna-be in the morning.

He tightened the sash of his silk robe, walking into his library, then to his desk. He collected his papers, sliding them into his briefcase and setting it precisely to the right of his desk before pouring himself a brandy. He lit the warmer and set the snifter in the holder on its side, counting off the seconds toward perfection. The TV droned in the background.

He lowered himself onto the sofa, propping his feet on the table, and supposed that he was anxious for the reviews of his latest production. He’d have to wait. He had a fortune riding on it, and though he was certain it was spectacular, critics had their heads up their asses most of the time and rarely understood the entertainment potential of an action-spy thriller.

He sipped, holding the brown liquor in his mouth for a moment before swallowing. He rarely drank more than one and never drank in public. Some people speculated that he was a recovering alcoholic because no one saw him drink liquor. Maurice never responded to the gossip. It was his personal feeling that too much explanation gave them more to speculate about, and too much drink took away the edge on the brain, the command he had of deals and productions, on or off the set.

He was leaning forward for the TV remote to turn off the set when the news anchor, relaying the recap of lead stories for the past few weeks, said one word that made his attention snap to the screen.

Athena.

He turned up the volume and listened.

Attorney Lorraine Miller Carrington was dead, a car crash. Police didn’t suspect the death of the Harvard alumni attorney was more than an accident, yet gave no significant details. Maurice’s eyes narrowed when they flashed a picture of “Rainy,” as his wife used to call her. A pretty thing. The last time Maurice had seen her was at his wedding. They showed pictures of her in life, then one in death.

A film clip of the funeral appeared, but he didn’t hear the commentary. He only saw a group of women standing outside the church. His attention focused on one, a little boy clasped in her arms. He watched, his heartbeat gaining speed. She didn’t turn toward the camera, in fact, as soon as she spotted the camera she avoided it and left immediately. But Maurice had already recognized the woman’s delicate profile. Her stance.

Darcy.