Rules of Re-engagement

His mouth flattened, and the light left his eyes. Her guilt deepened.

“Can we wait until after the election to talk about this?” she said softly. “When things have calmed down, when you leave office, maybe we can go away together, like normal people, away from the cameras, the press, the politics, bodyguards. We can talk about things.” Her eyes pleaded with his. “Why now? Why the rush?”

“There is no rush. I’ve wanted this for a long time, Olivia. Much too long.”

She took the ring off, her hands beginning to shake. She held it out to him. “It’s beautiful. Everything is beautiful, the restaurant, the music. You. But I’m not ready.”

He glared at the ring. Then he closed her hand so tightly around it she could feel the stones cut into her palm. His eyes burned into hers. “Keep it. Call it a thinking ring. Mull it over for a few days, and I’ll give you another when you say yes.” He smiled suddenly, falsely, reached for the bottle of wine, poured a glass for her and then himself. “Because I know you’re not going to turn me down, Olivia.”

She stared at the burgundy liquid still swirling in her glass. “I…I really think I should go, Grayson. I—”

“Come on, sweetheart, we’ve been together far too long for games like that. You’re here now, share a meal with me. Please.” He raised his glass. “And let’s have a drink—” His eyes narrowed slightly as he looked over the crystal rim. “To our future…and to your answer.” He sipped, his eyes locked on hers.

Olivia reached for her glass and took a deep swallow—too deep.

22:58 Romeo. Olivia Killinger’s apartment.

Manhattan. Tuesday, October 7.

Jacques lifted the edge of the drape slightly with the backs of his fingers and watched the black SUV come to a stop down in the street outside her building. The agent opened the door, and Olivia climbed out.

His heart thudded quietly in the dark.

Another vehicle, some distance behind the SUV, pulled into a parking space behind a sedan that had been stationed across from her building since he arrived. Changing of the guards—there was more than one outfit watching Olivia tonight.

Whoever was in that sedan would have seen him enter her building. They would not, however, know that he’d been heading for her apartment.

He watched the way the row of yellow lights under the portico caught auburn glints in Olivia’s hair. Then she disappeared. She’d be up any minute.

He dropped the drape, moved into position near the door, waited.

The elevator bell clanged softly down the hall. He timed it mentally, how long it would take her to walk down the hall. A key slotted into the lock, turned. His body tensed.

After sixteen years, he was going to hear her voice again.

Olivia paused. Something didn’t feel right. It was as if there’d been a subtle shift in the chemistry of the air. She leaned toward her door, listened, but could hear nothing. She frowned, shrugged it off. It was her; it had to be. Her whole world had shifted on its axis tonight and she was just feeling off-kilter, that’s all. She pushed the door open, stepped into her apartment and reached for the hall light switch—

A hand grabbed hers. She opened her mouth to scream, but another clamped down hard over her lips. She was twisted around sharply, dragged into the apartment. The door slammed shut—and all was dark. Panic punched her heart. She struggled maniacally, but the grip on her only tightened. Her attacker was male, huge and incredibly strong. His limbs felt like iron.

“It’s all right, Livie,” he whispered against her ear, “hold still, I’m not going to hurt you.”

She froze. Livie? Only one person in this world had ever called her that, and he was dead.

“Relax.” He spoke low, quietly, his breath warm against her neck. She could detect the scent of expensive aftershave. She could feel his coat was made of wool. “I’m not here to hurt you. I’m going to let you go. Promise me you won’t scream, okay?”

The man had an accent. French—not Canadian French, continental French. Yet there was something familiar about the timbre of the voice, the way it curled through her, stirring something dark and forbidden in the depths of her soul. Her chest constricted like a vise over her lungs. She couldn’t breathe. Her vision blurred.

“Did you hear me?” he whispered.

She nodded her head. He released her mouth cautiously, waiting to see if she would scream. She didn’t. He turned her slowly round to face him, and he flicked the light on.

And her heart stopped.

Chapter 2

23:01 Romeo. Olivia Killinger’s apartment.

Manhattan. Tuesday, October 7.

She looked up into his eyes—unmistakable eyes—ice gray and crystal clear. They sliced into her like a laser, flaying her open right down to her soul. No other eyes could do that to her. She’d never, ever seen eyes quite like his.

It was Jack.

Olivia tried to swallow, tried to get a grip on what she was seeing right here in her apartment—Jack Sauer. Alive.

But he was older, harder, colder—with a vicious scar that sliced down the left side of his face, along the sharp angle of his cheekbone, down to his mouth. Curving his lips into a subtle, permanent—if sexy—sneer. It made him look dangerous.

It reminded her he was a felon, wanted by the FBI for the murder of her cousin Elizabeth. It reminded her he was supposed to be dead—killed by a grizzly in the Alaskan wilderness north of Mount McKinley.

And he was blocking her door—the only way out.

Her heart began to race. Fear whispered in the periphery of her mind. Her cell phone was in the purse that she’d just dropped to the floor. She was trapped.

Questions scrambled wildly over each other, tangling in her mind until she could hold no one thread straight. If he was alive, why had he not contacted her once in sixteen years? Why was he back now? Where had he been all this time?

“Jack…?”

“Jacques,” he said. “It’s Jacques Sauvage now. Jack Sauer died a long time ago, Olivia.”

She stared at him. This was impossible. Moose hunters had discovered his wrecked camp in the trackless Alaskan wilderness. They’d alerted rangers who had found ID, his books, clothes, his shotgun, spent shells—evidence of a grizzly attack. DNA had proved the blood in the camp was his. Rangers had said it looked like he’d wounded the bear before being dragged off himself.

“God, it’s good to see you again,” he whispered darkly as he touched the small gold locket at her throat, his fingers brushing her skin.

A jolt of sexual recognition ripped through her body so sharp, so fierce, and so totally inappropriate, that she gasped, tried to jerk back. But he tightened his grip, held her close.

“You kept it,” he said, lifting the pendant. “All this time, and you still wear it.”

Her eyes began to water. It really was him. One touch and her body was alive, responding to his, whether her mind followed or not.

“Wh-where have you been?” Her voice came out in a hoarse whisper.

His eyes burned into her, devouring her, sucking in every little detail he’d missed over the years. She felt as if he was stripping her, slowly, layer by layer, down to the naked core. Her heart pounded, her breath became light, her vision narrowed. Hot and cold swirled with fear through her stomach and laced with an aliveness so sharp it scared her.

“Time has been good to you, Olivia,” he said, his voice low, slow, his accent so seductively foreign. His eyes followed the curve of her breasts under her cashmere sweater. “Very good.”

Olivia swallowed. This was a man accused of murder. She didn’t know him anymore. She had no idea what he was capable of, what he’d become.

“Talk to me, Jack. Why are you back, what happened, where have you been all this time? What are you doing here in my apartment?”