The Tycoon's Desire: Under the Tycoon's Protection / Tycoon Meets Texan! / The Greek Tycoon's Virgin Mistress

“Don’t patronize me.”

“Just add it to my tab. I seem to be running a long one with you.”

She gave him a haughty look. “That’s funny, because I recall stopping your credit line a long time ago.”

“Open the door.” He nodded at the lock, then looked around. It was broad daylight, not even noon, but he didn’t like standing out here with her. They made an easy target. She hadn’t gotten any threats since he’d moved in with her, but he knew better than to let his guard down.

After she unlocked the door, he disengaged the alarm system by pressing a few buttons on the box near the door. Then he took a moment to glance through her mail.

The lingerie catalog gave him a moment’s pause as he wondered whether she actually wore stuff similar to the skimpy satin bra and undies on the cover.

Tossing the catalog aside, he stopped at a legalsized white envelope with no return address. He turned it over and, noticing nothing on the back, slid his finger under the flap to tear it open.

“That’s my mail!” Allison stormed back over to him from the table where she’d just set down her gym bag. “And don’t tell me that you open your clients’ mail, too!”

He blocked her attempt to grab the envelope. “In fact, sometimes I do. When the job calls for it.”

He slid the contents from the envelope and his blood ran cold. Allison gasped beside him.

There were three photographs of Allison going about her business. The photos were somewhat grainy, computer-generated reproductions taken from a distance, but nevertheless the subject was unmistakable.

Angling himself away from her, he let his eyes scan the contents of the plain white sheet of paper that had fallen out with the photos. The three lines of typed text chilled him:

Just so you know Im watchin. I can take you out anytime. If you wanna live, quit your job and go vacation on daddy’s money.

Allison made a grab for the material in his hand, but he held up his arm. “What is it?” she demanded.

He debated for a second, but realized he’d have no peace until she found out, as much as he wanted to shield her. He wanted to kill the bastard who was threatening her. Tipping the contents of the envelope toward her, he said, “Take a look.”

He watched her face blanch and cursed under his breath. “Don’t touch anything. I’m calling the police and having them test all the contents of the envelope for fingerprints.”

She nodded, uncharacteristically silent.

“Do you recognize when the photos were taken?”

“Two or three weeks ago, I think.” She looked up at him and her expression conveyed thinly veiled distress. “That first shot was taken in front of the dry cleaners. My car is over on the far left, which is where I think I parked it when I couldn’t find a closer spot. It looks as if the photo was taken from the parking lot across the street.”

“Okay, and do you recognize the two others?”

“I think so. I’m wearing something different, but I think those were taken days apart.”

He nodded and carefully set down the offending images and sheet of paper. “Good. That’ll give the police a good lead about where to start asking questions to see if anyone remembers anything, though I doubt anyone will.”

She raked a hand through her hair, the glossy locks cascading around her face. “This is ridiculous. I’m used to having my photo taken from time to time, but it’s always been reporters flashing bulbs in my face at a press conference or at a charity ball.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Quite the popular little heiress prosecutor, aren’t we?”

“Kiss my millionaire fanny, Rafferty.”

He laughed, but he privately admitted the joke was on him: he’d certainly given more than a passing thought to kissing her all over.

But, he was glad to see his comment had had its intended effect and there was some fire back in her eyes. That white-faced expression she’d been wearing was unlike her. And while he wanted her to appreciate the danger she could be in, he also didn’t want this crazy nut to cow her and mark her for life.

She frowned. “His English skills aren’t very good, are they?”

“Yeah, which does point to our man Taylor or, more precisely, one of his gang members who isn’t behind bars.”

“Hmm. Maybe.” She looked unconvinced. “Or it could just be someone trying to throw us off the scent and point the finger elsewhere.”

“What makes you think that?” He had his own theory in that regard, but he was interested in hearing hers.

She crossed her arms. “If one of Taylor’s pals wanted me dead, I’d probably already be gone—or, at least, they wouldn’t have bothered with a note.”

He nodded. She’d obviously learned a few things at the DA’s Office. He just wasn’t sure he liked her being acquainted with the seedier side of life. Sure, he’d often made fun of her diamond-studded-slipper upbringing, but he knew better than most just how bad the alternative could be.

“The person who is doing this obviously wants to scare me,” Allison mused, “but so far he’s hung back from doing more than threaten. So, again, we have a profile that might fit better with Kendall, who’s a white-collar criminal.”

“You know something, petunia?”

“What?” Her chin came up, as if expecting a sarcastic remark.

“You took the words right out of my mouth.”

Her shoulders relaxed a little. “That’s probably the highest compliment in your book.”

Chapter Five

Allison didn’t know why she’d let Connor talk her into spending the weekend at his getaway cottage in the Berkshires, west of Boston. Somehow she’d let him convince her that she needed the change of scene.

She sat in the living room, her files around her, having spent the afternoon working on her brief in response to Kendall’s attorney’s pre-trial motion to exclude certain evidence from being presented to the jury.

She could hear Connor moving around in the kitchen. After they’d gone into town for groceries, he’d gone to work on his computer. There were four of them in the den, she had discovered, plus some hitech computer accessories.

She was thankful that the past week had been less eventful than last Saturday. After they’d discovered the anonymous note in her mailbox, the rest of the day had been spent talking to the police that Connor had summoned to the townhouse. She’d spent more than an hour being grilled, the dull throbbing at her temples a testimony to the thoroughness of their questioning.

The police had since informed them that the photographs and note hadn’t turned up any fingerprints other than Connor’s, though the envelope that they had come in had had many different prints, including probably that of her mailman. None of the shop owners or anyone else near the locations where the photographs had been taken had remembered anything suspicious.

Yet, despite the uneventfulness of the week, she hadn’t felt relaxed. Whereas before she’d only thought someone might be watching her, the photographs confirmed that to be the case.

It was a spooky and unsettlingly thought. She now found herself turning around at odd moments, expecting to catch someone watching her.

So, at the end of the week, when Connor had argued she could work just as well at his country house as she could at the townhouse, she hadn’t disagreed too strenuously. In fact, she admitted to herself, having him around made her feel safe. Perhaps it was the photos and note that had done it, but she no longer had the same desire to get rid of him.

And going to Connor’s place was a distraction. When they’d arrived that morning, she’d discovered that Connor’s “getaway cottage” was a two-story, wood-frame structure nestled in the woods, well back from the road. It boasted four bedrooms, two baths, a spacious kitchen, a living room, dining room, den, deck and, for good measure, a hot tub.

She tried hard not to think about the hot tub—and tried harder still not to think about the fact that her bedroom was next to his.

She looked through the sliding-glass doors leading to the outdoor wooden deck and watched Connor fire up the barbecue grill. Beside him, plates held some steaks and potatoes, ready for grilling.