Brief Encounters. Suzanne Forster

help us. And, I swear to you, Lynne doesn’t know any more about this than I do.”

      “Speaking of Ms. Carmichael, where is she?”

      “She’s with a designer. A big designer, who might be interested in sponsoring our line under his label. This could be the break of a lifetime.”

      “That explains what she’s doing. Now, where is she doing it?”

      Swan shifted and felt cool air swirling around inside her skirt. It was quite a draft. “I don’t know,” she said. It wasn’t exactly a lie. “They’re on a yacht somewhere on the high seas.”

      “Ever hear of obstruction of justice?”

      “I don’t know where she is!” Was her skirt still hiked up? Swan twisted around to look and nearly swooned as the blood rushed out of her head. God, wasn’t bladder urgency enough? Gaines caught her elbow to steady her. His grasp on her bare arm was firm, though not overly so. But his fingers were hot and strong, and she almost wished he would do something more with them. She didn’t want to think what exactly, but something.

      “Take it easy,” he said.

      Swan released a breath that helped clear her head a bit. “I’m fine,” she said, but it sounded as hollow as she felt. “Just tell me there’re no more surprises. I don’t think I can take any more tonight.”

      She looked up at him, saw his expression and groaned inwardly.

      “I’ve got one more,” he said, “and you aren’t going to like it.”

      4

      “MS. MCKENNA! Come back here!”

      Rob Gaines belted out the command as Swan brushed past him and walked into the adjoining bedroom. She needed some space to clear her head and she needed it now. In less than twenty minutes he’d accused her of horrendous crimes and strip-searched her in a way that gave new meaning to the term.

      What was next? Stop or I’ll shoot?

      “That was not a request,” Gaines barked. “Stop or I’ll—”

      Swan stopped. Oh, yes, she did. She stopped so suddenly she tilted forward like a ski jumper about to go off the ramp.

      “I think we need to establish some ground rules,” he said. “First, turn around, and second, look deeply into my eyes and listen carefully to every word I say—as carefully as you’ve ever listened to anything in your life, because compared to this, none of that other BS matters.”

      Swan wanted to tell him that his superior tone was not necessary but, of course, she didn’t. She turned, looked straight into his glacial-blue eyes, and felt as if her breath had been flash-frozen in her chest. If time travel were possible, this guy had been sent from the Ice Age. Even his impossibly long eyelashes did nothing to warm the chill.

      “Rule number one,” he said, “since I’m the one with the badge and the gun, I’m in charge here. Rule number two, since you’re the one about to be wearing the handcuffs again, you’re not in charge. You’re the suspect. And rule number three, don’t ever walk away from the guy with the gun because he might think you’re trying to escape, and if he did think that, he would have to do everything in his power to stop you—and that would not be good.”

      Not good for whom, she thought, mustering up some defiance. He’d probably love to pull out that big old six-shooter of his and blast away.

      “Is that all?” she asked.

      “Rule number four, you’re in a shitload of trouble, Ms. McKenna. It wouldn’t be an exaggeration to say that your very life is in my hands, so if I were you, I’d be very nice to my hands.”

      Swan was drawn like a magnet to the body parts he mentioned, and they were exactly the kind of hands she loved on a man. Hard from use, brown from the sun, with strong, tapered fingers and a palm plenty wide enough to handle a football. Veins could be seen running down from his forearm, and the feathering of hair above his knuckles matched the sooty black of his lashes.

      She was obsessing over the hands of a man who was a threat to her very existence. How normal was that? For that matter, how normal was anything that had happened in the past twenty-four hours? Maybe the threat he posed had something to do with it. He’d just told her that he held her life in his hands and the idea of being that vulnerable to a man, especially this man—

      “Are we clear on the rules?” he asked.

      “You’re the guy with the gun.” She gave him a tight nod. What else could she do? “And, by the way, what is this gun fixation of yours? You know what guns are, don’t you? Compensation for an inadequate penis.”

      He shot a look at her that questioned her will to live. “Maybe we should talk about your penis fixation,” he said. “And while we’re at it, I don’t feel the slightest bit inadequate.”

      That was no big surprise, but it brought a sting of awareness to her cheeks anyway. She also felt a thrust of something deeper, quicker and significantly hotter in her belly. She had to get a grip.

      “Back to business,” he said. “I’m giving you a choice, which is more than most felony suspects get. Either you agree to help us catch Long’s accomplice or you and Art can have adjoining cells. Which is it going to be?”

      Swan went icy cold. “That’s a choice? Everything Lynne and I have worked for is about to be destroyed, and you want me to pitch in and help so you and that other bully with a badge can use our show as a sting operation to catch someone you can’t catch yourself!”

      “Yeah, that about sums it up.”

      He actually seemed pleased with her assessment, and that was the last straw for Swan. She slumped down on the edge of the bed and covered her face with her hands. “This is not happening,” she whispered. If she kept her eyes closed long enough and said the words passionately enough, maybe this nightmare would go away. And it would take Rob Gaines with it.

      Gaines sat down next to her. His voice took on an explanatory tone, along with a hint of compassion.

      “Listen,” he said, “you’re going to be dragged into this mess whether you agree to help us or not. Now I know that stinks, but that’s just the way it is.”

      Swan glanced up at him. “What do you mean?”

      “Art Long is smart. He’s been conning people for years but he’s not this smart. He didn’t put this plan into action by himself. Large amounts of money have been electronically transferred, and according to the bank examiners who tipped us, he doesn’t have the authority to do that on his own. Long hasn’t confessed to having an accomplice, but he had help from someone inside.”

      “Inside the bank? How am I supposed to help you with that? Lynne and I don’t know anyone at the bank besides Art.”

      “That’s what you claim, but someone opened an account under Lynne’s name and has been electronically transferring funds into that account. This same someone then issued a cashier’s check for those funds in the name of Lynne Carmichael—a check that you picked up after forging Lynne’s name. And now Lynne has conveniently disappeared.”

      “Well, when you put it like that, of course we look guilty.” She pressed two fingers to her temple and hit exactly the spot where it was beginning to throb. “But Lynne hasn’t conveniently disappeared. She’s away on legitimate business, and I know nothing about any electronic transfers.” Frowning, she said, “What did you mean that I would be dragged into this whether I help you or not?”

      Gaines rose and slipped his hands into the pockets of his charcoal slacks. She was reminded of the man in the gray flannel suit, except for one or two discrepancies—the rakish dark hair and disreputable blue eyes. There were con men in every profession, she reminded herself.

      “You’re a marked woman, Ms. McKenna. You say you’re not in on this with Art Long, and if that’s true, then