Naked In His Arms. Sandra Marton

      “Okay,” he snapped. “If you have questions, ask them fast.”

      If she had questions? She really was going to laugh any minute now…or pass out at this madman’s feet.

      How come he didn’t look like a madman? If she’d seen him on the street, she wouldn’t have given him a second glance.

      What a lie, Cara. You know damned well that you would.

      What woman wouldn’t look at a man like this? He was tall, well over six feet. His hair was an inky black. His eyes were the deep green of a northern sea, his cheekbones so high they were like slashes in his hard, handsome face.

      And his body.

      Long. Lean. Taut with muscle….

      “Do you like what you see, baby?”

      Her eyes flew to his. He was smiling, a knowing smile that made heat bloom in her cheeks.

      “I want to be sure I know what you look like,” she said coolly, despite the slamming of her heart against her ribs, “so I can give the police an accurate description.”

      “Ah, Cara,” he said softly, “that’s not very bright.” His smile tilted, became something that chilled her to the marrow of her bones. “If I were here to—how shall I put this? To do you harm, your sad little threat would make me think twice about leaving you alive.” His smile faded. “I asked you if you had questions. If you do, you’re running out of time to ask them.”

      She swallowed hard in an attempt to bring saliva into her dry-as-cotton mouth.

      “You said you don’t work for—for this man you think I know. Then, who do you work for?”

      “The government.”

      She took a step back. “I told the FBI I don’t want anything to do with—”

      She clamped her lips together, but it was too late. Another of those feral smiles spread over his lips.

      “Now, isn’t that interesting?” he said softly. “You don’t know Tony G but you’ve been talking with the FBI.”

      What was that old saying? The best defense was a good offense. Ignoring what he’d just said was a start.

      “If you work for the government, let me see some proof.”

      “Like what? A badge? A photo ID?” His smile twisted. “A letter from J. Edgar Hoover?”

      “Hoover’s dead.”

      “Yeah, and guys like me would be, too, if we went around carrying ID. You’re just going to have to take my word for it. I don’t work for the FBI. I’m with a government agency that doesn’t advertise.”