Forged In Desire. Brenda Jackson

yourself. But I still don’t see why you think you need to explain my presence to Claudine or anyone else. Do you know the woman? Did she come referred by someone you know?”

      “No, but my business cards are everywhere and I run ads in several bridal magazines. She was one of several people who left messages while I was sequestered. That was before all this drama began with Erickson. The only reason I was able to take her on as a client and not some of the others was because she won’t need her wedding gown until September. The others either wanted them earlier or they wanted me to make the bridesmaid dresses as well. So if you’re thinking she’s connected to anything, then—”

      “I didn’t say that she was.”

      Her phone rang, and Margo immediately jerked at the sound. She looked over at Striker, and he nodded, pulling out his phone as well. She then pulled hers out of the pocket of her skirt and expressed a sigh of relief when she saw the number. Smiling, she said, “It’s Uncle Frazier.”

      As if he hadn’t heard her, he hit a number. She glared at him. “This is a private call, Striker.”

      He shrugged. “Not yet it’s not.” He pointed his head toward the ringing phone she still held in her hand. “Aren’t you going to answer that?”

      She glared at him but quickly answered. “Good morning, Uncle Frazier.”

      “Margo! You okay? What took you so long to answer the phone?”

      She peered over at Striker when she said, “I was preoccupied in the kitchen. What’s up?” She was glad Striker clicked off the call and placed his phone back in his pocket.

      “I was just checking on you. How are you faring with Striker?”

      Deciding she definitely needed privacy to answer that one, she was leaving the kitchen when Striker called out, “Only go where I can see you.”

      She stiffened at Striker’s order and moved across the room to stand with her back to him. “I don’t know how long I can handle him here,” she whispered to her uncle. “He’s breathing down my neck and watching my every move.” Keeping me awake at night remembering how good he looks in his suit with those muscular shoulders and broad chest.

      She heard Striker’s phone ring and refused to turn around. “Margo, we covered all that yesterday,” her uncle was saying. “Striker’s job is to keep you alive, and before I left yesterday you said you understood that.”

      “I do, but—”

      Suddenly she felt heat directly behind her and swung around to find Striker standing right there, an intense look on his face. She immediately knew something was wrong. “Uncle Frazier, I’ll call you back.”

      Margo clicked off the phone. “Striker, what is it? What’s wrong?”

      “The assassin has struck again.”

      Her heart nearly stopped. “B-but it hasn’t been seventy-two hours since the last time,” she said, feeling weak in the knees.

      “Apparently, he’s decided to play by a different set of rules.”

      * * *

      WITH HANDS CUFFED behind his back and chains on both of his legs, Murphy Erickson was led into the room by armed guards. He looked at the three men standing around the room. Federal agents. Men he despised and who probably despised him just as much. He had eluded them for years and had brought some of their fellow agents into his network, paying them well for their treachery.

      The feds thought capturing him and putting him behind bars would be the end of it. Unfortunately, they’d found out it wasn’t—the last laugh would be his. He was showing them, shoving it in their faces quite nicely, that in jail or out he was still calling the shots. His loyal comrades were out there carrying out his orders.

      “Unless you’re here to tell me I’ll be set free in a few hours, I have nothing to say to you bastards,” he said, knowing his words did more than piss them off.

      “Sit down, Erickson,” one of the men ordered, and before he could tell the man to go to hell, he was shoved into a chair by one of the guards.

      The federal agent who had ordered him to sit down leaned over the table, facing him. “You’re getting on our last nerve, Erickson.”

      Erickson chuckled. “All of you can go fuck yourselves and your damn nerves.”

      “Call off your assassin.”

      “Not until I’m free. Like I said, everyone in that courtroom that day will die unless I walk out of here. And please don’t ask me to give a damn about the families of the victims because I don’t give a fuck about anyone but myself. Remember that. And, by the way, since it seems you guys are taking your time about giving me my freedom, the every-seventy-two-hours rule is no longer in effect. He can kill whenever he feels like it.”

      “You’re a low-down, dirty bastard,” one of the agents said, losing his cool.

      “Your mama,” Erickson tossed back and then added, “How is the lovely lady, Agent Flynn? I understand she likes living in Florida.”

      At the surprised look on the agent’s face, Erickson laughed. “That’s right. I know about all of you and your families. Don’t tempt me to add their names to my hit list. I suggest you work out a deal. I won’t go along with anything where I don’t walk out of here a free man. Until then, the killings will continue.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

      “I THOUGHT YOU weren’t hungry,” Striker said, watching Margo dig into the breakfast that had been delivered. It was a good thing he’d ordered as much as he had.

      “I wasn’t at the time, but I have a tendency to overeat whenever I’m nervous.”

      In that case, considering her size and curvaceous figure, she must not get nervous too often, he thought. “You have no reason to be nervous, Margo. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

      That call from Stonewall only verified what he’d assumed. The assassin wasn’t an amateur. They were definitely dealing with someone who knew how to stay one step ahead of the law. So far none of the security cameras mounted around the crime scenes had picked up images of the killer. It made one wonder how the assassin knew when and where to make his hit. The feds weren’t happy they hadn’t captured the man, and the local authorities were dealing with a city on the edge of chaos.

      “He asked me out.”

      Striker raised a brow. “Excuse me?”

      She shrugged her shoulders. “I said he asked me out. Carl Palmer.”

      Carl Palmer had been the assassin’s latest victim. Another juror. Striker frowned. “The news reports said he was married.”

      She released a deep breath. “He was...which is why I wouldn’t go out with him, although he claimed he was getting a divorce. Men lie a lot.”

      Had she caught her Scotty lying? “Some do and some don’t.”

      She pushed the empty plate aside. “And some like to be evasive.”

      Did she think that was what he was doing because he refused to tell her everything she wanted to know? She had the right to think whatever she liked because it wouldn’t change a thing with him. He looked at his watch. “You sure you’re still up for Claudine’s visit this morning?”

      “Yes, now more than ever. I need to stay busy and keep my mind occupied.”

      He understood. An idle mind was not good. Five people were dead and two of them had been jurors. How many others would lose their lives before the assassin was apprehended? “You want some more?” he asked, indicating her clean plate and the food he still had on his.

      She gave him a wry smile. “I thought you were the one who liked eating a big