The Tycoon's Desire. Anna DePalo

looked at her watch. Six-thirty. Where was he? His meeting with out-of-town clients must be running late.

      She wondered whether she had time to run out before he got back. Most of the groceries she needed could wait for tomorrow, but she’d discovered an hour ago that she was a few ingredients short for the pie she’d been planning to make for dessert.

      She glanced at her watch again and bit her lip. She could dash out to the supermarket and be back in no time. Connor wouldn’t even have to know.

      Her mind made up, she grabbed a sheet of paper and scribbled a note just in case Connor got back before she did: “Out to the supermarket. Back soon.” She used tape to attach the note to the mirror by the front door, then grabbed her purse.

      As she’d thought, it took her no time at all to get to the supermarket and through the check-out line. The rain meant the store was more empty than usual.

      When she got outside again, the rain had stopped, but the overcast sky and fog made everything look dreary and dark.

      She started across the parking lot to her car, juggling her two bags and purse.

      Spotting her car, she noticed again that the new paint job—which had cost a mint—had fortunately covered up the graffiti that had been spray-painted several weeks ago.

      Something looked strange however. Drawing closer, she realized the back of the car was tilting downward.

      Darn. Had she gotten a flat?

      Dropping her bags on the ground, she walked between her car and the one parked next to it and bent to inspect her back tire.

      A clean slice through the rubber.

      Her heart began to thud.

      Someone had slashed her tire.

      She heard a car coming toward her and automatically straightened up.

      A gunshot sounded, followed quickly by another. She ducked just as the windshield of her car cracked and splintered.

      Her mind raced frantically as she tried to figure a way out of the situation. Whoever had fired the bullets had sped past her, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be turning his car around for another pass.

      She straightened up a little, risking a glance over her car to try to get a look at the color and model of car that the gunman was driving, but didn’t see anything.

      “Help! Someone call the police!” she screamed even as she dug into her purse for her cell phone.

      At the sound of feet pounding the pavement, she crouched down.

      “Allison! For God’s sake, stay down!”

      It was Connor’s voice shouting to her as he seemed to run past, even as she heard a car speed out of the parking lot with a shriek of tires.

      “Dammit!” Connor said.

      He cursed some more as Allison heard him coming back toward her.

      She straightened, pushing her hair out of her face, and stepped from between the parked cars.

      “I tried to get a shot at him, but he was too far away,” Connor said, breathing heavily.

      Her eyes shot downward and she gaped as she noticed the gun that Connor grasped in his hand. Where had that come from?

      When her gaze moved upward again, she focused for the first time on the expression on Connor’s face.

      He looked mad as hell.

      Chapter Seven

      While they drove back to the townhouse, Connor kept a grip on his temper. But only because he had to.

      They’d just finished talking to the police, who’d recovered a couple of unusual-looking bullets—or slugs, in police lingo—from the scene around the parking lot. With any luck, the police would have a theory soon on the caliber and model of gun that the perpetrator had probably used in the shooting.

      Unfortunately, the parking lot—at least the part around Allison’s car—had been empty of people at the time of the shooting, probably due in no small part to the bad weather. Of the two people whom the police had interviewed who had seen the perp’s car speed away, one had sworn the car was gray while the other had called it blue.

      In any case, Connor doubted that the gunman was stupid enough to use a vehicle with plates that could be easily traced back to him, though he’d make sure that the police and his own people nevertheless looked into it.

      And that was the other thing: the profile of Allison’s unknown harasser that he and Allison had constructed could be thrown out the window.

      The assailant had now done more than merely threaten and vandalize property. He’d shown he was desperate enough to try a direct attack on Allison. Not only that, but, chillingly, he’d apparently slashed Allison’s tire before the shooting in order to make it hard for her to flee by car.

      Still, Connor wasn’t convinced that the signs pointed to a member of Taylor’s gang rather than a white-collar criminal such as Kendall. Allison’s assailant had proved—fortunately—not to have very good aim. While it was possible that the incident in the parking lot had been intended as a gang-inspired drive-by shooting, the fact that the job had been so botched raised questions in Connor’s mind.

      The minute he’d gotten back to the townhouse and found the note Allison had left behind, he’d taken off after her, trying to reach her on her cell phone and not succeeding. When he’d gotten to the parking lot, he’d pulled up right at the curb in front of the supermarket. He’d been getting out of his car when he’d heard the first shot ring out. Icy fear had wrapped itself around his heart as he’d reached for his own gun.

      He gave a quick glance at Allison sitting in the passenger seat next to him. She sat looking straight ahead, still appearing shaken by what had transpired in the last couple of hours.

      Silence reigned between them until they got into the townhouse. At which point, Connor decided it was time to get some answers. “I have a distinct memory of telling you to stay put,” he said tightly. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but running out to the supermarket does not count as staying put.”

      “You were delayed,” she responded, irritation lacing her voice. “And, anyway, I refuse to be a prisoner in my own home.”

      “Right,” he said harshly as he followed her into the living room. “It appears you’d rather be dead.”

      She stopped and whirled back to face him, temper flaring in her eyes. “That’s blunt,” she fired back. “Anyway, even if you’d been with me, I might still have gotten shot at.”

      “True, but it’s all about the odds, princess, and it would have been less likely,” he snarled back. “He, or whoever it was who took a shot at you, would have thought twice about it if you looked as if you had security.”

      “Since when do you carry a gun?” she demanded abruptly.

      “What do you think being in the security business means, petunia?” he said, his tone scornful. “Of course I’ve got a gun.”

      He didn’t add that he was considered an excellent shot, keeping his skills honed at a shooting range. His clients expected him to provide top-notch security and that included using a gun if necessary. Fortunately, it had never been necessary—until today—because he was adept at using other means to get results.

      “And I can’t believe you chased that nut,” she continued. “You could have been killed!”

      Worried about him, was she? Under different circumstances, he’d have been pleased, but right now he was still furious about the way she’d completely disregarded his instructions. “So why did you run out?” he asked. “What was so important you couldn’t wait for me to get back? Or give me a call on my cell, for God’s sake?”

      She went still, looking