Hostage Situation. Debra Webb

door wider in invitation. She was in.

      Chapter Two

      If Renee had thought the exterior of the house was well appointed, the interior was nothing short of lavish. Cool, sleek marble and cypress floors and soaring ceilings. From where she stood in the entry hall, she could see straight through to the endless blue of the ocean beyond a wall of towering French doors.

      The floating staircase in the entry hall was at once grand and utterly modern. Somewhere inside the house the windows stood open, filling the air with the ocean’s lightly salted breeze. It seemed strange to her that he would allow open windows, much less the unobstructed view from the rear of his house. Then she remembered that she hadn’t been able to see in from the outside. Obviously the windows were equipped with a special tint or screening. And if the security system was half as state-of-the-art as she suspected, he likely wasn’t worried about an unexpected intrusion, either.

      After all, this was Paul. His brother Victor was the one who had to watch his back so closely.

      “This way,” he said, drawing her attention back to him. Their gazes met briefly before he turned to lead her deeper into the luxurious home.

      Renee reminded herself to keep an eye on the man when her attention wanted to revel in the exquisite details around her. Evidently his artistic talent extended to his taste in design. Either that, or he’d hired himself one hell of a great interior designer.

      They took a right at the grand entrance to the great room with its compelling ocean view. This side corridor provided access to several doors; he chose the second on the right—a library. The room was far too richly adorned to be called a home office. The wall of book-filled shelves lent credence to the idea of a library.

      He paused in the middle of the room, looked at her and then at the purse she carried. “You mentioned a proposal,” he reminded, his tone openly dubious.

      “Oh, yes.” She fished the BlackBerry from her purse. “It’s quite an extensive proposal.” She glanced around the room, her gaze landing on the computer on his desk. “I can download it if that would be more convenient.” She held her breath, hoped he would go for her suggestion.

      The three-second pause that followed had her heart missing a beat.

      At last he swept a hand in the direction of the desk. “Be my guest.”

      Able to breathe again, she moved across the room to his sleek desk. She sat down, retrieved the portable cable from her purse and used it to connect her BlackBerry to his hard drive. A minute later, she had downloaded the proposal. The proposal was legitimate, but imbedded within its program was an interface that would allow her to remotely access his computer from her BlackBerry. Any files stored there might provide valuable information on his brother Victor; then again, they could very well offer nothing at all. She hoped like hell his security software wouldn’t recognize the bug and work to disable it before she could accomplish her mission.

      Sam Johnson, the newest associate at the Equalizers, had brought the software with him from L.A. One of the scientists he’d worked with had been a computer buff and had designed the basically invisible intruding interface to check up on what his girlfriend was doing on the Net while he worked the nightshift at the state forensics lab. He had suspected an online romance. He’d found out far more than he’d wanted to know.

      “Here we go.” She pushed out of his chair and gestured to the screen where the proposal portion of the program had opened to reveal the first eye-catching page. She needed him impressed.

      He searched her face long enough to make her nervous. Surely he couldn’t know already that she was there under false pretenses. She hadn’t made any mistakes. As nervous as she felt, on the outside she appeared calm. She wore what she considered her courtroom face.

      “You must forgive my manners,” he said suddenly as if he’d been lost in thought for a moment. “I so rarely have guests that I sometimes forget what is expected. Would you care for refreshments, Ms. Parsons?”

      Relief rushed along her limbs. “Call me Renee,” she urged before manufacturing a friendly smile. “A drink would be great.” This was a move in the right direction. She needed him to feel comfortable in her presence. If only she could manage the same. The tension had ebbed a fraction, but it still had her on edge. Maybe that went with the territory.

      “Why don’t we attend to our thirst before we review your proposal?”

      The idea that putting the proposal on his computer might have made him somewhat suspicious crossed her mind but she’d just have to play this out and see what happened. That her fingers had gone ice cold was not good. In the courtroom, she had gone in with guns blazing and had never once let the competition see her sweat. To a great extent, she was out of her element here. Her reactions weren’t going to be her usual controlled responses. That was to be expected, she reminded herself. As long as she didn’t let him see her fear, there was no need to stress.

      Paul Reyes led the way down the corridor, beyond the entry hall to the sprawling kitchen that claimed a sizeable chunk of the downstairs floor space on the front side of the house. Gleaming stainless steel appliances maintained the modern edge, but lots of granite and tumbled marble infused an organic element. The limestone floor and wall-to-wall windows, along with the simple furnishings, ensured a casual elegance. With a deftness born of repetition, her host prepared a blend of fresh juices and garnished the concoction with sprigs of mint.

      He offered a stemmed glass to her. “Far more healthy than wine.”

      “Thank you.” She accepted the glass and sipped the blend, careful not to show her surprise at his nonalcoholic choice. “I suppose you work out, as well.” He certainly looked fit. She told herself she hadn’t really noticed, that making the comment was about laying the groundwork for a common physical connection, but that was only part truth. Paul Reyes was a handsome man with a deep, silky voice and just enough of an accent to make him inordinately sexy. And the body—well, there was one for the covers of the hottest magazines. She imagined that the man would look damn good in most anything or nothing at all. Getting close to him wouldn’t be a chore.

      “Staying fit is imperative to my image,” he insisted with a blatant survey of her, from her pink toenails to her unrestrained hair. “The mind and body must be in agreement. Don’t you agree?”

      The way he looked at her set her further on edge. It shouldn’t have. She needed him to be attracted to her. That was the point of the scoop-necked blouse and the form-fitting, low-slung slacks. But that predatory gleam in his eyes was more than she’d bargained for this early in the game. Or maybe she just hadn’t expected that kind of overt reaction from a man so withdrawn in almost every other respect.

      “Oh yes,” she stammered. “I heartily agree.”

      He smiled, obviously enjoying her discomfort. “Are you one of the Los Angeles gallery’s regular buyers?” he inquired. “This is what you do?”

      “Actually,” she heaved a beleaguered sigh and launched her well-planned story, “no. I was asked to approach you personally because I’m such a huge fan of your work. The owner is hoping my passion will prove persuasive enough to close the deal. I hate to come off as a starstruck fan, but that’s exactly what I am.”

      If her answer moved him in any way, he kept it hidden well. Those dark eyes remained steady on her until the need to shift with uneasiness was nearly overwhelming. She held her ground, refused to allow him to see that he made her far too nervous. This was her new career. She refused to fail.

      “Passion is a very powerful tool, Renee. In my line of work, it is critical to all involved. One should never be ashamed of passion.”

      Beyond the idea of how much she liked the way he said her name, his answer brushed her senses the wrong way. Gave her pause.

      My line of work.

      Perhaps it was simply a matter of communication differences. After all, English was not his first language. Semantics, she argued. No need to send her suspicion radar to the next level over