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  Her attention remained centered on the bodyguard. She thought he would do his best to intimidate her in front of his employer, maybe even try to get her to apologize to Jorguson—hell would freeze before she’d do that—but he surely wouldn’t touch her. Not in front of all these people.

  Or maybe he wouldn’t care who was watching. Jorguson had shouted his intent to have her killed. Would this bodyguard try to top that crazy threat?

  There was a wall of windows in the restaurant facing the river, and diners were crammed together, their faces plastered to the glass. Some had their cell phones glued to their ears; others were using the cell phone cameras to record the incident . . . for YouTube, no doubt. Certainly, most of them had witnessed Jorguson ripping her dress and then screaming after she’d punched him. The man had howled like an outraged hyena. Surely they’d heard his ridiculous threats, too.

  The bodyguard took Jorguson’s orders to “get her” to heart. He lunged. He grabbed her upper arm and twisted as he jerked her toward him. Pain shot up into her neck and down to her fingers. His grip was strong enough to break her bone.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the crowd before turning back to her. “You’re coming with me,” he ordered.

  A woman rushed out of the restaurant shouting, “You leave her alone.” At the same time, two men in business suits ran past the woman to help Olivia.

  “Let go of me,” she demanded as she slammed the heel of her shoe into the top of his foot.

  He grunted and let go. Olivia got in a solid kick, and he doubled over. But not for long. He quickly recovered and, roaring several grossly unflattering names at her, straightened and reached for his gun. His face was now bloodred.

  Good Lord, was he going to shoot her? The look in his eyes suggested that he might. Apparently, Martin had forgotten his audience, or he no longer cared he was being watched. His impulse control had vanished. He had the most hateful look on his face as he pulled the gun from the waistband of his pants. The two businessmen coming to her aid stopped when they spotted the weapon.

  “I said you’re coming with me,” he snarled as he lunged.

  “No, I’m not.” She threw a twelve-dollar glass of iced tea at him. He ducked.

  “Bitch.” He spit the word and tried to grab her again.

  “I’m not going anywhere with you. Now get away from me.”

  The gun seemed to be growing in his hand. She backed away from him, and that infuriated him even more. He came at her again, and before she could protect herself, he backhanded her. He struck the side of her face, his knuckles clipping her jaw. It was a hard hit and hurt like hell. The blow threw her backward, but even as she was falling, she didn’t take her eyes off the gun.

  She landed on her backside, winced from the impact on her tailbone, and quickly staggered to her feet.

  She understood what the expression “seeing stars” meant. Dazed, she tried to back away.

  The thug raised his gun again, and suddenly he was gone. Olivia saw a blur fly past her, tackling the bodyguard to the ground. The gun went one way, and the thug went the other, landing hard. Within seconds her rescuer had the man facedown on the grass and was putting handcuffs on him while reading him his rights. When he was finished, he motioned to another man wearing a badge and gun who was rushing across the terrace.

  With one of his knees pressed against the bodyguard’s spine, the rescuer turned toward her. She suddenly felt lightheaded. She could have sworn she saw an ethereal glow radiating all around him and the sound of a singing choir echoing overhead. She closed her eyes and shook her head. The blow to her jaw must be making her hallucinate. When she opened her eyes again, the vision and the choir were gone, but the man was still there, looking up at her with beautiful hazel eyes.

  “Who are you?” he asked as he hauled the bodyguard to his feet.

  “Olivia MacKenzie,” she answered. She sounded bewildered, but she couldn’t help that. The last few minutes had been hair-raising, and she was having trouble forming a clear thought.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  “Agent Grayson Kincaid. FBI. Are you all right?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “Maybe you should sit down.”

  The bodyguard finally found his voice. “I was protecting my boss.”

  “With a Glock?” Kincaid asked. “And against an unarmed woman?”

  “She kicked me.”

  A hint of a smile turned his expression. “Yeah, I saw.”

  “I’m bringing charges.”

  “You attacked her,” Kincaid snapped. “If I were you, I’d be real quiet right now.”

  The bodyguard ignored the suggestion. “Mr. Jorguson has known for a long time that the FBI has been tailing him and listening in on his private conversations. What you’re doing is illegal, but you people don’t play by the rules, do you?”

  “Stop talking,” Kincaid said.

  Another agent grabbed hold of the bodyguard’s arm and led him away. He didn’t go peacefully. He was shouting for a lawyer.

  “Hey, Ronan,” Kincaid shouted.

  The agent dragging the bodyguard away turned back. “Yeah?”

  “Did you see it?”

  Ronan smiled. “Oh yeah, I saw it all. After I put this clown in the back of the car, I’ll go get Jorguson.”

  Olivia glanced around the terrace. In all the commotion she hadn’t seen him slip away.

  Kincaid nodded, then turned back to her.

  “The gun is under the table,” she offered.

  “I’ll get it,” Kincaid said.

  He walked over to her, and she flinched when he reached out to touch her. Frowning, he said, “I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to see how bad it is.”

  “It’s fine,” she insisted. “I’m fine.”

  He ignored her protest. He gently pushed her hair away from the side of her face. “Your cheek’s okay, but he really clipped your jaw. It’s already starting to swell. You need to put ice on it. Maybe I should take you to the emergency room, have a physician look at your arm, too. I saw the way he twisted it.”

  “I’ll be all right. I’ll ice it,” she promised when he looked like he wanted to argue.

  He took a step back and said, “I’m sorry I couldn’t get to him faster.”

  “You got here before he shot me. He really was going to shoot me, wasn’t he?” She was still astounded by the possibility and getting madder by the second.

  “He might have tried,” he agreed.

  She frowned. “You’re awfully nonchalant about it.”

  “I would have taken him down before he shot you.”

  Her cell phone rang. She checked the number, then sent the call to voice mail. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a man rounding the corner of the building and glaring at her. He stormed toward her, just as Kincaid bent to retrieve the bodyguard’s gun.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” the man shouted.

  Since he was wearing a gun and badge, she knew he was also FBI. “Excuse me?”

  “You ruined a perfectly good sting. Were you wearing a wire? Did you get anything we could use? No, I didn’t think so. You weren’t supposed to be here until one. We weren’t ready.”

  The agent screaming at her was an older man, late fifties, she guessed. His face was bright red, and his anger could light fires.

  He moved closer until he was all but touching her, but she refused to be intimidated. “Stop yelling at me.”

  “She’s not with the FBI,” Kincaid said.

  “How . . .” The confused agent took a step back. He looked at Olivia, then at Kincaid.

  “I’d know if she was. Your undercover woman hasn’t shown up yet.”

  “Two months’ planning,” the agent muttered. He pointed at Olivia. �
�Are you wearing a wire? Jorguson seems to think you are. Are you with a newspaper or—”

  “Poole, leave her the hell alone,” Kincaid said.

  Poole was staring at her chest. Uh-oh. Olivia knew where this was going.

  “If you think you’re going to look for a wire, be advised. I’ll punch you, too,” she warned.

  Distraught to have his investigation fall apart, Agent Poole stepped closer and said, “Listen, you. Don’t threaten me. I could make your life a nightmare.” He put his hand in front of her face and unfolded three fingers as he said, “I’m F . . . B . . . I.”

  She smiled. It wasn’t the reaction he expected. “You want to talk nightmares?” she said. She put her hand up to his face and unfolded her three fingers. “I’m I . . . R . . . S.”

  Titles by Julie Garwood

  Sweet Talk

  The Ideal Man

  Sizzle

  Fire and Ice

  Shadow Music

  Shadow Dance

  Slow Burn

  Murder List

  Killjoy

  Mercy

  Heartbreaker

  Ransom

  Come the Spring

  The Clayborne Brides

  The Wedding

  For the Roses

  Prince Charming

  Saving Grace

  Castles

  The Secret

  The Prize

  The Gift

  Guardian Angel

  The Bride

  The Lion’s Lady

  Honor’s Splendour

  Rebellious Desire

  Gentle Warrior

  A Girl Named Summer

  Contents

  A Note from the Author about SWEET TALK

  Excerpt from SWEET TALK

  More Books by Julie Garwood

  Title Page

  Contents

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Teaser Chapter for THE IDEAL MAN

  About the Author

  DUTTON

  Published by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.); Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England; Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd); Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd); Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India; Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Aucklanb 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd); Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Published by Dutton, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © 1993 by Julie Garwood

  All rights reserved

  eISBN : 978-1-101-53148-8

  PUBLISHER’ S NOTE

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’ s rights is appreciated.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Sharon Felice Murphy,

  an easy listener, an inspiration,

  a source of joy.

  What would I do without you?

  Prologue

  England, 1819

  He was a real lady killer.

  The foolish woman never had a chance. She never knew she was being stalked, never guessed her secret admirer’s real intent.

  He believed he killed her with kindness. He was proud of that accomplishment. He could have been cruel. He wasn’t. The craving eating away at him demanded to be appeased, and even though erotic thoughts of torture aroused him to a fever pitch, he hadn’t given in to the base urge. He was a man, not an animal. He was after self-gratification, and the chit certainly deserved to die, yet he’d still shown true compassion. He had been very kind—considering.

  She had, after all, died smiling. He deliberately caught her so by surprise he only glimpsed one quick spasm of terror in her cow brown eyes before it was over. He crooned to her then, like any good master would croon to his injured pet, letting her hear the sound of his compassion all the while he was strangling her, and he didn’t stop his song of sympathy until the killing was finished and he knew she couldn’t hear him.

  He hadn’t been without mercy. Even when he was certain she was dead, he gently turned her face away from him before he allowed himself to smile. He wanted to laugh, with relief because it was finally over, and with satisfaction because it had gone so very well, but he didn’t dare make a sound now, for somewhere in the back of his mind lurked the thought that such undignified behavior would make him seem more monster than man, and he certainly wasn’t a monster. No, no, he didn’t hate women, he admired them—most anyway —and to those he considered redeemable, he was neither cruel nor heartless.

  He was terribly clever though. There wasn’t any shame in admitting that truth. The chase had been invigorating, but from start to finish he had been able to predict her every reaction. Granted, her own vanity had helped him immensely. She was a naive chit who thought of herself as worldly—a dangerous misconception—and he had proven to be far too cunning for the likes of her.

  There had been sweet irony in his choice of weapons. He had planned to use his dagger to kill her. He wanted to feel the blade sink deep inside her, craved the feel of her hot blood as it poured over his hands each time he slammed the knife into her soft, smooth skin. Carve the fowl, carve the fowl. The command echoed in his mind. He hadn’t given in to his desire, however, for he was still stronger than his inner voice, and on the spur of the moment he decided not to use the dagger at all. The diamond necklace he’d given her was draped around her neck. He grabbed hold of the expensive trinket and used it to squeeze the life out of her. He thought the weapon was most appropriate. Women liked trinkets, this one more than most. He even considered burying the necklace with her, but just as he was about to pour the clumps of lime over her body he’d gathered from the cliffs to hurry the decay, he changed his inclination and put the necklace in his pocket.

  He walked away from the grave without a backward glance. He felt no remorse, no guilt. She’d served him well and now he was content.

  A thick mist covered the ground. He didn’t notice the lime powder on his boots until he had reached the main road. He wasn’t bothered by the fact that his new Wellingtons were probably ruined. Noth
ing was going to blemish his glow of victory. He felt as though all his burdens had been lifted away. But there was more, too—the rush he’d felt again, that magnificent euphoria he’d experienced when he had his hands on her. . . . Oh, yes, this one was even better than the last.

  She’d made him feel alive again. The world was once again rosy with choices for such a strong, virile man.

  He knew he would feed on the memory of tonight for a long, long while. And then, when the glow began to ebb, he would go hunting again.

  Chapter

  1

  Mother Superior Mary Felicity had always believed in miracles, but in all of her sixty-seven years on this sweet earth, she had never actually witnessed one until the frigid day in February of 1820 when the letter arrived from England.

  At first the mother superior had been afraid to believe the blessed news, for she feared it was trickery on the devil’s part to get her hopes up and then dash them later, but after she had dutifully answered the missive and received a second confirmation with the Duke of Williamshire’s seal affixed, she accepted the gift for what it truly was.

  A miracle.

  They were finally going to get rid of the hellion. The mother superior shared her good news with the other nuns the following morning at matins. That evening they celebrated with duck soup and freshly baked black bread. Sister Rachael was positively giddy and had to be admonished twice for laughing out loud during evening vespers.

  The hellion—or, rather, Princess Alesandra—was called into the mother superior’s stark office the following afternoon. While she was being given the news of her departure from the convent, Sister Rachael was busy packing her bags.

  The mother superior sat in a high-backed chair behind a wide desk as scarred and old as she was. The nun absentmindedly fingered the heavy wooden beads of her rosary, hooked to the side of her black habit, while she waited for her charge to react to the announcement.