Naked In His Arms. Sandra Marton
The front door swung open; the jingle of Cara Prescott’s improvised security alarm told him he had company.
The lady of the house was at work. The feds had been called off. There were only two possibilities.
His guest was either a very unlucky burglar…
Or a killer on Tony Gennaro’s payroll.
Each time Cara opened the door lock, she thought what a pitiful excuse for a lock it was.
She’d asked the super to change it and he’d scratched his head and nodded and said uh-huh, sure, yeah, he would.
So far, nothing had happened.
Okay. She’d deal with it herself. Tomorrow, first thing. Tomorrow was her day off. Too bad it was too late to call a locksmith now, when she had unexpected time on her hands.
Half an hour ago, Mr. Levine got a phone call. His sister was ill; he had to go to New Jersey. Cara had offered to keep the shop open but he’d said no, he appreciated it but she was too new, she didn’t know enough about his system.
Cara smiled wryly as she locked the door from the inside.
She knew enough to know the old man didn’t have a system. Not that she’d told him that. He’d been kind to her, hiring her despite her admitting she’d never sold anything in her life.
Even now, worried about his sister, he’d taken the time to assure her that he wouldn’t hold back her pay.
“It’s not your fault you won’t put in a full evening, Ms. Smith,” he’d said. “Don’t you worry about a thing.”
For one awful second, she’d almost said, “Who?” She still wasn’t accustomed to being Carol Smith. Hair clipped back, no makeup, just a young woman on her own in the Big Apple.
Truth was, she’d never even known anyone named Smith. She had the feeling Mr. Levine suspected that. He’d asked for her social security card, she’d promised to bring it in but she hadn’t, and he’d never mentioned it again.
“I have a daughter just about your age,” he’d said when he’d hired her. “She lives in England and I like to think people look out for her there.”
In other words, he was an old man, lonely for his daughter, and she was capitalizing on it.
But she wasn’t going to think about that. She was doing what she had to do, to survive.
Anthony Gennaro wanted her to come back to him. The FBI wanted her to go into protective custody.
All Cara wanted was for her life to return to normal.
That meant never seeing Gennaro again and not testifying against him, either. No matter what he was, he hadn’t done her any harm. Not the kind of harm that counted, anyway.
Besides, as she’d told the agents who’d interviewed her right after she’d moved out of his mansion, she didn’t know anything.
You do, they’d said, you’re just not aware of what it is. That’s why we want to take you into custody. We can keep you safe while we help you remember.
When she’d refused, they’d gotten angry. Told her Gennaro would never stop searching for her. Made threats about sending her to prison.
That was when she’d decided to disappear from the Long Island motel where she’d spent a couple of nights. And how better to disappear than to move to Manhattan, where you could lose yourself in the crush of humanity?
She found a job and a place to live and until she exhausted the money she’d saved during the months she’d spent cataloging the library in the Gennaro mansion, she was safe.
More or less.
Cara carried one of the kitchen chairs to the door and propped it beneath the knob. That and the old sleigh bells she’d found in an antique shop on Ninth Avenue weren’t much of an alarm system but right now, they were all she had. She’d get the lock changed tomorrow but there’d still be the skylight….
She didn’t want to think what it might cost to alarm the skylight.
“Look up there, Ms. Smith,” the rental agent had bubbled. “See? You have a real skylight.”
What she had was a way for somebody to get in from the roof, but there was no point in being paranoid. The FBI wanted her to believe Anthony Gennaro would hurt her, but she knew better.
He wanted her back alive, not dead.
Besides, skylight or no skylight, the rent was right. So she’d said yes, she’d take the big, ugly loft.
And here she was.
As for the skylight…she’d ask the locksmith for suggestions. He could gate it off. Make it impenetrable. Yes, and turn this big, empty space into a prison.
Good practice, considering that she’d probably end up there anyway, according to those two FBI agents.
Cara swallowed hard.
“Stop it,” she said in a no-nonsense voice.
She wasn’t going to give in to self-pity. What she was going to do was take a long, hot shower, heat a can of soup and read a book until she was too tired to do anything besides tumble into bed and sleep.
Briskly, she slid out of her raincoat. Took off the newsboy cap and the dark glasses. Her sweater and skirt. Then she toed off her shoes and padded toward the far end of the loft, pausing in front of the closet, hand curved around the knob before she remembered her robe was on the hook behind the bathroom door.
The bathroom was small and badly lit. Its saving grace was a glass shower stall with top and side sprays and an abundance of deliciously hot water.
Cara switched on the light, took the clip from her hair, then opened the stall door and turned the shower on. Steam began rising, clouding the pebbled glass as she undressed and placed her clothes neatly on the closed—
What was that?
Her heart banged into her throat. Something was moving. She could hear it. A scuffling sound. Feet?
Was somebody breaking in? Was the FBI right? Would Gennaro send his men after her?
A little gray mouse darted from under the sink, shot across the floor and disappeared out the door.
Cara gave a weak laugh. A mouse. A mouse! Her imagination had turned it into a monster. She was letting fear dominate every aspect of her life.
No more.
Still…she felt a chill shrivel her flesh. For a moment, for a heartbeat, she’d been certain someone was here.
Watching. Waiting…
Ridiculous!
Cara stepped into the shower stall and shut the door, lifting her face to the spray. The water and the steam would do their magic and ease away her fear.
She hadn’t come this far to fall apart. Survival was all that mattered now.
Resolutely, she took a tube of shampoo from the shower ledge, squeezed some into her palm and began washing her hair.
CHAPTER THREE
ALEX didn’t take a real breath until he heard the thud of the shower door closing.
Jesus, that was close!
His plan had been to get a handle on Tony G’s mistress. He sure as hell hadn’t intended to hold out his hand, introduce himself and say, “Yeah, you’re right. I just broke into your apartment.”
He’d make his approach in a public place. The bookshop. The deli. She’d be less likely to make a scene if there were other people around.
Women were like that. Innately passive. It was their weakness. He’d seen instructors work like hell to drum politeness out