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  “No,” he said curtly, not bothering to disguise his voice with Tedric’s odd accent. “No, I’m not all right. Ronnie, I need you to stay the hell away from me.”

  Veronica felt her smile fade. “I thought we were going to…dance.”

  Joe let out a short burst of exasperated air. “No way,” he said. “Absolutely not. No dancing.”

  She looked down at the floor. “I see.”

  As Joe watched, Veronica turned and started to walk away, unable to disguise the flash of hurt in her eyes. My God. She thought he was rejecting her. He tried to catch her arm, to stop her, but she was moving faster now.

  “No, you don’t see,” he called after her in a low voice.

  But she didn’t stop walking. Joe started to follow.

  Damn! Short of breaking into a sprint, there was no way he could catch her. And although shouting “Yo, Ronnie!” was something Joe Catalanotto might not have hesitated to do even at a posh society party, Prince Tedric was not prone to raising his voice in public.

  When Joe rounded the corner into the front hall, Veronica was nowhere in sight. Damn! Double damn! How could he follow her if he didn’t know where she went?

  He headed toward the living room and the spacious kitchen beyond, hearing the unmistakable sound of Talandra’s laughter from that direction.

  But Talandra stood near a large stone fireplace, sipping champagne and talking with a group of elegantly dressed women—none of whom were Veronica. “Oh, here’s the prince now,” Talandra said, smiling at Joe.

  There was nothing he could do but go and greet the group of ladies as Talandra made introductions.

  “Code Red,” came Cowboy’s voice, loud and clear over Joe’s earphone. “We have an open window on the third floor! Repeat, open window, third floor. Possible break-in. Joe, get the hell out of here. Double time! This is not a drill. Repeat. This is not a drill!”

  Everything switched into slow motion.

  Joe had to get out of here. He had to get away from these ladies—God help them all if a terrorist burst into the room firing a submachine gun.

  “Get down!” he shouted at the women. “Get to cover!”

  Talandra was the first to react. Of course, she’d probably been warned about an assassination attempt. She led the entire group of ladies down a hallway to the back of the house.

  God, all it would take was one man and one weapon and—Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Ronnie was somewhere in this house.

  “Blue, where’s Ronnie?” Joe said into his mike, heading for the kitchen door as he pulled out the sidearm he kept hidden under his jacket. FInCOM had ordered he remain unarmed. He’d smiled and said nothing. He was damn glad now that he’d ignored that order. If someone was going to start shooting at him, damn it, he was going to shoot back. “Blue, I need you to find Ronnie!”

  “I don’t see her, Cat,” his XO reported, his gentle drawl replaced by a staccato stream of nearly accentless words. “But I’m looking. Get your own butt under cover!”

  “Not till I know she’s safe,” Joe retorted as he burst through the kitchen door. A man in a chef’s hat looked up at him in shock, his eyes glued to the weapon. “Get down,” Joe ordered him. “Or get out. We’ve got trouble.”

  The chef scurried for the back door.

  A new voice came over the earphone. It was Kevin Laughton, the FInCOM chief. “Veronica St. John’s already in a limo, heading back to the hotel. Proceed to the emergency escape vehicle, Lieutenant,” he ordered.

  “Double-check that info, Alpha Squad,” Joe said as he pushed open the pantry door, hard, and went inside, sidearm first. The small storage room was empty.

  “Information verified,” Harvard’s calm voice reported. “Ronnie has left the building. Suggest you do the same, Cat.”

  Joe was filled with relief. Ronnie was safe. The relief mingled with adrenaline and made him almost light-headed.

  “Kitchen’s empty and clear,” he announced over his mike.

  “Move it out, Cat,” Cowboy said. “We got this situation under control.”

  “Are you kidding?” Joe said into his microphone, pushing the door to the living room open an inch. “And leave all the fun to you guys?”

  Joe could see about ten FInCOM agents heading toward him. He swore under his breath and stepped back as they came through the door. They surrounded him instantly. West and Freeman were on either side of him, shielding him with their own bodies as they moved him toward the back door.

  There was a car idling outside the kitchen, waiting for exactly this type of emergency. The car door was thrown open, and West climbed into the back seat first, pulling Joe behind him. Freeman followed, and before the door was even closed, the driver took off, peeling out down the narrow alleyway and onto the dark city streets.

  West and Freeman were breathing hard as they both holstered their weapons. They watched without much surprise as Joe rested his own on his lap.

  “You’re not supposed to be carrying,” West commented.

  “Kevin Laughton would throw a hissy fit if he knew,” Freeman said. “’Course, he doesn’t have to know.”

  “Imagine Kevin’s shock,” Joe said, “if he knew that I’ve got another in my boot and a knife hidden in my belt.”

  “And probably another weapon hidden somewhere else that you’re not telling us about,” West said blandly.

  “Probably,” Joe agreed.

  The car was moving faster now, catching green lights at all of the intersections as it headed downtown. Joe took out his earphone—they were out of range. He leaned forward and asked the driver, “Any word on the radio? What’s happening back there? Any action?” He hated running away from his squad like this.

  The driver shook his head. “The word is it’s mostly all clear,” he said. “It’s an alleged false alarm. One of the party guests claims she opened the window in the third-floor bathroom because she was feeling faint.”

  Joe sat back in his seat. False alarm. He took a deep breath, trying to clear the nervous energy from his system. His guys were safe. Ronnie was safe. He was safe. He holstered his weapon and looked from Freeman to West. “You know, I had no idea you guys were willing to lay it on the line for me.”

  West looked out one window, Freeman looked out the other. “Just doing our job, sir,” West said, sounding bored.

  Joe knew better. It was odd, sitting here between two relative strangers—strangers who would have died for him today if they’d had to. It was odd, knowing that they cared.

  With a sudden flash, Joe remembered a pair of crystal blue eyes looking at him with enough heat to ignite a rocket engine.

  West and Freeman weren’t the only ones who cared.

  Veronica St. John cared, too.

  16

  Veronica stood at the window, looking out over downtown Boston. With all the city lights reflected in the Charles River, it was lovely. She could see the Esplanade and the Hatch Shell, where the Boston Pops played free concerts in the summer. She could see Back Bay and the Boston Common. And somewhere, down there, hidden by the trees of the common was Beacon Hill, where Talandra lived, and where there was a party going on right this very moment—without her.

  She took another sip of her rum and cola, feeling the sweet warmth of the rum spreading through her.

  Well, she’d certainly made a fool of herself tonight. Again. Veronica could see her wavery reflection in the window. She looked like someone else in this dress. Someone seductive and sexy. Someone who could snap her fingers and have dozens of men come running. Someone who wouldn’t give a damn if some sailor didn’t want her near him.

  She laughed aloud at her foolishness, but her laughter sounded harsh in the empty hotel suite. She’d gone to this party with every intention of seducing Joe Catalanotto. She’d planned it so perfectly. She’d wear this incredible dress. He would be stunned. They’d dance. She’d dance really close. He would be even more stunned. He would follow her back to the hotel. She’d ask him into her room under the pretense of