No One Heard Her Scream

That gave Diego time to assess the damage as he stepped back. Blood spattered the man's tie and white shirt. A trickle came out his nose and smeared through the sheen of sweat on his skin. His lower lip was cut and swollen, fatter than usual. Seeing Brogan this way had one bonus. Up 'til now, Diego couldn't imagine the man any uglier. Now, he could.

'You're done marking my territory. Quit pissing on my turf.'

Brogan clenched his jaw but never said a word. No sign of gratitude. The man took another gasping breath and pulled himself up from the floor, unable to look Diego in the eye.

It was over, or so Diego thought.

Diego turned to leave, but as he got near the doorway, he heard the hiss of metal. He turned back around to see Brogan threatening him with a butcher knife. The man taunted him, daring him to come closer.

'Come on. We ain't done yet.'

Diego had no choice but to prove the bastard wrong. He reached for a ten-piece knife set on a nearby butcher block, taking the four-inch paring and the five-inch serrated utility knives from their slots. He flipped one of the knives in his hand end over end, grabbing it by the blade tip.

High-carbon steel, good balance. This would do.

Diego took aim. Without hesitation, he launched the knife. It happened so fast, Brogan had no time to react. His jaw dropped and his eyes grew wide. The paring knife whizzed by his head and landed with a thump on the kitchen cabinet behind him. And in case he hadn't gotten the message, Diego hurled a second knife. This time, he nicked the man's ear to drive his point home.

'Aaarrggghh. Damn it. Okay, okay, knock it off.' Brogan cupped a meaty hand over his ear and reached for a dish towel with the other. The kitchen staff would have a mess to clean before they heated the griddle and flipped eggs.

'I'm done talking. And I don't want to have this conversation again. We clear?'

Although Brogan nodded in agreement, Diego knew it wasn't over—not by a long shot. As he headed up the back stairs to his quarters, leaving Brogan to lick his wounds, Diego knew he hadn't done himself any favors.

Next time, Matt Brogan would come at him with a short fuse and a taste for getting even.

Cavanaugh's seductive henchman had plagued Becca's thoughts all night. If she intended to keep Diego Galvan at a distance, her libido never got the e-mail. She hadn't slept a wink. All too soon, her alarm clock buzzed, a demonic grating sound. She had allowed enough time for her usual workout at the gym. But this morning, she had hit the snooze bar and yanked the covers over her head instead. One of those days. If a positive attitude measured up to a tank of gas, she'd be running on empty.

Now, in the harsh light of day, Becca drove to the Cavanaugh estate in a daze, no better prepared for the appointment she had made. Dosed up with caffeine, she hovered at cruising altitude, primed and pumped to see Hunter Cavanaugh and Diego Galvan.

Primed and pumped? Who the hell was she kidding?

Becca turned off Citadel Drive onto the estate and stopped to show ID to a security guard. Cavanaugh expected her. The impressive front gate and pristine grounds zipped by without notice. Too much on her mind. But as she drew closer, butterflies the size of vultures battered her insides.

The main house loomed ahead, a massive sprawling mansion of Mediterranean design. A cobblestone drive circled an imposing fountain with colorful flowers at its base. Vivid red awnings encased an ornate front door and custom windows across the facade. And a terra-cotta roofline accentuated stucco walls with imported stonework to match, a distinctive Italian influence.

Becca parked her Crown Vic short of the front door, feeling unworthy to block the main entrance. With one last look in the rearview mirror, she checked her hair and makeup and took a whiff of the white rose pinned to the lapel of her charcoal gray pantsuit jacket. Normally, the floral boutonniere would be too natty for her taste, but she wanted to send a clear message to Galvan. His midnight FTD service hadn't intimidated her in the least.

Yeah, right, if you didn't count the whole sleepless night thing.

A stern-faced butler answered the front door, looking like a member of the Addams family. The man sported a major combover of gray hair, his eyes the color of pewter. But heaping insult on top of injury, the butler's suit looked like it cost more than a month's salary for a civil servant. So far, her day had warped into a peachy keen affair.

'Right this way, Detective. Mr. Cavanaugh is expecting you.'

As Becca listened to the high-pitched strains of a violin, she followed the butler through a magnificent rotunda. Her shoes echoed on the tile floor in the foyer, staccato time. With the butler keeping his eyes straight ahead, she walked behind him, sneaking a peek at every detail. Becca had never seen anything so lavish.

Subtle recessed lighting reflected anteroom walls of muted green. Marble columns, veined in black and gold, supported archways of carved ivory. Beyond the dim light of the foyer, a mahogany-and-beveled-glass doorway marked the entrance to the salon. As a focal point, inside the entrance to the chamber, a crystal chandelier hung low over a massive center table braced by gilt lions. Hunter Cavanaugh had extravagant taste. It must feel good to be king.

After Becca crossed the threshold, she heard a man's voice from across the room.

'Please . . . join me, Detective Montgomery.'

In a lavish chair covered in leopard skin and framed in curves of bronze and black, an older man in his fifties sat with chin raised, like royalty holding court. She recognized Hunter Cavanaugh from her research. With a backdrop of gilded walls, his pale skin and white blond hair gave him the appearance of a statue, his pale blue eyes a stark contrast. Cavanaugh wore a crisp white shirt and black slacks, with a vintage smoking jacket in blood red. The guy either had a flair for drama, or he had a thing for Vincent Price.

Diego Galvan stood by his side. It took all her discipline to ignore him.

'These are my associates.' Cavanaugh gestured with a hand. 'This is Mr. Diego Galvan.'

'A pleasure to meet you, Detective.'

What the hell? Diego acted as if they had never met. A complete departure from the other day. But more to the point, it didn't look as if he had told Cavanaugh about their little encounter outside the Imperial, an even bigger curiosity. That and the bruise on his jaw. The man could even make a bruise look sexy.

Diego smiled, warm and genuine, the cockiness gone. Yet his eyes shot her a clear message— play along, Rebecca. How generous did she feel? And why would he assume she'd cooperate? But when she returned his smile, he added a wink, meant for her alone. It stopped her cold. Her smile dissolved into an awkward businesslike nod, a move that amused him.

Despite the clandestine greeting and his subtle flirtation, she couldn't help but notice. Diego looked elegant in his gray suit and black cashmere turtle-neck, the picture of confidence and style. Bruise or no bruise. Why does he have to look and smell so good, damn it?

Cavanaugh's voice intruded, 'And this is Mr. Matt Brogan.'

If Diego had all the qualities of a charming and intelligent Dr. Jekyll, Matt Brogan had to be his alter ego, Mr. Hyde. The guy's face looked like it had spent some quality time pressed to a George Foreman grill. Streaks of red skin appeared swollen to the touch. And his ear had a major gash in it. Brogan nodded, no real greeting. And he barely made eye contact.

A falling-out among thieves? Apparently, Diego had won the argument. A tiny voice in Becca's head told her to keep her mouth shut about his raw appearance, but her host noticed her reaction.

Cavanaugh raised an eyebrow, a glint of amusement in his eyes. He crooked his lips into a smile. 'It seems Mr. Brogan had a dispute with the chef this morning.' He leaned toward her and whispered, as if the man in question stood out of earshot. 'I'm afraid his kitchen privileges have been suspended.'

Cavanaugh stood and walked to a console table. 'May I pour you some coffee?'

A silver coffee service had been arranged. An elaborate setup.

'Yes, sir. I'd love some.'

Cavanaugh poured two cups and gestured for her to sit on a velvet divan, midnight blue with gold piping. He brought the coffee over and served her. The whole idea was to get him to feel comfortable with her—not a difficult task if she set her mind to it. But today, with this man, Becca would have to force the mindless banter.