She felt her stomach drop three stories, and then she careened downward, something stinging her arm as she collided with the pushy man. He broke her fall, but did nothing to preserve her dignity. She ended up straddling him, blood staining the sleeve of her blouse, her skirt hiked up to her thighs, her self-respect taking the next train out of the station.

  Amazingly, the platform had cleared and there were only a few people milling about. She grabbed an errant lipstick and comb, stuffed them into her purse, then fumbled for a CD that had managed to escape its case, sighing when she saw the condition of her Walkman. It was doubtful it would ever play again. Except for the throbbing in her arm, she seemed to be unhurt, and she was thankful no one was staring. At least there were no witnesses to her latest debacle. It seemed even Mr. Wonderful had disappeared. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  As if on cue, he materialized, kneeling beside her, his face a scant two inches from hers. She could smell his aftershave. Feel his heat. Charlotte’s words slid down her spine again. Multiple orgasms.

  “Move.”

  Her addlebrained daydreaming vanished in an instant. She slithered off the ferret-faced man, noticing for the first time how still he was. “Are you all right?” The little guy didn’t move. In fact, he hadn’t moved since she fell. Concern spiked through her, and she reached out to touch him.

  “Come with me. Now.” Mr. Wonderful, who was rapidly turning into Mr. Bossy, yanked her to her feet.

  She turned to face him, meeting his steady, green-eyed gaze. “He needs help. We have to do something.” She shivered, a trace of fear running through her.

  Mr. Bossy started to move, pulling her with him, his eyes sweeping across the platform, looking for something. “I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do for him now.”

  “Of course there is. It’s my fault that he fell. The least I can do is call for some help.”

  He urged her forward as he increased the pace. She struggled to hold onto her luggage, grateful when he took it from her. “Right now, the most important thing we can do is get you out of here.”

  “But the man—” She looked back over her shoulder.

  “Is dead.”

  Sabra Hitchcock unscrewed the silencer from her gun and slid them both back into the inner pocket of her black leather coat. She didn’t particularly enjoy killing, although she couldn’t say that it really bothered her either. As far as she was concerned, there were really only two reasons to kill someone: to end a threat or to acquire money. And this job had been about threat.

  Charles Messer was dead. And for the moment that was enough. She eyed the body dispassionately from across the platform. The walkway was almost clear. Just a few stragglers, and the bimbo who’d literally fallen over the body.

  Why was it that klutzy women always managed to get themselves rescued? It was as if they had neon emblazoned on their foreheads, flashing out the message, Save me. Save me.

  Sabra blew out a breath in disgust as she watched a magnificently formed male rush to help the bimbo to her feet. He was tall, his shoulders wide, his ass tight. She was all legs and hair. Probably boobs, too. Sabra felt a rush of adrenaline and wondered if it was because of the man or the woman.

  Barbie or Ken. Equally appealing.

  She started to smile, but the movement quickly twisted into a grimace as the dark-haired man turned toward her. His features were unmistakable, even from this distance. Pain laced through her, sharp and hot. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Her heart rate accelerated, sweat popping out on her brow.

  Damn him.

  Time had done nothing to lessen his hold over her, his mere presence enough to send her into panicked flight. He mustn’t see her. Mustn’t know. Her eyes locked on his powerful body, and she stepped deeper into the shadows of the station.

  Matthew Broussard.

  Her nemesis. Her obsession. She closed her hand around the cold comfort of her Sig Sauer. Matthew Broussard. She watched as he hurried the brunette away, one arm locked protectively around her shoulders. Some things never changed. Matthew the protector. A policeman appeared at the far end of the platform. She pulled herself together, wrenching her gaze away from him.

  Time to make an exit.

  With a last glance at the body, Sabra moved in the opposite direction, years of training helping her to blend into the background.

  A nonentity. A nobody.

  She forced herself to look straight ahead, fighting the desire to turn for a last look at Matthew. Even now, like this, she wanted him. She licked her lips nervously, still fingering her gun.

  Ben was going to shit a brick.

  “Dead as in …” The woman jerked to a stop, turning to look up at him.

  “Dead.” Matthew tried to move her forward, but she was rooted to the spot.

  “Are you saying I killed him?” She blinked once, her eyes wide, her look confused and a little frightened.

  She had the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. Clear like a mountain lake. Innocent eyes. He’d never met anyone with such an open trusting look. People like that didn’t turn up much in his line of work. “No. He was dead before you hit him.”

  He felt her relax slightly. A little breath escaped through her lips with a whoosh. Soft brown hair curled around her face, just brushing the tops of her shoulders. “But he’s still dead.” She looked back over her shoulder as he propelled her forward. “Shouldn’t we—”

  “No. Best we get you out of here. Whoever did this doesn’t need to get a good look at you.” He felt her shudder, a delicate ripple that started at her shoulders and moved downward.

  “But surely the police need to know?” She looked up at him, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, her eyebrows arched in question.

  “They already know. And besides, there’s nothing you could tell them that’s worth endangering your life.”

  “And how exactly would I endanger myself by talking to the police?” Little sparks danced in her eyes.

  Backbone. An innocent with backbone.

  He was beginning to like this woman. Hell, if the circumstances were different, he might—but they weren’t. He tightened his grip on her arm, propelling her forward again. “I’ll explain later. Right now we’ve got to keep moving.”

  She shot him a look but kept pace, matching her stride to his. It was almost two-to-one, his long legs easily outdistancing her, but he had to give her credit, she was hanging in there. Most women would be yelling by now, and a scene was the last thing they needed.

  He scanned the platform, but there was still no sign of the killer. It had been the work of a pro from the looks of it, and although he was probably long gone, Matt wasn’t about to take a chance. Unless he was way off his game, the bloodstain on her shirt had come from a bullet. A bullet intended for Messer. And whoever was responsible wouldn’t like loose ends, especially a wounded one. He wasn’t about to let the bastard get to her. And right now, he was her best chance.

  Matt sighed. From the frying pan into the fire. Charles Messer was dead. Whatever secrets he’d been carrying had died with him. And now this woman, whoever she was, had landed, literally, in the middle of it all.

  What the hell had Messer been doing on the train? Their meeting wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow, and there was no way the little man could have known he was coming in today. He’d been too careful—not certain what it was exactly he was walking into.

  A maelstrom from the looks of things. Matt frowned, his instincts sounding a warning. At the end of the platform, he saw the familiar green uniform of the Austrian Polizei. Showtime. He looked down at the woman walking beside him. Her face was composed, but he could feel the tension in her body, and there were little lines of stress radiating across her forehead. Her breathing was coming in small gasps.

  Certainly nothing that would alarm the officer in and of itself, but later, when he’d discovered the body, he might remember her and wonder. Matt’s trained mind went into high gear. What he needed was something to make them blend into the background. A blinding glimpse of the obvious. The officer drew closer, a semiautomatic machine gun thrown carelessly over one shoulder.

  Matt blew out a breath. Ah, hell, in for a penny and all that. With a quick maneuver, he pulled the startled woman into his arms, his mouth close to her ear, his breath lifting the curls of her hair. “Follow my lead.”

  Her gaze was wide-eyed and laced with questions, but she nodded. Quickly he bent his head, covering her mouth with his, pulling her body tightly against him. It was a kiss for show, an effort to conceal her from the policeman, but when her lips trembled under his, he forgot all about reason and logic. Hot fire swept through him, electricity threatening to stand his hair on end.

  Her lips parted and he didn’t have to be asked a second time. His tongue swept in, tracing the contours of her teeth, reveling in the hot, sweet feel of her mouth. Her tongue met his, shyly at first, and then with something approaching abandonment. He stroked the line of her back, one hand coming to rest on her waist, the other moving lower to cup the curve of her bottom.

  This was heaven.

  A titter of laughter accompanied by the sound of applause broke through his libido-driven ecstasy. Heaven with an audience. Matthew hated audiences. He pulled back. His liplock partner was staring panic-stricken at the area just beyond his shoulder. He turned, having the sinking feeling he was going to regret it.

  Three pairs of perfectly made-up eyes were staring at them, running the gamut from mildly amused to openly envious. One of the ladies, a purple-headed dowager in a Chanel suit, poked her companion in the ribs. “Now that, Charlotte, is a romance hero.”

  Matthew started to smile, but sobered immediately. A fourth pair of eyes—male—blinked at him over the rims of an oversized pair of tortoiseshell glasses, the glitter of annoyance hard to miss. He wasn’t sure what the connection to his brunette was, but he had a feeling he was about to find out.

  Without thinking, he slid an arm around her, his palm gently covering the bloodstain. No sense tipping their hand, until he knew how the cards lay. She trembled at his touch, and he wondered vaguely what emotion caused the reaction.

  Tortoiseshell cleared his throat in the contemptuous way only certain members of English society can pull off. His eyebrows danced above his glasses, and Matthew’s companion stepped closer, two bright spots of color staining her cheeks.

  “Miss Nichols, we’ve been looking for you everywhere. And then I find you …” he trailed off, his hands flapping uselessly in the air. Sucking in a breath, he drew himself to his full height, which probably wasn’t more than five and a half feet, narrowed his eyes, and glared at her. “I think you owe us an explanation.” Icicles could have formed on every perfectly enunciated word.

  The little prick. Matthew felt his temper rising, but clamped down on it. Three uniformed men were huddled around the body down the platform. Now was not the time for a scene.

  “Now, Thomas.” One of the women, a white-haired grandmotherly type with what looked to be a sympathetic face, placed her blue-veined hand on Tortoiseshell. “I’m sure Chloe has an explanation.”

  Chloe. He liked it. Soft, yet strong. He pulled her closer, wanting for some absurd reason to protect her. Three pairs of geriatric eyes fixed on them again. Chloe was definitely out of her age bracket with these gals.

  Chloe opened her mouth and then closed it with a little snap, obviously at a loss for words. She bit the side of her lip, her face turning even redder.

  “Well, Miss Nichols, I’m waiting.” Tortoiseshell did everything but tap his foot. This guy had to have been a schoolmaster in another life. More green uniforms appeared in the platform doorway. “First the cow, then the altercation in the hotel room, and now this. We are not amused.” Matthew eyed the police and then the Englishman. He’d actually use the royal we. Who the hell did he think he was?

  “Surely you aren’t going to object to—” another septuagenarian—this one with blue hair—eyed him from head to toe “—him.” Her tone was just short of x-rated. Matt felt himself flush under her scrutiny.

  “He’s certainly better than the cow.” The first woman, purple-hair, sighed wistfully.

  “And a lot more pleasant to look at than that Alfredo person was.” This came from blue-hair.

  “I think his name was Alberto, Charlotte. But you’re right, this one is definitely an improvement. Even you have to admit that, Thomas.” The dowager eyed Matt with something bordering on open lust.

  “It’s not him.” The little man deflated, his tone becoming almost woeful. In an instant, he changed from belligerent to beaten, all his bluster dissipating. “It’s all of it.” He waved his hand through the air. “We’re frightfully late now. And worse still, I actually lost one of my charges. Granted,” he eyed Matthew wearily, “it seems that she was in perfectly good hands.” A titter from the ladies. “But the point is,” he pulled out a pocket watch and consulted it with a sigh, “I’m going to have to call the home office again.”

  “Well, at least they’re getting used to it.” Blue-hair— Charlotte—offered helpfully.

  “I suppose so.” He released another tortured sounding breath. Matthew almost felt sorry for him. Whatever was going on, his bark was evidently much worse than his bite. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you, Miss Nichols. It’s just that this is my first tour and I do so want to impress the home office. And even you have to admit that most of my problems can be linked directly to your little escapades.”

  Matthew glanced at Chloe. Her color was still high, and she fidgeted against his side, obviously embarrassed. Even when flustered, she was charming, and he fought the desire to kiss her again.

  “I’m sorry, Thomas, really I am. There is an explanation.” Everyone turned their attention back to Chloe. She shot a look down the platform. Matthew followed her gaze. The officers were dispersing. A good sign. But telling this crowd about the body was not going to help anything.

  He sighed. There really was no help for it. Thomas needed an explanation. And the truth was simply not an option. He had to get involved. After all, he needed to make certain there were no repercussions for what she had, or hadn’t, seen today. It was in his own best interests after all. Besides, until he sorted things out, he could use a cover, and Miss Nichols might be just the ticket. He assured himself there was no other motive. None at all. His lips tingled in silent dispute.

  With firm resolve, he pushed all thoughts of the kiss aside and looked down at Chloe. “Let me tell them, darling.”

  Chloe shot him a confused look, then glanced back down the platform. “All right.”

  He looked up to meet Tortoiseshell’s gaze. “I’m afraid it’s my fault you’re running late.” For an American, Matthew managed to add a nice little bit of ice to his voice, but then he’d had a hell of a lot of practice.

  Thomas raised an eyebrow in question, some of his bluster returning. “And you would be?”

  “Matthew Broussard.” He held out his hand and the Englishman took it limply, his bluster evaporating as quickly as it had come.

  “Oh dear, not of the Broussards?” His face drained of color.

  “One and the same.” Matthew smiled.

  “Oh my,” said Charlotte, fanning herself with one plump hand. “I knew your mother and father.”

  Poor woman.

  It never failed. One mention of his surname and the world seemed to collectively hold its breath. No need to point out that he wasn’t exactly the Broussard poster child.

  Two of the policeman passed by. They glanced at the group but dismissed them immediately, mumbling the word auslanders. They’d pegged them as tourists. Perfect. Matt looked back to the group. Time to get out of here.

  Thomas was still staring at him, doing one hell of a Lady Macbeth impersonation with his hands, mumbling something about the home office.

  “I’m sure, under the circumstances, the home office will understand, Thomas.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “Well, you see, Miss Nichols—Chloe,” Matt pulled her closer and smiled down at her, “is my fiancée.”

  Chloe almost choked, the three ladies sighed simultaneously, and Thomas grew even paler. Served him right. Blaming his own ineptitude on her. Not that she hadn’t caused quite a stir, especially with the cow. But it had been an honest misunderstanding.

  Anyway, the point was, it was nothing compared to the things she’d undergone in the last twenty minutes or so. In short, she’d fallen from a train, straddled a dead man, shared the most marvelous kiss with the most marvelous man, and wound up engaged to him. At least technically that’s what Matthew was saying. Although for the life of her she couldn’t understand why. Her brothers would be having a heyday with this one. Even for Chloe this was turning into quite an adventure.

  She forced herself to focus on the conversation. If she didn’t, the way things were going, she’d wind up married with children. Matthew was speaking to Willie, the others listening with rapt attention. “So, I was hoping to join her here, but wasn’t sure that my business would allow it. Thankfully, there’s been a change in plans. Hence, the reunion. And now, ladies, I think we’ve kept Thomas waiting long enough, don’t you?”

  Everybody smiled and nodded. Somehow, in only a few moments, he’d managed to disarm them all, even crotchety old Thomas. But then he was quite a disarming man.

  And even if it was all make-believe, it was a marked improvement to the state her love life had been in an hour or so ago. She had a fiancé—at least for the moment. And as far as fiancés went, this one was a winner, even if it was a charade. She ran a finger across her lips remembering his kiss. Maybe there was such a thing as a romance hero after all.

  And she could always face reality later. In private. After all, she’d practically done a lap dance with a dead man, and frankly, if she was going to have an ally in all this, she’d choose Matthew Broussard in a minute. Although she had absolutely nothing concrete to base that on. But she trusted her instincts and even though she knew there was more here than she was seeing, she believed that when push came to shove, this was a man a woman could trust. Absolutely, irrevocably.

 

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