kill me twice
The First in The Bullet Catchers Series  

  Jasmine Adams peered through the rental car windshield at the gaudy glass and brass highrise, then back to her cell phone to try her sister one more time.
      This is Jessica Adams, please leave a message and I'll get right back to you.
      Jessica's chirpy TV voice usually made Jazz smile, but hearing the message for the umpteenth time simply made her boil. Or maybe it was Miami's two hundred percent humidity that had long ago melted the spunk out of her new spunky hairdo, and wrapped her whole body with perspiration. Back home in San Francisco, Jazz would need a leather jacket on a November evening; here, a thin cotton tank top was plastered to her skin.
      "Come on, Jessica," she told the answering machine. "I'm not even late, for once. Where are you, Miss Never Met a Clock You Couldn't Beat?"
      As night darkened the skies, the towering buildings seemed to come magically to light, all spilling rivers of white and gold over the blackness of Biscayne Bay. Jazz scanned the deepening shadows under the palm trees and hibiscus bushes around the manicured grounds.
      Jessica was probably hung up at the TV studio, doing a film-at-eleven promo spot, unable to answer her cell phone. The station switchboard was closed now, and the condo phone just jumped to an answering machine.
      Well, she had a key and knew the alarm code to Jess's condo -- but what about the doorman?
      Don't tell anyone, her sister had warned in a brief e-mail a few days ago. No matter what, don't tell anyone that you aren't me. We'll talk when you get here.
      The doorman would be the first test. If the trendy new haircut ™ complete with oxblood highlights for that perfect anchorwoman-redt ™ didn't fool him, better to find out now before they tried to pass her off as Jessica Adams for the six o'clock news tomorrow night.
      She climbed out of the car and headed toward the entrance. Squaring her shoulders to match that self-assured walk her sister had mastered when they were fourteen, Jazz opened the smoky glass doors into a lobby sparkling with marble and a two story glass-beaded waterfall.
      Behind the high-gloss reception desk, a uniformed young man looked up from a newspaper and nodded to her. "Hello, Miz Adams," he said with a Spanish accent.
      She flashed her best TV-trained smile.
      "Have a nice evening," she called out as she strode toward a bank of elevators, exuding Jessica's natural warmth, but not enough eye contact to invite conversation. Then she realized she had no flaming idea where she was going.
      She slowed down near the elevators, faking a dig for her keys while reading the brass placard to figure out which one took her to the thirty-seventh floor. She glanced back at the guard, who openly stared at her.
      It was the clothes, no doubt. Jessica would endure physical torture before she waltzed through her condo lobby in a skin-tight wifebeater tank, Army-Navy store cargo pants, and biker boots. The bell dinged and in a moment, she was safe in a marble and mirrored elevator car, staring at her reflection in the smoky glass.
      She stabbed her fingers into the "modified spikes" her hairdresser had recreated from Jessica's publicity shot, and dabbed at her lip gloss and brushed a smudge of melted mascara from under her eye.
      As long as no one saw them together, they could pull it off. Next to each other, they were easily identifiable. One had perfect hair, tailored clothes, a confident tilt to her chin, and that elusive sparkle in her eye that wowed the camera and anyone else within a five mile radius. The other...well, that would be Jasmine Adams.
      But one week with Jazz at the anchor desk of WMFL Channel Five News would not ruin Jessica's charmed career. In fact, Jess was certain her career would catapult because of what she was doing off-camera while Jazz was on. Although she'd refused to give a single detail about what it was. Tonight, Jessica would explain.
      As the elevator doors opened, Jazz stepped into a wide hallway lit by a few wall sconces casting indirect light that exuded wealth and exclusivity. She walked down the carpeted hall, slid the key into 3701, and opened the door into pitch blackness. Flattening her hand against the wall, she felt around for a light switch or the alarm pad.
      Suddenly, the door was yanked from her hand and slammed closed with a rush of air. Terror punched her stomach and every muscle in her body seized up for a fight. "What the—"
      A hand slapped over her mouth so hard, she choked on a gasp. She could feel the heat of a man against her back, a solid, sizable man who'd pinned her right arm with a paralyzing grip. Hot breath warmed her ear; the smell of raw masculinity filled her nostrils.
      "That was stupid." His voice was a low lilting growl that vibrated from his chest through her body.
      No. Leaving her gun at home was stupid.
      Her teeth snapped over his palm and she slammed her left elbow into his solar plexus with a resounding thwumpf.
      Alex cursed his amateur mistake of leaving her left arm free; he'd intended to be gentle in his warning. Before he could breathe, her fist flew up at his nose, barely giving him a millisecond to stop it. He grabbed her forearm and saved his face, but she managed to get a handful of hair and yank for all she was worth.
      The newscaster could fight.
      He tightened his hold, squeezing her body against his and wrapping one leg around her calves. "Let go," he warned, shaking his head to loosen her grip on his long hair.
      She pulled harder, then smashed a boot heel onto the top of his foot and crunched his toes.
      Ignoring the unexpected pain, he swiped the foot she was balanced on and knocked her to her knees, going right to the floor with her. He had to use his right hand to break their fall, covering her whole body with his as they grappled to the carpet.
      Her butt jutted into his stomach as she landed face down. He finally managed to free his hair from her death grip and slid his hand back over her mouth to silence the inevitable scream. She obviously knew the basics of self-defense, which would make his job easier. As soon as she stopped practicing on him.
      "I'm not going to hurt you." She kicked a leg and grunted furiously, but he cupped his hand to avoid the another bite. He pinned her legs under his, but she kept shoving her rear end up against his crotch as though that could push him off. He'd have to train her not to dilute her excellent self-defense skills by offering her ass to an attacker.
      His groin tightened as she slammed her round backside into him one more time and testosterone replaced the adrenaline rushing through him. Carajo! She'd never stop fighting if she felt a boner in her back.
      "Hold still," he insisted, raising his body to lessen the contact that had suddenly become more arousing than aggressive. "I only wanted to show you how vulnerable you are."
      She froze. "M—what?" Though the word was muffled by his hand, her indignation came through loud and clear.
      "Sometimes a good scare can help you take a threat more seriously."
      All the tension and steely defense dissolved as she went limp under him. Was that a trick? Could she be that good? It took years of training to learn how to stop the adrenaline dump and appear to drop your guard so your opponent did the same.
      He didn't fall for it, but eased his hold on her.
      "Listen to me," he whispered, surprised that his breath had quickened from that little bit of wrestling. "Someone who wants to hurt you could glide right by the boy downstairs, pick your lock, use the last four numbers of your social to disarm the alarm, and have a knife at your neck in a matter of minutes."
      He could feel her whole body pulse with a rapid heartbeat, and fast breaths warmed his hand. Sex demons teased him again as he imagined those responses caused by an encounter of a different kind.
      He eased back, removing his hand from her mouth, but ready for her to flip and fight again. "It only took me six minutes to get in here," he added, his tone completely non-threatening now. "Of course, I'm a professional. We don't know if your stalker is."
      "What...are you talking about?" She turned her head toward him.
      "I'm talking about your personal security liabilities." He slowly inched to her right to try and make out her features in the darkness. "In your situation, you need to listen. And look. And get the doorman to escort you up here instead of sitting on his rear end reading El Neuvo Herald. And, for God's sake, get a little creative on your alarm code."
      Silver eyes flashed at him, giving him just enough warning to flatten his arm over her before she launched herself up. Instantly, all of the steel returned to her well-toned muscles, but he held her in place.
      "Get off me," she ground out.
      "Have you learned your lesson?"
      "Yes," she whispered, her voice strained with effort as she tightened under his arm.
      "And you believe I won't hurt you?"
      "Yes," she insisted. "Let me up, damn it."
      "Will you scream and attack me again?" "Attack you?" She nearly choked at that.
      "I'm demonstrating a point. You, on the other hand, are attempting to rip out my hair and shatter my foot."
      "Excuse me, but you jumped me, asshole!"
      Good, she wasn't afraid anymore, just mad. That made her a little safer. He eased off her and balanced on the balls of his feet before he stood to his full height. She stayed perfectly still on the ground, her head turned to watch him warily.
      "I'll get the light," he said, sidestepping toward the living room without taking his eyes off her.
      He knew exactly where the lamp was. He'd already scoured every inch of the apartment, searching for security flaws and learning that his principal was absurdly neat, had expensive taste in everything from clothes to art, and planned on marinated steak for dinner. He hoped he could change her opinion of him before she cooked it and refused to share.
      As light bathed the room and she stood, he took his first long look at the newscaster.
      The picture had not done her justice. It hadn't captured her...energy. There was something so alive about her, she seemed to glisten with vitality. Her eyes were like polished platinum, sparking at him. Her slanted cheekbones flushed as much from anger as a graze with the carpet. He'd smeared her lipstick with his palm, leaving her full lips stained and parted as she stared back at him, a dangerous combination of threatened and pissed off.
      She placed her hands on her hips in a classic confrontational pose that accentuated the feminine, but defined, shape of her bare arms, and the rise and fall of her chest.
      His gaze dropped over her ribbed, strappy top just long enough to confirm Lucy's assertion. They were real; he could tell by the softness of the flesh and the natural shape of her cleavage. He was, after all, an expert.
      But something didn't fit. He'd just searched her closets and drawers, and nowhere had he seen evidence that she'd slide into a cotton undershirt and camos. Where had she been, dressed like that? Certainly not in front of the cameras, trilling about a bank robbery in Liberty City.
      More likely committing one.
      "Who the hell are you?" she demanded.
      "Alex Romero. Mr. Parrish hired me."
      She opened her mouth, and then closed it again.
      "You did meet with Kimball Parrish today?" he prompted.
      She shrugged and nodded, a mixture of such non-commitment that he almost laughed. "Briefly," she added.
      It seemed a little silly after they'd had full horizontal body contact, but he reached out his hand.
      She took a step backwards, her expression still dubious, refusing his handshake. "Alex Romero," she said slowly, as though flipping through a memory bank.
      "Your bodyguard."
      "My— what?"
      Son of a bitch. Parrish hadn't told her. He dropped his hand. "Mr. Parrish has arranged for personal security for you. Evidently he believes there is validity to the threats you've been receiving."
      "Threats?"
      Jesus, was she so immersed in her job that she didn't even consider the letters threatening? Doubtful, after that near pounding he just took. "Obviously you've bothered to learn a thing or two about self-defense already."
      "Who hired you again?"
      "Mr. Parrish."
      She didn't react to the name. No light of recognition, no response to the mention of her new boss — one of the most powerful men in her business.
      "Which threats are you referring to, exactly?" she asked, shoving her hands into the back pockets of her pants. A move that did nothing to lessen the impact of the skintight tank top. Still she didn't venture one step farther into the room.
      "I'm referring to the letters you've received from a fan. Six, as far as I know. And several untraceable emails."
      Her frown deepened. "How do I know you're not some kind of a stalker? And that's why you know all this? Not to mention your rather bizarre idea of a welcome."
      "Good point," he conceded. "Mr. Parrish was supposed to have told you his decision to hire security today."
      Still, she didn't move. He waited for her to take control of her environment, to waltz past him and wrap herself in the familiarity of her home. She remained...cautious.
      "As a matter of fact, he didn't tell me," she said. "And until I have that conversation with him, you'll have to leave."
      "I'm afraid I can't do that."
      She managed a tight smile. "Yes you can. And it will be much simpler than all the trouble you took merely to scare the shit out of me and make a point."
      She stepped to the door, but he stopped her with a look. "I'm not leaving, Miss Adams."
      "Excuse me?"
      "Would you prefer I call you Jessica?"
      She pointed to the door. "I'd prefer you get the hell out of here. Then I can call Kendall Parrish and discuss this with him."
      Kendall. Her error set off a loud warning bell in his head. He took a step closer and her shoulders tensed visibly.
      "Why don't you call him while I wait?" he suggested.
      "No, I'll call him later. Then we can discuss this tomorrow."
      "Please call him now, Miss Adams. This could be a matter of life and death." "Can the drama. I'm perfectly safe here..." Her voice faded into uncertainty.
      "Okay. I'll call him." She bent to retrieve her purse, but as she lifted the shoulder strap, the top opened, spewing out papers, makeup, a mirror and roll of mints.
He crouched down and flipped his cell phone open for her. "Use mine."
      She rose from the disarray and gave him another suspicious look, then studied the keypad as she punched in a number.
      Why didn't she just pick up her cordless phone on a table in the living room?
      She pressed his cell phone to her ear and looked away. "Hi. This is me...Jessica. I need to talk to you. It's very important. Call me. On my cell." She snapped the phone shut with finality and handed it back to him. "If you just leave me a number where I can reach you, I'll call you after I've heard back from him. I'm sure you understand my reluctance to have a complete stranger in my home."
      Nothing added up right. There was no way this woman would have mispronounced the name of the man who'd recently bought her TV station. And she hadn't had a clue where to find the light switch or alarm pad when she'd walked in. His gaze dropped once more over the revealing top, down to the black boots surrounded by the chaos of her handbag. Something was most definitely wrong with this picture.
      "Let me try him myself," he said as he flipped the phone open. "I have his private line."
      He faked thumbing of a phone number, but simply pressed redial. He held her gaze while he listened to the taped message.
      Hi. This is Jessica Adams. Please leave a message and I'll get right back to you.
      "Well, what do you know," he said, dipping his head so close to hers he could almost kiss the smeared lipstick from her mouth. "I jumped the wrong Miss Adams."