A Kept Woman. Sheri WhiteFeather

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      He defended his choice. “What the hell do I know? It seemed like something a woman would like. Besides, it was on sale.”

      She thought the bed was pretty, but she wasn’t about to admit it. “Where do you live?” she asked, wondering what sort of furnishings he favored.

      “I commute between a cabin in the mountains and a house in the city.”

      But he wasn’t going to tell her what mountain range or what city, she realized. He knew everything about her, but she wasn’t privy to personal information about him.

      “You have my pager number, don’t you?” he asked suddenly.

      Natalie nodded. WITSEC had provided it.

      “It’s a satellite pager,” he said. “I won’t miss your calls.” He moved toward the dresser, where a telephone sat. “I left a list of local numbers, too. Fire, police. But if you think you’re in danger, call the one at the top. That’ll bring a squad of marshals to your door.”

      Her pulse jumped to her throat. She hoped and prayed that she would never have to use that number, but she knew the possibility existed.

      As Zack continued the tour, she followed, trying to keep her fear in check. In a fit of anger, David had killed one of his associates, then forced her to help him clean up the mess. The blood, the—

      “Check out the bathroom.”

      She blinked. “What?”

      “The bathroom.”

      She peered around his shoulder, and he moved out of the way. The tile-lined tub, she noticed, was big enough for two, and a floral-print curtain shielded a separate shower stall.

      Speaking of flowers. An artistic bouquet decorated the sink. Pink, purple and red blooms flourished in an elegant glass vase. “Are these from my landlords?”

      “No.”

      “Then who ordered them?”

      “I did.”

      Stunned, she merely stared at him. “You?” The man who’d criticized her character? “Are flowers a standard WITSEC procedure?”

      “No, but I thought they would brighten up the place.”

      “Thank you.” Up until now, she’d been living in a safe-site center, where the doors were electronically bolted and hallways were monitored with security cameras and motion detectors. It hadn’t felt like home.

      He finished showing her around and suggested they eat lunch. She sat across from him at the table, confused by his ever changing moods. He seemed judgmental one minute and compassionate the next.

      He unwrapped the roast beef sandwich. “I made sure the kitchen was pretty well stocked. Dishes, pots, pans, silverware.” He motioned behind him. “The fridge came with the place. We can go to the market later if you want.”

      She picked the onions out of her sandwich. “We?”

      “You don’t have a car yet. Who else is supposed to take you shopping?”

      Who indeed? Zack Ryder was her only contact in Coeur d’Alene. But that didn’t mean she had to make herself vulnerable to him, she thought. So he’d bought her flowers. So what? It was his job to help witnesses adjust to their new surroundings.

      “When can I meet my landlords?” she asked.

      “Next week. They’re on vacation right now.”

      “What are their names?”

      “Steve and Carla. He’s an accountant, and she runs after the kids. A couple of towheaded boys.” Zack chuckled. “From what I gathered, they keep her pretty busy.”

      Already Natalie felt a pang of envy. All of her life she’d wanted to be a loving wife and a good, caring mother. But instead, she’d become a toy, a blow-up doll for her lover’s amusement. “I used to be a brunette.”

      He gave her a perplexed look. “I’m aware of that, but what does your old hair color have to do with your new landlords?”

      “Nothing. You called me a hot-looking blonde earlier. But I was a brunette when I was with David.”

      “I wasn’t making a literal statement. And you’re beautiful either way.”

      “I don’t need you to compliment me.”

      He frowned at her. “I’m not stroking your ego. I’m just stating the facts. You’re going to get a lot of attention no matter where you live. You’re going to turn some heads.”

      Was she supposed to downplay her appearance? She’d tried to create a classy image, to mold herself into someone new. “Does that bother you?”

      “Why would it?” he responded a bit too defensively.

      “No reason.” She tasted her food and battled the annoying little flutter in her stomach. The telltale sign that she was attracted to her field inspector, a man who made her much too aware of her past as another man’s mistress.

      Two

      Zack didn’t like the sexual vibe that stretched between him and Natalie. He wanted to blame her for it, to tell her to knock it off, but how could he? All she was doing was sitting across from him, rejecting the onions in her sandwich.

      But somehow she still managed to stir his imagination. Then again, he’d heard all sorts of things about her. Hot, erotic things. Mob rumors, he supposed. Stories the FBI had passed on to the Marshal Service. Not that Zack normally lent an ear to gossip, but he’d been weaned on organized crime. His uncle had worked for the Marshal Service when the LCN—La Cosa Nostra—had been riding high. And although the West Coast Family wasn’t part of the Italian Mafia, they’d patterned their organization after the guys his uncle used to tell him about.

      Zack couldn’t remember who’d circulated the rumors about Natalie. It wasn’t Uncle Joe. He died before the West Coast Family had come into power. But either way, Zack recalled hearing about Nancy Perris. And now here he was, helping her relocate.

      According to legend, Nancy was every mobster’s dream. She was good with her hands and even better with her mouth. She got off on arousing David Halloway in public places, in putting her head in his lap.

      Was any of that true? Zack didn’t know, but like the red-blooded, sexually obsessed male he was, he had weird fantasies about finding out, about straight-out asking her.

      “Is your sandwich okay?” he asked instead.

      She nodded and reached for her napkin.

      He watched her wipe a drop of mayonnaise from her lips, and while she dabbed at the creamy condiment, his groin sent a dangerous signal to his brain. He nearly cursed out loud. The last thing he needed was to fall under her do-you-want-me-to-put-my-head-in-your-lap? spell. He couldn’t remember the last time a woman had done that to him.

      “Is yours?” СКАЧАТЬ