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“No shit. What do I do with him, Feeney? If we run into anything hinky, am I supposed to give him orders?”

“You’re primary.”

“Yeah, yeah.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’ll play it by ear. Get me something. Oh, and Feeney? Love the pjs.”

She broke transmission. Okay, maybe she didn’t have such a sterling character.

She called in, requested surveillance on the two locations, then got up to pace off the time.

What was taking the PA so long? She should probably go downstairs. And play hostess. She was better at it than she’d been a year ago. Not good at it, but better. Still, she usually did that duty when there were groups, business dinners, or parties where there were so many people, giving anyone a lot of personal attention wasn’t necessary.

Casual conversation and small talk were Roarke’s strengths not hers. She took the coward’s way and stalled by going back to the bedroom for her weapon harness.

The minute she strapped it on, she felt more in control.

Lucias felt the same way. In control. The rage, the insult, was a black, bubbling brew beneath the ice. And if from time to time it burned a hole through, he was still in control.

He’d known his mother would whine and beg and weep for him. She was so predictable. Women were, to his way of thinking. They were, by nature, weak and submissive. They required direction and a firm hand. His grandfather, then his father, had always given his mother a firm hand.

He was simply carrying on the McNamara-Dunwood tradition.

Dunwood men ran the show. Dunwood men were winners.

Dunwood men deserved respect, obedience, and unquestioning loyalty. They were not to be treated like common criminals, to be pushed around, locked in a cage, questioned.

And they were never, never to be betrayed.

Naturally they’d let him go. He’d never doubted he’d be released. He’d never go to prison, never allow himself to be locked away like an animal.

He would, one way or the other, come out of this the winner.

But that didn’t make up for the humiliation of being dragged behind bars, taken into a courtroom. Deprived of his rights.

He’d deal with Eve Dallas. Under it all she was just a woman. God knew women should never be put in positions of authority or power. That, at least, had been something he and his late unlamented grandparent had agreed on.

He’d bide his time with her, plan carefully. Pick his time and place. When he was ready he’d pay her back for laying hands on him, for spoiling the game. For the public embarrassment she’d caused him.

A quiet place, a private interlude. Oh yes, he intended to have a very hot date with Lieutenant Dallas. This time she’d be the one in restraints. When she was loaded with Whore, begging for the one thing women truly wanted, he wouldn’t even fuck her.

He’d hurt her. Oh yes, he’d give her pain—exquisite pain—but he’d deny her that final, glorious release.

She’d die desperate, just another bitch in heat.

The idea made him hard, and the hardening only proved he was a man.

But Dallas and her punishment would wait. There was, he knew, a natural order to things.

And first there was Kevin.

A lifetime friendship was no buffer against the sin of disloyalty. Kevin had to pay, and in paying would essentially ensure Lucias’s own vindication.

He’d groomed himself carefully for this particular task. His hair was a gleaming copper, worn like a snug helmet over his skull. His complexion milk-white. His name was Terrance Blackburn, as his identification would verify. And he was Kevin Morano’s attorney of record.

There were flaws. Lucias could admit there were flaws in the disguise. But the need to hurry outweighed the need to polish every small detail.

In any case, he knew people generally saw what they expected to see. He looked a great deal like Blackburn, would identify himself as such. He wore the sharp, conservative suit of a successful criminal attorney. Carried the expensive leather briefcase. Fixed the sober and aloof expression on his face.

He passed through the levels of security at