Page 9

Chapter Five

The Porsche Cayenne’s turbo-charged engine rumbled in protest when Gina eased her foot off the gas. Flakes of snow drifted through the beams of the Cayenne’s headlights, twinkling like glass.

New York City truly was the city that never slept. Though it was well after midnight, cars still meandered along the side streets of the Upper East Side . Antique streetlamps bathed the deserted sidewalks in dim, almost ethereal light as she guided the SUV through the narrow streets.

Still not satisfied she hadn’t picked up a tail after returning the rental car and dropping off her friends, she circled her block, rechecking the rearview mirror for what seemed like the hundredth time in the last twenty minutes. No one was behind or in front of her.

Her thoughts glided back to the gently falling snow and the last time she and her father had a snowball fight on their front lawn. That had been right before his body had been discovered half-submerged in thick swamp mud off the New Jersey Turnpike .

Gina swallowed the aching lump in her throat.

Stealing from Franco’s capos and soldiers was sweet revenge, but she and her friends couldn’t keep it up forever.

What would happen when they called it quits?

Their capers had created a seemingly unbreakable bond between them.

Would that bond remain intact when they retired from their Robin Hood days?

Tears burned the backs of her eyes as she gunned the Cayenne down the block.

About a year after her father was murdered, her mother had been lured into marriage by a smooth-talking bastard who’d moved into their family home. By the time Gina discovered the extent of the man’s physical abuse, it was too late.

She’d found her mother on the living room floor, her face bloody.

Her stepfather was sitting on the sofa, a beer bottle at his lips as he watched a football game on TV .

A dozen more empty bottles lay at his feet.

She’d rushed over to her mother, trying to wake her up.

She’d even tried mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, knowing it was no use.

The body wasn’t cold, but it wasn’t warm either.

“ You killed her!” she’d screamed, barely able to see through the tears.

“ If you don’t get your ass out of here,” he’d said, pointing a gun at her and pulling back the hammer, “ I’ll kill you too.”

She’d fled the house and called the police. Her stepfather had pleaded guilty and gone to prison where he’d later died of an aneurism.

With her parents gone and the stain of the Mafia on her family, everyone Gina had thought was her friend abandoned her, practically disavowing her existence.

She had faith that her current friends would never leave her.

These women were her present, and her past was just that.

Now she had other things to worry about.

Things that could get her and her friends killed if she dropped her guard for even a second.

Another quick scan of the street, then she used her magnetic entry card and headed into the private parking garage beneath her building.

After swinging the car into her assigned spot near the elevator, she shut off the engine and uncurled her fingers from the shiny olivewood steering wheel.

She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the headrest, breathing in the comforting smell of the Cayenne’s buttery-soft leather interior.

Thank God tonight was finally over, although there were still more rips to plan. She patted the duffel bag resting on the passenger seat. Bulges of cash jutted against the rough nylon fabric beneath her fingers, but even so, she couldn’t contain her sigh of disappointment.

Breaking into Rocco’s place again had been as easy as slicing into her favorite seven-layer chocolate cake—as was getting into his safe.

Problem was, there hadn’t been nearly as much money as they’d expected.

Mostly small bills stacked beneath larger ones.

Nowhere near enough to set up Marilyn and her kids on the west coast, far away from the woman’s scumbag husband.

If the fundraiser this Saturday night didn’t raise enough cash, she’d sell the Cayenne . Anything to help Marilyn and those sweet children.

She opened her eyes and stared through the windshield at the gray concrete wall. Despite not getting as much cash as they needed, everything had gone as planned tonight. So why can’t I shake the feeling something’s wrong?

After slipping out of Rocco’s apartment, she’d had the bizarre sense someone was watching her. During the drive from New Jersey back to Margo’s Sutton Place brownstone for their post-rip briefing, she could have sworn they were being followed.

Paranoia . That’s what it was. Everything’s going to be fine. So why didn’t she feel fine?

Duh . Because she and her friends had nearly killed a man.

To say she had no love for the FBI was an understatement, but she was still human. Fearing the worst about Special Agent Gates’s condition, she’d checked the newspapers all weekend until she was bleary-eyed, searching for articles about an FBI agent injured in a hit-and-run.

Still worried out of her mind, the first thing she’d done this morning was call every FBI office in New Jersey and New York until she’d found Agent Gates at 26 Federal Plaza in New York City , not ten blocks from her Wall Street office.

Even if he hadn’t used his name when answering the phone, she would have known that sexy country-music voice anywhere.

Relief at knowing he wasn’t in some hospital, deep in a coma with tubes and IVs sticking out of him, practically made her giddy with relief.

After several shrugs to ease the growing knot between her shoulders, she got out of the SUV . The air inside the parking garage smelled musty and of exhaust. When she shut the car door, the sound echoed off the concrete walls like a gunshot, making her flinch and her heart pound a little faster.

Calm , Gina . Think calm. This was her home.

Her haven. She was totally safe here. One benefit of the hefty price she paid for her apartment was guaranteed privacy.

No one could access the garage without a magnetic swipe card, and the ex-cop security guard stationed at the front door had strict orders not to allow visitors inside unless they’d been vetted first by a tenant.

If she didn’t stop donating her own money to the women’s shelter, she’d have to give up this nifty little pad and downgrade to something more affordable.

Right at this moment, however, the added security gave her a sense of peace.

She went around to the passenger door and dragged the black duffel from the seat, slinging it over her shoulder. Tonight , the strap dug only slightly through her jacket. She sighed. Small bills actually seemed to weigh less.

Two minutes later, she stepped into her apartment and flicked on the lights.

Relief rushed through her veins. Home sweet home.

The bag dropped to the wood floor where it landed with a soft thud.

She nudged the door closed behind her, not waiting for it to click shut before heading to the kitchen.

Spicy smells of the mu shu pork she’d picked at hours earlier for dinner still hung in the air.

Her empty stomach grumbled, but there was only one sure way to ease the tension cramping her muscles.

“ Chocolate ,” she said on another sigh. “ Lots of choc?—”

Something crashed behind her—the door whacking against the wall.

Gina spun. Then froze.

A man towered in the doorway. No , make that a huge man.

The scream rising in her throat died. Nothing came out. Not even a gurgle.

He’s a burglar. Worse , a rapist.

Gina’s chest rose and fell faster as she struggled to breathe.

Move . Do something.

Like , run. Throw things. Too bad her body wouldn’t respond. She might as well have been tacked to the wall behind her for all the good her legs did her.

It wasn’t the intruder’s size or the obvious strength in his powerful physique that chilled every cell in her body. It was the look of venomous fury shooting from his silvery gray eyes. If anger could be harnessed into optical lightning bolts, she’d have been fried by now.

He slammed the door shut behind him. Glass panes on her grandfather clock in the corner of the foyer rattled but stayed put.

Gina flinched, then balanced her weight on the leg planted behind her. She raised her fists. This guy looked like a linebacker for the New York Giants and could tackle her like she was nothing bigger than a football.

Bring it, you sonofabitch.

Oddly , he just stood there on long legs encased in faded blue jeans. He crossed his arms, tightening the black sweater and leather bomber jacket over his broad chest. Something white flashed at one of his jacket cuffs, but her eyes were drawn to the frown twisting his lips.

To her amazement, she found her voice. “ I’m assuming you didn’t come here for late-night tea, so if you’re going to rape me or rob me, what the hell are you waiting for?”

The man’s frown deepened and a look of what she could only describe as disgust came over him.

He clamped his square, lightly stubbled jaw, emphasizing high cheekbones and a hard, angular bone structure.

Brows as dark as his close-cropped hair drew together, furrowing the skin on his broad forehead.

A definite Cary Grant -possessed-by- Satan look but without the cleft chin.

Flinty eyes blazed into her, but the guy didn’t move. More perplexing was that he actually looked as if he was… thinking ?

Fine , pal. While you’re thinking, I’m gonna gut you from the top of your movie-star head down to your size twelve boots.

She lunged for the stiletto strapped to her ankle.

A dark blur bore down on her. Before she could bolt and roll, powerful arms hauled her to her feet. He spun her, pinning her arms to her sides and lifting her off the floor.