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him one back. She didn't bother telling him that most of the flashy stuff had been presents from Beamer. That little red number had been one of his favorites.
    Her heart squeezed. Oh, Beam. Why did you have to go?
    Finn rehung the outfit in the closet and closed the doors. "Nothing here. You'll have to lose the trashy wardrobe."
    Trashy? As if apologizing for it, she glanced down at her clothes, then caught herself. No cop was going to tell her what to do or how to dress. Especially one who'd lied to her. Well, not lied. Not exactly. But she hadn't missed the fact that he'd neglected to say her mother was dead- at least not until he'd reeled her in.
    She rose and crossed to where he was leaning against the closet doors, watching her the way a cat does, intense and ready to spring. Do I make you nervous, Sharkman? She glided up to him, feeling his almost-imperceptible tension mount as she approached. "You don't like my clothesr
    He sidestepped, neatly avoiding her. "It's not me you have to worry about. Victor Borian's blood is three-quarters starch. You want to hold up your end of our bargain, you'll play the part."
    Oh, she'd play a part, all right. The part that paid back liars like him. Why else had she agreed to this?
    Because you're tired of being you, party girl. Here's your chance to be someone else.
    She had felt different after she'd agreed to work with Carver and hung up the phone. She'd showered and changed into the most conservative outfit she owned, a white silk suit that covered her from neck to mid calf. At the time, she thought it appropriate for her transformation into Finn Carver's little angel, but now she saw nothing she did would make a dent in his icy contempt. Well, who the hell cares ? To prove it, she undid the top button of the high, Chinese-style neck, fingers working slowly, provocatively. Without taking her eyes off Finn, she moved on to the next button.
    "What are you doing?" His voice was hoarse and he cleared it.
    Payback time. "It's hot in here. Don't you think it's hot?"
    He gabbed her wrist, stopping her at the third button. "I told you I don't play games."
    "I'm not playing games." Now who's the liar? "I'm just hot."
    His eyes narrowed. "Let's get out of here, then. We have work to do." And before she could protest, he grabbed her purse, tossed it to her, and led her out the door.
    The spring afternoon washed over her, warm and fecund. She had been playing games, pushing to get back at him for manipulating her, but now she really was hot His hand on her wrist gave her an electric thrill she wasn't too happy about. You do nothing to me, Sharkman. I'm in control. She tugged herself away and instead of getting into Finn's government-issue Ford, she opened the door to the '58 T-bird convertible Beamer had bought her last year. A classic in mint condition, he'd paid a small fortune for it.
    "Can't cool down inside that tin box of yours." Not waiting for Finn, she slid behind the wheel, found her car keys, and turned over the ignition. Flooring the gas pedal, she squealed away, laughing at the slow burn in Special Agent Carver's face.
    The wind blew her hair into a wild tangle, and she reveled in the feel of it whipping her face. Finn's car roared behind, taking the curves of the hilltop road with difficulty. She glanced in the rearview mirror and could almost see the fury heat those cold blue eyes. He leaned against his horn, demanding her to stop, but she pressed down on the gas pedal, laughed and watched his reaction in the mirror. The horn blared, and something about its warning peal made her focus on the road ahead.
    Oh, my God.
    She'd drifted into the wrong lane. An oncoming car headed straight toward her. Wrenching the wheel, she braked and skidded off the road as the approaching car buzzed by on an angry horn blast. Her right headlight connected with a tree, snapping her forward and back.
    Shock rendered her motionless, hands locked around the steering wheel. The only thing that moved was