of the photos of Carol Borian from the file and peered deeply into the dead woman's eyes. Tell me your secrets, Mother. How did you go from Miss Percy, Alabama, to the wife of a mobster?
Hell, maybe any way out was a good way out.
Angelina went into her bedroom and, holding the picture in one hand, pulled her hair back into a style similar to Carol's. She examined the effect in the mirror, comparing it to the photograph. Without the waves of hair framing her face she looked different.
She rubbed her lipstick off with the back of her wrist, and her whole face paled to a distant memory of herself-decent, law-abiding, smart, in control. And even more like Mrs. Borian. What would Special Agent Carver say if she looked like this?
Bet he wouldn't ask her to sleep around for old Uncle Sam.
Fat chance. Sharkman had already made up his mind about her.
Not that she cared. Let him think what he wanted. He would anyway.
Yeah, but what if he didn't? What if he thought her pretty damn terrific? Though she barely admitted it to herself, some small, wretched part of her yearned to be good and merit his esteem.
Good girts get used, party girl And they get hurt.
She let her hair go with a sigh, and the thick waves tumbled to faer shoulders again. Returning to the living room, she picked up her packages and toted them into her bedroom.
She took out two suitcases from the closet and heaved them onto the bed. Then she unpacked her new things, holding each item up with a critical eye before refolding it into a suitcase. The subtle colors and expensive cuts made everything in her closet look cheap and flashy. But the bright colors of her own belongings made the new ones look dull and boring. She sighed, the two sets of clothes like two incompatible identities.
Which one was she?
She finished packing, adding her own clothes to the suitcases, including a pair of jeans. A ranch meant horses, and this was one Texas girl who knew how to ride.
By the time she finished, her closet was empty and her back ached. She rubbed her shoulder, then stripped off the skirt and sweater she'd put on at the store, packing them as well. She closed the two cases, tugged them off the bed, and carried them to the doorway.
A red silk peignoir was her reward. She sighed with pleasure as the smooth silk slid over her body. Slipping into the matching robe and a pair of silk mules, she closed the door on the bags with her new identity inside, and padded into the living room to pour herself a brandy. She was just taking the first sip when a knock sounded.
She checked the peephole on the front door. Her heart sank. Reluctantly, she opened the door to Finn. "I thought we were donefor the day."
"Until we find what we're looking for we're on twenty-four/seven." His gaze raked down her body, sending unforeseen heat through her. "Who were you expecting, Clark Gable?"
Instinctively, she wanted to pull the edges of the flimsy robe together to cover herself. But if she gave in to the impulse she would give him power over her, and when it came to men, she was in control. So she leaned into the door frame, one hand on her hip pushing the robe to the side giving him a nice clear view down the revealing dip in the front of her gown. She smiled as his gaze fixed on her breasts. Don't play with fire, Sharkman. You might get burned.
"I was expecting to be left alone, Agent Carver. Now why don't you fulfill my expectations and leave?"
He tore his gaze away from her chest and shot her a look as cool and lethal as a wave of black water. Then he stepped past her and held up a videotape. "This just came in. I wanted you to see it as soon as possible."
"What is it?"
"It's the only thing we have showing Carol Borian in the flesh."
She froze, the words reverberating through her entire body. Her mother. Moving, talking. Her chest tightened, her heart thudded in sudden anxiety. What if she didn't like what she saw?
What if she did?
Hiding her roiling emotions behind a blank
Hell, maybe any way out was a good way out.
Angelina went into her bedroom and, holding the picture in one hand, pulled her hair back into a style similar to Carol's. She examined the effect in the mirror, comparing it to the photograph. Without the waves of hair framing her face she looked different.
She rubbed her lipstick off with the back of her wrist, and her whole face paled to a distant memory of herself-decent, law-abiding, smart, in control. And even more like Mrs. Borian. What would Special Agent Carver say if she looked like this?
Bet he wouldn't ask her to sleep around for old Uncle Sam.
Fat chance. Sharkman had already made up his mind about her.
Not that she cared. Let him think what he wanted. He would anyway.
Yeah, but what if he didn't? What if he thought her pretty damn terrific? Though she barely admitted it to herself, some small, wretched part of her yearned to be good and merit his esteem.
Good girts get used, party girl And they get hurt.
She let her hair go with a sigh, and the thick waves tumbled to faer shoulders again. Returning to the living room, she picked up her packages and toted them into her bedroom.
She took out two suitcases from the closet and heaved them onto the bed. Then she unpacked her new things, holding each item up with a critical eye before refolding it into a suitcase. The subtle colors and expensive cuts made everything in her closet look cheap and flashy. But the bright colors of her own belongings made the new ones look dull and boring. She sighed, the two sets of clothes like two incompatible identities.
Which one was she?
She finished packing, adding her own clothes to the suitcases, including a pair of jeans. A ranch meant horses, and this was one Texas girl who knew how to ride.
By the time she finished, her closet was empty and her back ached. She rubbed her shoulder, then stripped off the skirt and sweater she'd put on at the store, packing them as well. She closed the two cases, tugged them off the bed, and carried them to the doorway.
A red silk peignoir was her reward. She sighed with pleasure as the smooth silk slid over her body. Slipping into the matching robe and a pair of silk mules, she closed the door on the bags with her new identity inside, and padded into the living room to pour herself a brandy. She was just taking the first sip when a knock sounded.
She checked the peephole on the front door. Her heart sank. Reluctantly, she opened the door to Finn. "I thought we were donefor the day."
"Until we find what we're looking for we're on twenty-four/seven." His gaze raked down her body, sending unforeseen heat through her. "Who were you expecting, Clark Gable?"
Instinctively, she wanted to pull the edges of the flimsy robe together to cover herself. But if she gave in to the impulse she would give him power over her, and when it came to men, she was in control. So she leaned into the door frame, one hand on her hip pushing the robe to the side giving him a nice clear view down the revealing dip in the front of her gown. She smiled as his gaze fixed on her breasts. Don't play with fire, Sharkman. You might get burned.
"I was expecting to be left alone, Agent Carver. Now why don't you fulfill my expectations and leave?"
He tore his gaze away from her chest and shot her a look as cool and lethal as a wave of black water. Then he stepped past her and held up a videotape. "This just came in. I wanted you to see it as soon as possible."
"What is it?"
"It's the only thing we have showing Carol Borian in the flesh."
She froze, the words reverberating through her entire body. Her mother. Moving, talking. Her chest tightened, her heart thudded in sudden anxiety. What if she didn't like what she saw?
What if she did?
Hiding her roiling emotions behind a blank
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