Kill Me Twice Read online

  Praise for Roxanne St. Claire and her sizzling

  novels of romantic suspense….

  KILLER CURVES

  “[A] page-turner…. You don’t have to be a NASCAR fan to go for this sexy, exciting, and poignant romantic suspense.”

  —Booklist

  “Roxanne St. Claire dazzles…. This wildly exciting romantic suspense offers a breathtaking blend of mystery and sexuality as well as elegance and romance, a style that is Ms. St. Claire’s inimitable trademark. Be prepared for an incredible spin through the world of NASCAR racing, you won’t want to miss it.”

  —The Winter Haven News Chief (FL)

  “St. Claire sets a sleek, sexy, and very American romantic suspense novel in the high-pressure world of auto racing…emotional…compelling.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Grab onto your seat because once you open the cover of this book, Killer Curves will take you on the ride of your life…the perfect combination of suspense, intrigue, and romance…a first place winner.”

  —Romance Junkies Reviews

  “Fun…intriguing…a great adventure.”

  —The Best Reviews

  FRENCH TWIST

  “St. Claire has created a truly compelling romantic hero, an enticing mix of sophisticated French seduction and solid, all-American male. With its clever plotting, evocative settings, and vivid sensuality, this offering is sure to set tongues wagging.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Full of heart-stopping romance and mystery.”

  —Old Book Barn Gazette

  “Intriguing suspense that crackles with sexual tension. The novel is a tour de force of the heart that will leave the reader breathless and yearning for more.”

  —Winter Haven News Chief (FL)

  “Simply wonderful! Fast-paced action, red-hot romance and a healthy dose of danger combine for an addictive and wholly satisfying read, further solidifying Ms. St. Claire’s place as one of the hottest voices in romantic suspense today.”

  —Romance Reader’s Connection

  “You are in for a real treat.”

  —A Romance Review

  TROPICAL GETAWAY

  “A tour de force of sizzling suspense and scorching sensuality!”

  —Teresa Medeiros, New York Times bestselling author

  “Romance, danger, and adventure on the high seas in just the right combination make St. Claire’s debut a very impressive one.”

  —Booklist

  “Four Stars. Sizzling romance and tangible suspense make Tropical Getaway a most enjoyable read. Get ready for adventure, passion, and danger!”

  —Romantic Times

  “Virtually impossible to put down…filled with twists and turns.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “Captures the essence of paradise…heated passion…compelling suspense.”

  —Romance Reader’s Connection

  “Intrigue, danger, secrets, lies, and romance…. Roxanne St. Claire packs a punch.”

  —The Word on Romance

  Also by Roxanne St. Claire

  KILLER CURVES

  HIT REPLY

  FRENCH TWIST

  TROPICAL GETAWAY

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS

  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  Copyright © 2005 by Roxanne St. Claire

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

  ISBN: 1-4165-1619-0

  POCKET and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  Visit us on the World Wide Web:

  http://www.SimonSays.com

  Acknowledgments

  Very special gracias to a team of experts who assisted in the research and story development:

  Kelly Craig, Miami NBC-affiliate anchorwoman extraordinaire, who generously shared her life and profession with me, took me into her studio and opened doors that would otherwise have been locked. (And special thanks to Tammi Leader Fuller for making that happen.)

  Robert Gonzalez, who gave me the insider’s tour of the Cuban-American male psyche and offered patient and rapid responses to my questions, always making me feel comfortable enough to ask uncomfortable questions. (And thanks to Cori Rice for letting me borrow one of her best employees.)

  Ileana Portal, for not only providing in-depth information about the geography and landscape of Sunset Key, but for unknowingly offering inspiration from the moment I saw a true Latin beauty.

  Barbara Ferrar, a talented writer who assisted with the language of love, and gave me months of bilingual laughs in the process.

  Jason Trask, Assistant Chief Pilot of Northeast Helicopter, for the guidance in helicopter rescue techniques.

  Gavin De Becker & Associates, experts in public figure protection and threat assessment, for a glimpse into the life of a bodyguard.

  As always, my deepest gratitude to Micki Nuding, an editor who is unfailing with her praise and unflinching with her pencil. I’d be lost and overwritten without her.

  And, most especially, love and appreciation to my husband and children who lose me every time I go traveling in my mind, and always take me back when I’ve finished the journey. I love you guys the most.

  Dedicated with love to Colleen Bidden, who read my first twin story in eighth grade and has been encouraging me to write another ever since. I’m so glad you laughed at the ribbons in my hair and became the rarest kind of friend…the one that lasts a lifetime.

  Love, YBF

  Prologue

  “I nside this dossier is your penance.” Lucy Sharpe stood to her full six feet and handed the folder down to the man who looked far too big for the delicate chair he sat in. Height was never a disadvantage to a woman who knew how to use it. “She’s gorgeous, rich, smart, and built like a centerfold. Do you think you can manage to keep her alive and keep your hands off her?”

  Alex Romero set the manila folder on the chair next to him, without opening it to verify gorgeous or centerfold. And to his credit, he didn’t attempt another defense of his behavior in Switzerland. Lucy gave him one point for patience and another for recognizing that she’d just placed his world-class backside on probation.

  “Is she a new client?” he asked.

  “Actually, she’s not the client who has retained the Bullet Catchers.” Lucy crossed her arms and settled her hip against a massive Victorian writing table that filled one corner of her library. “The client is her employer, Kimball Parrish.”

  “The media mogul?”

  Alex might look like he belonged in full leathers weaving through the Pyrenees on a Ducati, but he read The New York Times. And he had the memory of a supercomputer.

  “Yes, he’s the owner of Adroit Broadcasting Group,” Lucy replied. “And as the master of sixty-five network-affiliate TV stations, a satellite radio network, a chain of theaters, a billboard company, and one of the most popular search engines, mogul definitely applies.”

  “He’s the one who needs a bodyguard. The guy’s a one-man right-wing conspiracy who’s amassed as many enemies as dollars.”

  “He was referred by a friend.” Though “friend” was too small a word for the person who dragged Lucy from the depths of hell and given her a reason to live again. Taking this unorthodox assignment was the least she could do in return. “Kimball Parrish is a Bullet Catcher client n
ow. Our clients’ politics are not our business; their security and safety is.” Her gaze dropped to the dossier, giving him silent permission to open it. “He’s hired us to protect an anchorwoman at WMFL, a Miami television station Adroit recently acquired. She’s being stalked and threatened by a viewer, and he wants round-the-clock security. As you have proven repeatedly, there are few executive protection experts of your caliber in the world.”

  Alex’s eyes burned as black as the Cuban coffee that fueled his Latin blood. “You’re sending me to Miami to babysit a newsreader with an amorous fan?”

  She knew he’d hate this job. The Bullet Catchers weren’t overpriced bouncers hired to fend off the paparazzi, nor were they hourly-wage night-shift guards hired to impress friends of the wealthy. Her elite organization was comprised of first-rate security specialists, and she selected both her employees and her clients with tremendous care. Though she hadn’t exactly selected this one—but Alex didn’t need to know that.

  She responded to his babysitting complaint with a silent, simple nod.

  “No way. Huh uh. Get somebody else. I don’t do newscasters.”

  “Nor will you do this one,” she volleyed back. “You’ve been given this assignment because no one else in this operation can handle it as well as you.” She had several covert surveillance professionals, an undercover master, two deadly marksmen, an explosives expert, a few hostage negotiators, and three counter-terrorism specialists on the Bullet Catcher payroll. But none could touch Alex for his ability to case a room, anticipate trouble, and get his principal out of harm’s way.

  “Why don’t you send Max Roper? He could scare the nastiest stalker away.”

  “He’s just back from Cannes.” Lucy smiled. “I should think you’d love an assignment in Miami. This is your chance to go home, eat some black beans, and bounce your nieces and nephews on Uncle Alejandro’s lap.”

  His swarthy complexion darkened, telling her he was working to control his temper. “Look, I joined the Bullet Catchers because I don’t want jobs like this. If I did, I’d be a contract bodyguard for some white-bread security company. I work for you because I prefer to protect presidents, princes, and the head of Scotland Yard.”

  “You work for me because I pay you a ridiculous amount of money, let you wear your hair like a rock star, and usually ignore it when women are willing to risk marriages to multibillionaires just to serve you strawberry scones off their breasts.”

  The hint of a smile tipped his full mouth. “Raspberry.”

  “Unfortunately, that multibillionaire was one of my best clients and paying us a fortune to protect him.”

  “I did protect him. I told you, she had a knife and some interesting pictures of her husband and his boyfriend. She’d have carved him to the bone if I hadn’t distracted her long enough for him to escape.”

  “I read the report.” She picked up the manila folder and placed it in his hands. “This one’s more important than it looks on the surface.”

  “Because you want more of Parrish’s business?”

  Let him think that. “I would very much like to impress him, regardless of his political leanings, and I’m counting on you to make that impression. And, of course, to be sure no one lays a hand on one of his favorite employees. Including you.”

  “Aw, Luce. Don’t tell me you believe all those rumors.” An irreverent smile broke across his face. “I’m telling you, it’s all propaganda.”

  Lucy laughed softly. “There’s truth in propaganda.” She never could stay angry with him for very long. Five years ago, when she’d left the Agency with a plan to target the most powerful people in the world as her clients, Alex Romero had been one of her first hires. His intelligence and fearlessness had knocked her socks off. He had that effect on most women; unfortunately their underwear and common sense were invariably knocked off along with their socks.

  “This subject is not an ordinary news anchor,” Lucy told him. “When she’s done in Miami, she’s New York bound, being groomed to be the next star of the Metropolitan Network.”

  “And I’m supposed to get excited about that.”

  “No, Alex. That’s just the point: you’re not supposed to get excited about that. Your excitement was the cause of the debacle in Geneva.”

  He fingered the edge of the folder, and read the tab. “Jessica Adams. What’s her deal?”

  “She’s an ambitious thirty-year-old workaholic who lives in a high-rise off Brickell Avenue in Miami. She rarely dates, loves to cook, reads the classics, collects antique glass, has an identical twin sister, chairs a breast cancer foundation, exercises regularly, and drives a BMW convertible. She’ll be an easy client.”

  “Fine.” His tone told her it wasn’t. “I’ll leave right away.”

  “Mr. Parrish requested that you arrive no sooner than tomorrow night. That way he’ll have an opportunity to brief Miss Adams on his decision to hire a bodyguard. Evidently she’s not taking the stalker threats seriously.”

  “That’ll give me time to bounce some nieces and nephews when I get to Coral Gables.”

  Lucy smiled as she circled back to her chair. “You do that. And when you meet the principal, make sure she understands that the danger to her is real. She needs to know that complacency is the enemy.” Picking up her electronic assistant to check messages, she added, “Don’t let me down, Alex. You know the rules.”

  “Jeez, Luce. It’s insulting that you think I’m such a dog that I can’t resist one measly news—”

  She heard the folder flip open, then his long, slow whistle.

  “Those are real,” she said without taking her attention from her handheld device. When he didn’t answer, she finally looked at him, seeing a glint in his eyes that was both threatening and amused.

  “You’re evil, Lucy. Truly black-hearted and evil.”

  Chapter

  One

  J asmine Adams peered through her rental car windshield at the gaudy glass and brass high-rise, then back to her cell phone to try her sister one more time.

  This is Jessica Adams; please leave a message and I’ll get right back to you.

  Jessica’s chirpy TV voice usually made Jazz smile, but hearing the message for the umpteenth time simply made her boil. Or maybe it was Miami’s 200 percent humidity, which had long ago melted the spunk out of her new spunky hairdo and wrapped her whole body with perspiration. Back home in San Francisco, she’d need a leather jacket on a November evening; here, a thin cotton tank top was plastered to her skin.

  “Come on, Jessica,” she told the answering machine. “I’m not even late, for once. Where are you, Miss Never Met a Clock You Couldn’t Beat?”

  As night darkened the skies, the towering buildings came magically to light, spilling rivers of white and gold over the blackness of Biscayne Bay. Jazz scanned the deepening shadows under the palm trees and hibiscus bushes around the manicured grounds. What kind of self-respecting private investigator sat in the downtown Miami darkness unarmed?

  But she wasn’t here as a private investigator. And Jessica had gone all whiny at the idea of Jazz bringing a Walther P99 Compact into her brand new condo. Because this whole outrageous plan was for Jessica, Jazz had agreed. That was her mantra this week: This one is for Jess. Her chance to help her sister, after all the times Jessica had covered for her.

  So where the hell was she, anyway?

  Probably hung up at the TV studio, unable to answer her cell phone, and the station switchboard was closed now. Well, she had a key and knew the alarm code to Jess’s condo—but what about the doorman?

  Don’t tell anyone, her sister had warned in a brief e-mail a few days ago. No matter what, don’t tell anyone that you aren’t me. We’ll talk when you get here.

  The doorman would be the first test. If the trendy new haircut—complete with oxblood highlights for that perfect anchorwoman-red—didn’t fool him, it was better to find out now, before they tried to pass her off as Jessica Adams for the six o’clock news tomorrow night.
r />   She climbed out of the car and headed toward the entrance. Squaring her shoulders to match that self-assured walk her sister had mastered when they were fourteen, Jazz opened the smoky glass doors into a lobby sparkling with marble and a two story glass-beaded waterfall.

  Behind the high-gloss reception desk, a uniformed young man looked up from a newspaper and nodded to her. “Hello, Miz Adams,” he said with a Spanish accent.

  She flashed her best TV-trained smile.

  “Have a nice evening,” she called out as she strode toward a bank of elevators, exuding Jessica’s natural warmth, but not enough eye contact to invite conversation. Then she realized she had no flaming idea where she was going.

  She slowed down near the elevators, faking a dig for her keys while reading the brass placard to figure out which one took her to the thirty-seventh floor. She glanced back at the guard, who openly stared at her.

  It was the clothes, no doubt. Jessica would endure physical torture before she’d ever wear a skin-tight wife-beater tank, Army-Navy store cargo pants, and biker boots. The bell dinged and in a moment, she was safe in a marble and mirrored elevator car, staring at her reflection in the smoky glass.

  She stabbed her fingers into the “modified spikes” her hairdresser had re-created from Jessica’s publicity shot, and stifled a giggle of anticipation. Leaning closer to the mirror, she dabbed at her lip gloss and brushed a smudge of melted mascara from under her eye.

  As long as no one saw them together, they could pull it off. Next to each other, they were easily identifiable. One had perfect hair, tailored clothes, a confident tilt to her chin, and that elusive sparkle in her eye that wowed the camera and anyone else within a five-mile radius. The other…well, that would be Jasmine Adams.

  But one week with Jazz filling in at the anchor desk of WMFL Channel Five News would not ruin Jessica’s charmed career. In fact, Jess was certain her career would catapult because of what she was doing off-camera while Jazz was on. She’d refused to give a single detail about what it was, but tonight, Jessica would explain.