He'd wanted her the minute he first laid eyes on her. The most beautiful thing he'd ever seen, he wanted to wrap her around his throat like a tie, wear her body like a fine cashmere jacket, and feel her lips on his cock every moment of every day. He wanted to cage her close to him, always with him, so he could have her whenever the whim struck.

He wanted to own her.

For Halloween night, she hid her perfect features behind a black feather mask shot through with threads of red. Eyes the rich shade of aged cognac glittered in the eyeholes, mocking him with arrogance, desire and power. Another of her fantasies lay in wait for him tonight. His cock jumped to life.

The black velvet cocktail dress skimmed her thighs, barely covering the beckoning delight of her plump, hot snatch. She'd draped her arms in long, black satin, above-the-elbow gloves that he needed to feel on his skin. Black stockings and black suede fuck-me pumps completed the ensemble. Her sable hair curled down the center of her back.

He loved her hair, loved running his hands through it, fisting his fingers in it when she sucked him off.

"Hold out your hands, palms up."

She did as she was told. He fisted both hands above hers. "Pick one."

In his right, she'd find a tennis bracelet, sapphires set in gold. In his left, she'd find the key to a newly furnished condo. Whichever she picked, he'd give her the bracelet as an appetizer and the key as dessert after he came on her face. Or inside her.

She dropped her hands. Something indefinable flickered in her eyes behind the mask. "No."

All his carefully laid plans went up in smoke. For now, he hid his anger beneath his own golden mask, the one she'd given him, cajoled him to wear. "Why?"

"I don't like surprises."

"You love them. What about the time I finger-fucked you while the bartender served your drink? You loved that surprise."

"Sex is never a surprise."

Her deep, silky voice melted his anger. He put his hands in his jacket pockets and let the gifts fall from his fingers into the depths. He'd blown it. But there would be another time, another place. He'd give her the presents then, force her take them if he had to.

Drawing his hands out, he cupped the front of his pants, giving her the universal gesture. "How about this for a present?"

She smiled, her teeth even and pearly white, thousands of dollars of dental perfection. He wanted her mouth on him.

"That's more like it," she purred, like a cat. Turning, she swept a hand across the desktop. Pencils, pens, holder, letter opener, post-it pads went flying to the carpet. She hopped on the polished mahogany and spread her legs.

She wasn't wearing panties. She didn't believe in them. They hampered her job, she'd told him once. Lace edged the tops of her thigh-high stockings. God, to sink himself inside her was a dying man's fantasy.

"Do me," she whispered.

"I'll turn out the lights."

"Don't."

He glanced out the windows of the high-rise. They were on the twenty-second floor. Lights still blazed in the twin building across Market Street, and there was movement behind the glass.

"You're wearing a mask, and this isn't your office," she coaxed.

Her voice seduced him. She was right. No one would know. The office belonged to his wife.

He started to unzip his pants.

She put her arm out, hand fisted, the black of her satin gloves glistening against her creamy flesh. "Hold out your hand."

For the second time that night, she cut him off. He didn't like the little power play. She still had a lot to learn about him. "No."

She tipped her head to the side, her mask's feathers brushing her shoulders. Her eyes glittered. Her lips smiled. "You wanna fuck me?"

Yes, she needed a lesson. But he had months ahead to teach her, years. For now ... he held out his hand as she instructed.

She dropped the gold-wrapped condom onto his palm. He made quick work of it, then slipped between her thighs. She fell back against the wood desktop and moaned. Her pussy glistened, beckoning. The lights of the San Francisco high-rises burned across her body as he entered her, then rocked against her, intensity and speed building. Suddenly he liked the sensation of an audience, liked the idea that a beautiful woman might be sitting alone in her office. Watching. Lifting her skirt. Putting her hand between her legs. Fucking herself with her fingers. Coming in a hot, creamy flow.

He shot his wad in an explosion of color. He might have screamed. She certainly did. She was the best he'd ever had, ever would have.

She was worth every penny he'd paid for her.

Chapter One

"Now blow, Max. Really hard."

Max gave Witt the evil eye. He grinned. A shit-eating grin.

"DeWitt, behave yourself," Ladybird Long admonished her son.

Witt behave? He wouldn't be the bane of Max's existence if he behaved. He also wouldn't be half as interesting or anywhere near as sexy.

With one deep breath, Max Starr blew out all thirty-three candles on her birthday cake.

"Oh my, oh my. What strong lungs you have. Now you have to cut your cake." Ladybird held the biggest knife Max had ever seen.

"And don't forget, I like mine big, Max, very big." DeWitt Quentin Long, homicide detective, and Max's sort-of boyfriend, smiled. Scrumptious in his black suit, charcoal shirt, and red tie, he made her tingle. She loved red and black, especially on him. She'd even come to love the blond hair and dimple in his chin.

Ladybird slugged him in the arm. Thank goodness she didn't use the hand that still held the knife. "DeWitt, I know that was some kind of sexual innuendo. Control yourself. You're embarrassing Max. And get out of your father's chair."

Witt, despite being a foot taller than his mother, vacated his seat at the head of the table. Ladybird had cleared five chairs of the stacks of grocery store flyers, advertisements, and magazines she refused to throw out due to a slightly irrational fear of dumpster divers. She was afraid someone would get her address labels. What was frightening about that, especially since a lot of them were addressed to "Resident," Max had yet to figure out.

So, seat number four was Horace's. But what about the fifth?

Max had two things in common with Ladybird. First was the fact they both talked to the spirits of their dead husbands, the only difference being that Ladybird's Horace had been dead for fifteen years and Cameron only two. Finding out you aren't the only person living with a ghost had been a real bonding experience. Then, of course, there was a fondness for that big brute of a son. Ladybird adored her son. Max didn't quite adore, but did at least like him most of the time.

"If you want her to cut, Mom, you better give her the knife."

Max took the proffered blade and pulled out the burned candles. This was her first birthday party in over two years, even if it was only Witt and his mother. She hadn't been a social creature since Cameron died, but damn if she wasn't beginning to like these little get-togethers with the Long family, deceased members included. If she didn't watch out, she might even start depending on them. Scary thought.

She cut through layers of whipped cream ... and whipped cream ... and more whipped cream, finally hitting chocolate pay dirt somewhere near the cake plate. It was a wonder the candles hadn't sunk into the middle of all the white goo.

Ladybird clapped her hands as Max lifted out the first piece, a big piece, whipped cream dripping all over. The creation was definitely the most bizarre thing Max had ever seen.

"It's a bowl cake," Ladybird said proudly.

"A bowl cake?" Witt echoed, staring at the half-inch layer of chocolate cake amidst all that white sweetness.

"Well, I have to admit it was the first cake I've baked from scratch in over twenty years. I don't know what I did wrong, but the middle fell when I took it out of the oven. I didn't want to waste it, so I filled it with whipped cream." She flapped a hand. Thank God she didn't have the knife anymore. "The girls at the church will love the leftovers."

Ladybird's blue hair sparkled in the light of the small dining room's chandelier. She was a tiny woman. Max had always found it hard to believe she could have produced a giant like Witt. The only thing he'd inherited from his mother was a pair of brilliant blue eyes.

Max finished dishing out three plates of the bowl cake and set the knife down at the edge of the serving dish.

"Oh my dear, you must have more than that."

Max looked down at the tiny slice she'd given herself.

"You're such a slip of a thing," Ladybird added. Cameron, less polite, would have called her anorexic at five-foot six-inches and a bit over one hundred pounds.

Max dutifully added another scoop--slice wasn't really the right word--to her plate, then handed the desserts around.

Ladybird gasped.

"What?" Max looked to make sure she hadn't dropped gobs of whipped cream on the tablecloth.

"You forgot Horace and Cameron."

Ah, the fifth chair was for Cameron. It was one thing for Max to talk with her late lamented husband. It was quite another to invite him to a dinner party with Witt present.

Max turned to Witt for guidance. Busy shoveling whipped cream and minuscule bits of chocolate cake into his mouth, he gave her that cool blue stare of his, the one that said you're on your own, babe.

"Horace loved cake," Ladybird went on. "I always cut him a piece so he doesn't feel left out. Don't you feel the same about Cameron?"

Max smiled and picked up the knife to cut two more pieces.

* * * *

They sat in Witt's truck outside her second-floor studio apartment. Max was partial to his black Dodge Ram. Maybe it was the red decals that really did it for her. Who could tell? But sitting inside, all comfy and cozy with him, was a dangerous thing. She wished she'd left her porch light on to alleviate a little of the dark intimacy. She'd never been partial to big men with blond buzz cuts and a cleft in the chin. Dudley Do-Right look-a-likes had never turned her on.

Not until Witt.

He turned the radio on low, a jazz station. Soft piano music filled the cab. So did the musky scent of his aftershave. She didn't know what brand, probably something with sex in the title.

"Want your present?"

Her mid-section lurched. "You didn't get me a present."

He raised a blond brow. "Did, too."

"What?"

"Gotta come over here if you want to see it."

She narrowed her eyes. "Not that kind of present."

He smiled, all white teeth and sly male. He smiled like that a lot lately. She could remember a time when she didn't think the man even knew how to smile. They'd come a long way in two months. Way too far.

She glanced down at the console between them. Ah, a safety net. "I am not climbing over this thing."

He reached out almost faster than her eye could follow and flipped the console back. Damn. It was retractable.

"Thought you were safe all this time, huh?" He grinned again and leaned a little closer.

She'd had no idea the cab really had a bench seat. No idea at all. If she had, she never would have gotten inside the thing with him. Not the first time, and certainly not now, when he'd had that gleam in his eye all night, even with his mother around.

Witt had a way of getting her to do things against her better judgment. One kiss, one touch, and she lost her sense of propriety. Well, not propriety, since she didn't have much of that to begin with. More like her sense of self-preservation. Witt was a too-tempting morsel. Especially naked.

"Why don't you tell me again about your little fantasy in my truck?"

Darn. She knew telling him about that was a mistake. On the phone, late at night, his smoky hot voice in her ear, she'd felt a little safer revealing her predilection. An explicit revelation. But now he had that look. No big deal. She could handle a little amorousness and still hold him at bay.

Though really, what was the point when she'd already let him have his wicked way with her? His wicked, delightful, delirious and orgasmic way with her.

The point, the point, what was it? Oh yeah. She needed to hold him at bay because ... because ... relationships were dangerous things. A girl could end up needing a big lug like him too much. A girl could get dependent. A girl could open herself to a world of hurt. She'd been down that road before.

Sex, she could handle. What she'd done with Witt had been so much more.

She shuddered with fear and desire, foreboding and need.

Her only mode of self-protection was to make sure she never initiated anything with him. As long as she could control that, she could hold back pieces of herself.

"Taking a long time to answer, Max. You shouldn't think so much. Might make you lose brain cells."

She reached for the door handle with her right hand. He grabbed her left with one big hand, pulled her back and then retreated once again to his side of the cab. Laugh lines fanned out from his eyes. "Just teasing, sweetheart."

Damn. If he'd go ahead and jump her, they wouldn't have to fight about it. She could put up a token fight, then give in without having to commit herself. God, he was too knowing. Too understanding at times. Sometimes she wished he'd squash her every time she got flighty and fighty like this. She deserved to be squashed, but it was also a very good way to distance herself from him.

Except that the one and only time he had squashed her, that humongous blowout a few days ago, hadn't exactly created that distancing effect, probably because she knew absolutely that she'd been at fault. One of these days, Witt would up and leave when he'd had enough of her crap. That's what he'd done to his ex-wife. He'd as much as told Max he'd do that to her, too, if she pushed him too far. That declaration should have made her feel more secure, given her the perfect out when she needed it.

Instead she still felt like she was walking on eggshells.

"Why don'tcha tell me what's been bothering you all night?"

She swallowed. "Nothing."

He dragged her closer until their knees were touching. "Liar. Had another vision, didn't ya?"

Vision. Not dream. Two months ago, he hadn't believed a word she said. Now he was asking her about her "visions." It felt good. Too good. Besides, it was so much easier talking about visions than thinking about her growing attachment to Witt. "It wasn't like the others."

"Tell me." He sounded like he was asking her to take off her clothes.

"Nobody died at the end." Usually they did. Usually the murdered woman somehow managed to take over Max's emotions, even her actions. Sort of like possession. Thank God it hadn't happened this time. She didn't feel the slightest inkling of another presence in her body. But there was still something very unsettling about the experience.

"What happened?"

She ran a hand through her short, dark hair. Definitely a nervous gesture. She dropped her hands to her lap. "A man and a woman. And they were..." She couldn't say it.

"Having sex."

Role reversal. Last time her vision had been about sex, he was the one who couldn't say the words. Showed how much their relationship had changed. Witt now had the upper hand. "Yeah ... they were doing that."

He chuckled, and when she looked at him, his blue eyes were sparkling much like his mother's. "Love your dreams, Max."

She breezed past that innuendo. "It wasn't like the other visions. I'm not even sure it was a vision." Except...

"But it was, wasn't it?"

The man was always reading her mind. It was another thing that made him like Cameron, another thing that unnerved her. She'd already watched one man she loved die. She wasn't up to another relationship, especially with a cop whose life was constantly on the line, yet she wasn't up to telling Witt to get lost either. Having sex with him had been a big-time mistake.

But she knew she'd make that same mistake again.

She put her hand to her hair again, stopped in mid-touch. "It's the way the dreams feel. I know when I'm not ... me. When I'm dreaming about other people. Real people."

The soft music filled the silence. He regarded her from his side of the cab. She was almost sure he wanted to slide over next to her, but was waiting for the invite. Then he said, "Suppose we'll have to wait until something else pops into that psychic little brain of yours."

"You'll be the first to know." She bit her lip, unsure of herself. "Okay, I'm ready for my present."

She waited for him to exact a price. He didn't. Instead, he reached to his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a small wrapped box. Not flat like a jewelry case, not square like a ring box. Max took it gingerly. It was light. She shook it like a child. It didn't rattle, but something moved. Tearing off the wrapping, she stared until she started to laugh.

It was a toy Dodge Ram, three inches long. Black with red decals. She took it out of the box.

"Put it by your bedside."

"What? So I can think about you?"

He just smiled. They were both thinking about the Dodge Ram fantasy she'd told him.

The temperature in the cab rose a few scorching degrees. Her mouth went dry. Those fantasies were dangerous, especially when she was sitting with him in his Ram. "It's time for me to go in."

"Yeah." He didn't move, not to open the door and not to lean across to kiss her. He waited like a spider, spinning a web with that blazing look in his eyes.

"I'm starting a new temp job tomorrow at seven." Her bank account was dangerously low. Of course, she could have dipped into the blood money fund--proceeds from Cameron's life insurance--but she'd sworn never to touch it.

"The job is setting up a consolidating company." She was an accountant by trade, a former CPA, and good at what she did. She was also babbling, nervous as hell with Witt's silence and the predatory glitter in his gaze.

"Come here, Max." He pointed to the spot right next to his thigh. She eyed all his delicious, powerful muscles.

"I just told you I have to get up early."

He slid over to her side, melding that tempting thigh to hers. "You're a hard woman."

He was a hard man if that bulge in his jeans meant anything. He also smelled too damn good. She shrank against the door while her mind and body screamed to jump in his lap.

"Witt, behave yourself." She hoped the repetition of his mother's admonishment would cool his ardor before hers flared out of control.

No such luck. He trailed a finger from the hollow at her throat to the first open button on her blouse, taking him deep into cleavage territory. "That wouldn't be much fun," he rumbled, the sound vibrating inside her.

Danger, Will Robinson! Involuntarily, her nipples peaked against her bra.

"Now isn't that an interesting reaction?" He hummed in this throat. "Cops always read body language to see if a suspect's lying."

She couldn't breathe without inhaling his aftershave and hot male scent.

"And lookee here. Your pulse is fluttering. Another sign we detectives look for." He leaned in, licking her throat. She almost moaned.

"Undo your blouse," he whispered.

Maybe it was okay, since he was doing the asking. She fumbled with two buttons, his chin slightly stubbled and enticing against the back of her hand.

"Now your bra."

She popped the front clasp, and he was there, a big warm hand cupping her, a roughened finger caressing her burgeoning nipple, then his tongue and lips sucking her into the depths of his mouth. With a hand at the small of her back, he arched her against him.

Shit, oh shit. So good. Heat shot between her legs as she juiced up. He palmed her, sliding a finger down the crease through her slacks. Then he bit her nipple. Light. Exquisite.

Max exploded in a flash of brilliant colors behind her closed lids. He rode her little storm, working her panties and her nipple until her need became a physical ache to have him inside her.

She pushed on his shoulders and sucked in air. Her thigh lay across his legs, and she slumped against the door. "That was an unfair interrogative technique, Detective. I know you're not allowed to touch the suspect."

"A cop's gotta take advantage when a suspect's hard to crack." His own breathing was a little harsh, the planes of his face hardened. He spread his hand in the vee of flesh through her gaping blouse.

God, she wanted him to finish it, rip her pants off and drive straight home inside her.

"What do you want, Max?" Hot blue eyes sparked at her. As if he could read her mind. And her body.

"I gave it to myself, thank you very much."

"I gave you that orgasm."

She snorted. "You barely touched me."

He smiled, a devilish grin on a sinful mouth. "Yeah, right. I made you come with one touch and your nipple between my teeth."

She couldn't let him win the round, even if her body screamed for more. "For your information, I can self-induce orgasms just by thinking. I am psychic, you know."

"And I happened to be here at the time you were self-inducing?" He smirked, not buying the explanation at all.

Still, she fought a valiant battle. "Yeah."

He pulled back, giving her breathing space, his hands dropping away, his big warm body no longer touching hers. "Then do it again."

Oops. Outmaneuvered. She should have known he'd pull a fast one. "One's enough for tonight."

"Cheater." He grinned, taking the bite out.

"I have to go in. I've got an early day." She fumbled with her bra.

Witt reached out, brushing her breasts with the backs of his fingers, and redid the clasp, then buttoned her blouse.

She'd half hoped he would leave it all undone and beg her to let him follow her upstairs to finish what he'd started. Of course, she'd have to acquiesce. It was only fair that he should get an orgasm, too.

"There," he whispered. "All put together again." Then he shifted back to his side of the truck.

But ... but ... Wasn't he going to ask?

"What, Max? Looks like you want to ask me something."

"No. Nothing." Yes. She wanted way more than nothing from him.

The music faded away, and the ten o'clock news roundup came on.

Max waited. Witt didn't move, studying her with a knowing gaze. He wanted her to beg. No way. That would give him too much power over her.

The commentator read through the national news tidbits, things she'd already heard earlier in the day.

"Thought you had to go in," he said. "New job tomorrow and all."

The fiend. He did intend to make her do the inviting. Well, it was one thing to give in, quite another to make the offer. She wouldn't. She was strong. She didn't need to beg. She didn't need him.

The newscaster started with the top local story, a man found murdered in a downtown San Francisco high-rise. The police were looking for any information concerning the woman witnesses had last seen with him, a woman wearing a black-feathered Mardi Gras mask.

Max straightened in her seat, a rush of icy sensation from her head to her toes.

A murdered man in a high-rise.

A woman hiding behind a mask.

Max pounced on the radio, fingers on the volume dial. She got that twitchy psychic feeling she hated. Goosebumps rose along her arms. "Jesus Christ, that's him."

His name was Lance La Russa, and he had to have been the man in her vision.