Three knocks rattled the apartment's thin paneled door. He waited. If it was Wescott or Donovan, they'd call his name. He held his breath and gripped his nine millimeter.

The doorknob jiggled. A key clinked in the lock. Then the knob turned, and the door eased open.

In the spill of light into the room, he saw a gloved hand at the door's edge. A hand holding a small automatic.

Before the intruder could make a move, Rick knocked away the pistol.

A sharp gasp of shock and surprise. Then the intruder slammed his chest with something hard, knocking the breath from his lungs. Before he recovered enough to get a good hold, the smaller man swung a kick.

Letting his thigh take the blow, Rick flipped his attacker and slammed on top of him. Darkness prevented a clear look. He jabbed his gun barrel at the guy's throat. "Federal agent. Give it up, and you won't get hurt."

The intruder cocked his head in a careful nod.

Easing off his captive, Rick reached inside the unzipped coat to pat down for weapons. A wool sweater covered a slight torso with curves and soft, round . . . breasts.

What the hell?

As he lifted his gun from her throat and sat back on his heels, the woman dragged in a deep breath. "You . . . you," she gasped, "Nazi bully. This is what I pay taxes for? To be crushed and then groped?"

At her outburst, his lips twitched with a smile. The kid's girlfriend? An accomplice? She sounded irate, but not street tough. He kept his gun on her and flicked the light switch.

In the glare of the bare overhead bulb, the woman blinked. She had a turned–up nose and wide mouth, lips clamped in displeasure. Her eyes shot green fire at him.

He leaned across her to retrieve her gun, but found instead a more innocuous item. Chagrinned, he handed her the small flashlight.

Beside the woman lay a voluminous purse. Her ramming weapon.

He quickly checked the contents. Wallet, zippered day planner, hairbrush, and various other female junk, but no weapons other than the leaden bag. "I expected to see bricks inside."

"I wish." Her chin shot up a notch. It was gently pointed, emphasizing the heart shape of her face.

"You can get up now." Rising, he offered her a hand. "Who are you?"

Refusing his help, she scooted backward before leaping to her feet in an agile motion. Reddish curls threatened to spring free of a carnivorous–toothed clip. Little butterfly earrings dangled from her earlobes. "First I want to see ID. You have a badge, don't you?"

He tucked away his gun and refrained from pointing out the word POLICE on his raid jacket. "Yes, ma'am, Special Agent Ricardo Cruz of the U. S. Drug Enforcement Administration." He held up his ID case.

Juliana Paris's racing heart gradually slowed to a jog. Gathering poise, she took her time studying the official card. DEA? For all his self–absorption and impulsiveness, Jordan was a straight arrow about drugs. It made no sense.

The agent regarded her with professional suspicion. Mocking her efforts at cool control, her cheeks burned under the scrutiny. She made a production of stashing the flashlight, cracked and probably useless, in her bag.

"I suppose you're who you say you are, but what are you doing in my brother's apartment—in the dark?" Straightening to her full five–foot–three, she folded her arms.

"Your brother." The DEA agent rubbed his knuckles on his jaw. "Can you prove that Jordan Paris is your brother?"

She would not be reduced to jelly by a good–looking man with a sexy voice. "Prove? Not really." She rummaged in her bag. "But here's my driver's license."

Agent Cruz didn't take the license from her, but framed the hand holding it with his own. "Portsmouth, New Hampshire? You drove here this afternoon?"

She nodded.

He continued to grip her hand. His tanned fingers contrasted starkly with her pale redhead's skin. When he released her, she snatched back her hand as if from a flame.

"Why the flashlight?"

"Sometimes Jordan forgets to pay his electricity bills. My brother has issues but he's no criminal." For the first time, the condition of the room registered. Everything strewn around. One hand flew to her throat. "What's going on? What have you done?"

"First explain why you're here and what you know about Jordan's recent activities." He gestured for her to take a seat.

Until he sat, she would stand. She wasn't about to have him looming over her. "I'm not sure what Jordan's been up to lately. That's sort of why I came."

"You must know where he works." His gaze concealed whether he knew the answer.

"Until two months ago, he worked for Vinson Seafood on a dragger. When the boat went in for repairs, he was laid off. He's been out of work since."

Juliana wished he wouldn't keep looking at her with such concentrated focus. It was unnerving. She licked her lower lip.

As if too warm, the agent threw off his windbreaker. His black flak vest emblazoned with the yellow letters DEA confirmed his status. His black turtleneck and pants displayed a trim yet powerful build. With a cape, this man would make a better Zorro than that Spanish actor. No, she wouldn't think of him that way. She blinked away the image.