CHAPTER 2

He held the envelope out to her.

Morgan took it, and dread immediately tightened in her stomach.

She knew that handwriting.

Her blood seemed to turn cold.

Dear God. How did he find me here? And how could he have found me so fast?

No.

Her hands shook as she opened the envelope. Her breathing had already become shallow by the time she pulled out its contents.

Red rose petals spilled onto the blond hardwood floor.

Some were still fresh, their centers damp, while others had browned around the edges. They scattered across the room in ugly little splashes of red.

For one horrifying second, they looked like drops of blood.

Morgan gasped.

He knew where she was.

He had found her.

Her eyes dropped to the photographs.

The first showed her arriving at LAX on the day she'd left for Houston.

The second had been taken in Brandon's backyard. She was wearing thin sweatpants and a tank top, standing outside in the cool morning air.

The third made her stomach twist.

She was dressed in her sage silk-and-lace shift and matching robe, kissing Brandon's cheek in the driveway before he'd left for work.

The photograph had been taken that morning.

Fear clawed through her as Brandon snatched the pictures from her numb fingers.

He flipped through them, his jaw tightening.

“These came from your stalker, didn't they?”

Morgan couldn't answer.

“He's been here.” Brandon swore under his breath. “Son of a bitch.”

He dragged a hand through his brown hair, ruining the neat banker-style cut.

“I'm calling the police.”

“I wish it were that easy.”

Brandon looked at her.

“The police in L.A. told me he has to actually commit a crime before they'll put serious resources into finding him. Taking pictures isn't illegal.”

“He's been on my property.”

Brandon held up the photograph of her in his backyard.

“My backyard is private. He couldn't have taken this without trespassing. That's a crime.”

He grabbed the nearest cordless phone and dialed 911.

Morgan didn't argue.

Brandon was right about the trespassing. She simply wasn't convinced the Houston police would be any more interested than the officers in Los Angeles had been.

The man hadn't stolen anything.

He hadn't damaged anything.

He hadn't physically hurt anyone.

Not yet.

But Morgan could feel the situation changing.

The more frequently he contacted her, the more personal his messages became. Now he'd followed her from California to Texas.

Her instincts told her he was getting angrier.

Unfortunately, instincts weren't evidence.

Brandon hung up.

“They'll be here soon.”

Morgan nodded weakly.

There wasn't much else she could do.

While they waited, she began gathering the photographs and pushing them back into the envelope. Her fingers stopped when they encountered something inside.

Another piece of paper.

She frowned and reached deeper into the envelope.

Usually, the disturbed bastard sent photographs. Terrifying photographs, sometimes shockingly private ones, but photographs were all he'd ever sent.

This time was different.

Morgan pulled out a small scrap of paper.

Black handwriting covered it.

Only one sentence.

You belong to me. Only to me.

She swallowed.

For the first time, he wasn't simply watching her.

He was talking directly to her.

Claiming her.

And now she understood something else.

He was angry.

He believed she belonged to someone else.

He didn't know Brandon was her half-brother. He'd believed the cover story Brandon had created, partly to explain why Morgan was staying at his house and partly to discourage the obsessive man from getting any closer.

Morgan hated the thought of being alone.

Yet another part of her felt relieved that Brandon was leaving tomorrow.

If the stalker decided to eliminate what he believed was competition, Brandon wouldn't be there when it happened.

During the three weeks Brandon was gone, Morgan would find somewhere else to stay.

She had to.

Brandon had been the only one of Senator Ross's sons who had ever cared enough to find her, protect her, and treat her like family.

She couldn't put him in danger.

Maybe Reggie had been right.

Maybe she really did need a bodyguard.

“You honestly have no idea who this guy is?”

Brandon's voice pulled her back.

He was looking over her shoulder at the note.

“None.”

Morgan shook her head.

“I wish I did. I don't have any enemies at work that I know of. And my ex-fiancé left me. I didn't leave him.”

“Someone who's watched your show?”

Brandon's expression hardened.

“A fan who doesn't understand boundaries?”

“Maybe.”

Morgan shrugged.

“I've gotten strange fan mail before. But nothing like this. Nothing threatening. Nothing that invaded my privacy.”

Brandon looked at her.

“I'm going to find someone who can figure this out, kiddo. I'm not letting anything happen to you.”

Morgan's chest tightened.

Sometimes she wondered how she and Brandon could possibly have come from the same father as Senator Ross's other sons.

They were nothing like him.

Nothing like his greedy, ambitious children, either.

“Damn it.”

Brandon suddenly broke the silence.

“I wish like hell I didn't have to leave tomorrow.”

He looked at the clock.

“The car is picking me up at five hundred. Couldn't be worse timing.”

He shook his head.

“Uncle Sam can be a demanding mistress.”

Morgan knew very little about what Brandon actually did.

He wasn't allowed to tell her.

From the things he'd said during the three years since he'd discovered the skeleton hidden in their father's closet and tracked her down, she'd guessed he worked in Intelligence.

She didn't know for whom.

“If you hate the job so much, and you want to run for office as badly as I know you do, why don't you quit?”

For once, Brandon didn't answer immediately.

He looked away.

Morgan watched his hands curl into fists.

Then, with visible effort, he relaxed them.

“I can't.”

The next afternoon, Morgan lowered herself into a wrought-iron chair outside a small sidewalk café tucked among a charming collection of independent shops.

The February weather was warmer than she'd expected. The afternoon air felt heavy and almost lazy, a surprising change from what she'd imagined Louisiana would be like this time of year.

She hadn't slept much.

Exhaustion dragged at her eyes as she checked her watch.

Three o'clock.

She'd made good time driving from Houston.

Master J should arrive any minute.

Her stomach tightened.

Partly because she was nervous about meeting him.

Partly because she couldn't shake the sensation that someone was watching her.

Morgan glanced around.

The feeling had been there since she'd arrived.

Eyes following her.

Measuring her.

Waiting.

The hairs along the back of her neck rose.

She searched the crowd.

Nothing.

She drew a slow breath.

Maybe she was becoming paranoid.

But after everything that had happened, could anyone blame her?

If the man had followed her from Los Angeles to Houston, there was no reason to believe Lafayette was beyond his reach.

At least she was sitting in the middle of a busy public square in broad daylight.

That should make her relatively safe.

Unless he recognized her.

If he saw her meeting another man, especially someone as attractive as Master J, he might assume the worst.

And if he believed she was replacing him—or Brandon, as he'd assumed—his anger could become something much more dangerous.

Morgan pushed the thought away.

She couldn't think about tonight.

Not yet.

She had to treat this meeting as business.

If her stalker was watching, she didn't want him seeing anything that could be interpreted as romantic or sexual.

She adjusted her scarf and pulled her hat lower, making certain her hair remained hidden. Then she pushed her sunglasses higher on her nose.

Nobody should recognize her like this.

At least, that was what she told herself.

After the interview, she might find that little European-style bed-and-breakfast she'd noticed while driving into town. A few hours of sleep would help.

Then she'd figure out what to do next.

A waiter approached with a broad smile, his white teeth contrasting sharply with his dark skin.

Morgan returned the smile.

“Iced tea, please.”

He nodded and walked away.

Morgan pulled the oversized coat she'd borrowed from Brandon's closet farther down over her hips. She flipped up the collar.

The waiter returned with her drink.

Morgan checked her watch.

Three-oh-five.

She'd give Master J a few more minutes.

Still, sitting here suddenly felt like a mistake.

She was exposed.

If the man really was nearby, she had nowhere to hide.

“You must be Morgan.”

The deep voice came from directly behind her.

His words were barely more than a whisper.

Warm breath brushed the side of her neck.

Morgan shivered.

She spun around.

She hadn't heard him approach.

Not a single footstep.

And then she saw him.

For a moment, she forgot about her stalker altogether.

He was devastatingly handsome.

Thick dark hair framed his broad forehead. His angular jaw and cleft chin were covered with the faint shadow of a beard, giving him a ruggedness that made him look even more masculine.

His wide mouth curved into something between a smile and a challenge.

But it was his eyes that held her.

Dark.

Confident.

Knowing.

They seemed to look straight through her.

As if he already knew everything she was trying to hide.

Morgan's gaze dropped before she could stop herself.

He stood around six feet tall, with broad shoulders and a solid, muscular build beneath his fitted black T-shirt.

There was nothing flashy about him.

He simply looked powerful.

Steady.

Like someone who didn't need to prove he was strong because everyone around him could already see it.

Morgan's pulse jumped.

Attraction hit her so quickly it almost embarrassed her.

Thank God this was happening in public.

Because if she had to spend more than an hour alone with this man, she wasn't sure she could trust herself.

She swallowed.

“Yes. I'm Morgan.”

She extended her hand.

He took it.

But instead of shaking it, he kept his gaze locked on hers, bent slightly, and lifted her hand to his mouth.

His lips touched her fingers.

Morgan's breath caught.

Heat rushed up her arm.

Her heartbeat became erratic.

He lingered just long enough to make the gesture feel deliberate before releasing her.

Morgan felt a strange tingling in her palm.

She pulled her hand back.

“Thank you for meeting me here, Mr…”

She hesitated.

“What should I call you? I don't even know your real name.”

His smile deepened.

“For now, just call me sir.”

The word landed differently than she expected.

“Okay.”

She cleared her throat.

“Yes, sir.”

The instant the words left her mouth, Morgan wished she could take them back.

They sounded far too intimate.

Far too submissive.

And judging by the amusement in his eyes, he knew exactly what she'd heard in her own voice.

Morgan suddenly wondered what it would feel like to say those words when nobody else was around.

She reached for her tea, desperate for something to do.

“So, according to the biography I received, you're in personal security.”

“That's right.”

He shrugged.

“I protect politicians and their families, diplomats, athletes. Whoever needs the service.”

“You must meet some interesting people.”

She glanced at him.

“Celebrities, too?”

The corner of his mouth lifted.

“Too flaky.”

Morgan blinked.

He continued.

“Politicians lie, but at least their lies are predictable. Hollywood people are either paranoid, self-absorbed, or as crazy as the people stalking them.”

His gaze settled on her.

“No thanks.”

Morgan couldn't decide whether she was offended.

Or amused.

“I'm none of those things.”

“Give it time.”

He winked.

Morgan nearly laughed.

Incorrigible.

That was the word for him.

There was just enough arrogance to make him irritating, just enough humor to make it difficult to stay annoyed, and more than enough Southern charm to make a woman forget she was supposed to have common sense.

She swallowed.

The waiter returned.

Master J ordered chicory coffee.

When the waiter placed the thick, dark drink in front of him moments later, Morgan wrinkled her nose.

“Tell me about your show.”

His words sounded casual.

But there was something underneath them.

A quiet authority.

Not forceful.

Not aggressive.

Still, she heard it.

And her stomach tightened.

“Turn Me On is a combination of interviews and factual segments exploring different aspects of sexual relationships.”

She settled into the explanation, grateful to have something professional to focus on.

“We cover everything from fairly conventional relationships to things most people would consider outside the mainstream. Last season, we did an episode on first-date etiquette, another on friends with benefits, and another about couples with tattoo fantasies.”

She smiled.

“This will be our second season. I was thrilled when the network renewed us. Since their programming is aimed primarily at women and couples, I think the show fits perfectly.”

Master J took a slow drink of his coffee.

“Tell me what you're planning for this season.”

Again, the request sounded more like an instruction than a question.

Morgan noticed.

She also noticed that she didn't mind.

“Well, we're still working through the ideas. But we're definitely considering episodes on boudoir photography, couples' massage, erotic finger painting, and—”