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  He leaned across the sweet potatoes and took her hands in his.

  "That's simple , Kelly Madison," he said. "I want you."

  Uncle Sam couldn't have said it better.

  "Now I'm not going to jump to conclusions this time," said Kelly, despite her leaping pulses. "I'm going to assume you're speaking professionally." Which was a ridiculous thing to assume with her hands clasped in his over the sweet potatoes. She paused, waiting for a response that didn't come. "I am right, aren't I?"

  "You have what I need, Ms. Madison."

  Did he have any idea how incredibly erotic that sentence sounded? His smoky voice slid over the simplest of words, imbuing them with implications he probably didn't even realize.

  "I work with the speaking voice," she said, "and yours needs no improvement."

  "I have an accent. You said so yourself this afternoon."

  "A charming accent," she stressed. "I wouldn't change it."

  "You flatter me."

  "I don't believe in flattery, Mr. Steel. It's counterproductive." Not to mention, a glossed-over form of lying that she'd seen enough of in her movie-set days.

  "Accents are a detriment in the business world."

  "Strong accents, perhaps. Yours should prove no problem."

  "My English is imperfect."

  She laughed. "Your English is better than mine."

  "I understand," he said, releasing her hands. "This is your way of saying you are not interested."

  "No. This is my way of saying I don't see the need for my services." She must be losing her mind; all she could think of was how much she longed for the touch of his hand again.

  "Let me be the judge of that."

  What on earth was going on? She was an expert at closing doors. Another man would have turned tail and run long before this.

  Out of your league, Madison. Get out while you still can.

  "I'm afraid this is getting us nowhere," she said, rising. "I'm sorry this wonderful dinner didn't bring you the dividends you expected."

  He stood up and she lost the edge. "I intimidate you."

  "Don't be ridiculous."

  "You are accustomed to men you can manipulate."

  He's right, Madison. He's the first man to ever understand what you're all about.

  She swept regally through the French doors with Mr. Macho right behind. "I knew dinner and business wouldn't mix."

  "Dinner is over."

  She glared at him. "For a man who has trouble with the English language, you seem to do a wonderful job manipulating it to your own advantage."

  Turning, she reached for the telephone to call room service to fetch the trays but his hand on her forearm stopped her.

  If he seemed intimidating across the dinner table, he was downright overwhelming up close.

  "Give me an hour of your time," he said, his hand warm upon her arm. "Let me explain my situation so you can make a decision from knowledge, not emotion."

  "That's an arrogant male assumption if I've ever heard one, Mr. Steel. My emotions are kept out of business." She looked pointedly toward the king-size bed pushing up against the back of his legs. "This is hardly the place for a business discussion."

  "I can ignore the bed, Ms. Madison."

  Heat began to rise across her breasts and up her throat. "I'm not exactly dressed for success."

  "I can also ignore the fact you're naked beneath that robe." His grin was almost American.

  The spell was broken.

  "That does it, Steel." She placed her hands squarely on his back and propelled him toward the door. "Goodnight and goodbye. If you want to talk business, you know where my business is."

  He put on the brakes and became the Rock of Gibraltar in the middle of her hotel room. "The bar in sixty minutes, Ms. Madison. I'll explain everything then."

  Before she could answer, he was gone.

  #

  Max left the hotel, hailed the first cab he saw and five minutes later strolled into the Bali Hai Bar where Ryder O'Neal awaited him.

  "You're looking cheerful," Ryder said.

  "Champagne'll do it every time." Max motioned toward the bartender. "Club soda with ice." He looked up at the huge TV screen suspended overhead. "Who won the game?"

  "You're making me sweat, Max. I don't like to sweat." Ryder popped a macadamia nut into his mouth. "That phone call ruined my dinner."

  "Didn't do much for mine either."

  "Mission accomplished?"

  Max hesitated. "Not exactly."

  Ryder dragged a hand across his unruly hair and groaned. "Spill it, Steel."

  "We're almost there."

  "How close is almost?"

  He glanced at his Rolex. "I meet her in the hotel bar in forty-five minutes."

  "What did she say about working with you? She needs the money--your offer must've sounded pretty good."

  "We didn't get that far yet."

  "I'm getting old before my time," O'Neal muttered through clenched teeth. "Exactly how far did you get?"

  "Dessert."

  "Tell me you're kidding."

  Max sucked up his club soda and grinned. "I'm kidding."

  "Now tell me you meant that you're kidding."

  "Sorry, boss. I never could lie to you." With an economy of words PAX should be proud of, Max outlined their dinner conversation. "She's stubborn. When she says no, she means it. I'm not even sure she'll show up at the bar."

  "We don't have time to play games, Max."

  "I don't see your problem. The plan wasn't scheduled to begin until Christmas. We're a month ahead."

  Ryder tossed a twenty dollar bill on the bar and stood up. "Come on. You're going back now."

  Max followed him through the bar and out into the parking lot. "I don't get it. Why is it so important that I hook up with a speech coach? You guys have spent five years drumming this accent into me and now you want me to get rid of it? It doesn't make sense."

  Ryder grabbed him by his expensive lapels. "I don't give a damn about your accent."

  Max pulled away. "If I weren't so civilized now, I'd knock you on your butt."

  "You tried that once and lost, remember?"

  Max grunted. "I remember. That's how I got into this in the first place."

  Ryder opened the back door of the limousine so he could climb in. Max grinned as his friend donned a chauffeur's cap and got behind the wheel. Not knowing the big picture was a royal pain but this mystery assignment did have its compensations.

  "You have four hours to strike up a deal with her."

  "And what happens if it takes me five, O'Neal? Does the limo turn back into a pumpkin?"

  "No," said Ryder as he started the engine. "The limo will be fine." He eyed Max in the rearview mirror. "But Kelly Madison will be dead by New Year's."

  Chapter Seven

  Upstate New York - Thanksgiving night

  Six men were gathered around a blazing fireplace. A decanter of fine brandy rested on a low table before them and, next to it, a box of Cuban cigars.

  Five of the men were having the time of their lives.

  The sixth was fighting for his.

  The day had started with a confrontation with Andre and his goons back in the city and when that hadn't produced the desired results, they'd swept Sean to this secluded estate for a little on-the-job encouragement. His ribs still ached from that encouragement.

  "We need proof," the man named Viktor said. "Of late your loyalty has been in question."

  Sean Ryan's fingers tightened around the snifter in an attempt to stop the trembling. "I've done everything asked of me, have I not?" He took a long, dramatic pause while he sipped his brandy. "What reason have you to doubt my loyalty?"

  Viktor glanced briefly at the man to his left but his expression never varied. He looked back at Sean. "Shall we say a certain inattention to detail?"

  "Can you elaborate? I'm at a loss."

  "We would have liked you to produce your daughter for us this afternoon."

  "I tr
ied. You followed me to her apartment. She must be out of town." He paused for a moment. "It is Thanksgiving Day, you know."

  Viktor nodded thoughtfully. "There is some logic to your reasoning but it is another occasion I speak of, my friend."

  "Another?" Dear God, what had he done? The past year was a haze of booze and recriminations. Anything was possible.

  "London, four months ago, near Waterloo Bridge."

  July. A hot grey rain splashing against the window of his room.

  Fairfax in his summer tweeds laughing over the fool who'd opted for a curare-dipped needle rather than face up to what he'd become.

  It was the usual drop for Sean--a slim packet of papers in a leather attache case, casually passed to the contact at the midpoint of the bridge. Actually it was one of the more enjoyable assignments for Sean, making him think of Vivien Leigh and Robert Taylor and that old movie from the days when people knew how to make a film...

  "Shall I take your silence as an omission of guilt?"

  Sean cleared his throat and focused on a spot to the left of Viktor's bony nose. "I'm afraid my silence is more an omission of old age. I was ruminating on the Golden Age of film."

  The look on Viktor's face would have been amusing were it not for the fact Sean's life hung in the balance.

  "Allow me to refresh your memory, old friend," said Viktor, fingering the small revolver on the table before him. "That small package you carried was delivered to the wrong party."

  A forgotten litany of prayers flooded Sean's brandy-soaked brain. Duplicate copies. He'd made duplicate copies of everything, delivering the original to Viktor's emissary and the copy to his Western counterpart.

  "You're wrong, Viktor," he said, rising. "I followed instructions to the letter." Same as he'd been for the past fifteen years.

  "We would like to believe you, but there are certain incontrovertible signs that give us pause."

  "Fairfax. Ask Fairfax--he was there. He knows."

  Viktor sighed deeply and poured himself more brandy. "Ah, Sean, dear Sean, how forgetful you've become. Fairfax left us shortly after that."

  Sean's trembling spread to his legs and he reclaimed his seat. "Left?" Forty years of stage training deserted him and his voice was little more than a whisper.

  "A euphemism perhaps," said Viktor with a practiced smile, "but euphemisms do make difficult concepts easier to comprehend, do they not?"

  "You killed him."

  "He asked to be killed."

  "No one asks to be killed," said Sean.

  "Through his incompetence, Fairfax made his wishes crystal clear."

  Listen, you fool! thought Sean. This is your life he talks about.

  "Why do you tell me this?" "It is an interesting parable, one I thought you would enjoy."

  "Fairfax was my friend."

  "You have no friends. You gave up that privilege years ago."

  Sean gulped down his brandy. "Parables usually carry a moral along with them," he said, wishing he were stinking, cross-eyed drunk. "I'm certain this one does, as well." He teetered on the ragged edge of sanity.

  "Quite true," said Viktor. "The moral of this parable is we pay for our sins." He leaned back, looking quite pleased with himself. "Yes, I believe that is exactly the moral in this instance."

  "Fairfax's death was justified?"

  "Most definitely."

  "And if Fairfax was my friend, then I am somehow implicated in his fall from grace?"

  "You're a perceptive man, Sean. It is one of your greater gifts."

  "I swear to you I have done nothing against you." His heart raced like a runaway train as he tried to remember exactly how much he'd told his dead friend.

  "We would like you to prove your loyalty, Sean. We need you to prove it."

  "Anything," he said in desperation. "Anything you want." Could this be it? Maybe this wasn't the trap he'd first thought. Could this be the miracle he'd been waiting for, the escape hatch arranged by the West to finally break him out? He'd given up praying for it.

  "Your daughter."

  Sweat broke out on his forehead. "What?"

  "She's a beautiful woman, your daughter Kelly is. You should be proud."

  Sean kept silent, waiting.

  "She's in Hawaii, is she not?"

  He nodded, bile rising in his throat. "You apparently know exactly where she is."

  "As I said, you're a perceptive man. I also know where I want her to be twenty-four hours from now and that, dear Sean, is where you come in."

  "Why do you need her? What can she do for you?" For two years he'd made it his business to keep as far away from Kelly as possible--the only way he could think of to protect her.

  "More than you know, my friend. Much more than you know. Right now she is entertaining a man we want very badly on our side." Viktor nodded and one of the men rose and stood behind Sean's chair, a dark threatening presence in the fire-lit room. "We can do this gently, Sean, so she'll never know she's being used by her beloved father or we can simply take what we want. The choice is yours."

  Choice.

  Hadn't it always come down to choice?

  Maria with the Gallic charm. "There simply isn't room for your daughter on the yacht, cheri. Certainly she has friends to spend Christmas with..."

  Claudia with the schloss in Austria. "A child? How absurd you are, darling! You really must see about a nanny for her..."

  His own needs. Love. Lust. Power in any form he could grab.

  His own daughter growing older and lonelier and less certain her father was the hero the rest of the world believed him to be.

  "You won't hurt her?" Sean asked finally, heart thundering.

  "Not so long as you cooperate," said Viktor. "We simply need entree to the man she's having dinner with."

  Five thousand miles away, and still they knew her every move. If he had any brains at all, he'd put a gun to his head now and be done with it.

  Over the years Sean had hurt his daughter in a myriad of ways both real and imagined, but he'd never put her in danger.

  Eight year old Kelly sitting next to him as the Ferrari raced up Laurel Canyon. "Go faster, Daddy! Faster..." so childishly sure her father would keep her from harm.

  To all things there was a season.

  And this was the season for betrayal.

  Sean Ryan reached for the telephone and began his final descent into hell.

  #

  It took Kelly exactly ten minutes after Maximilian Steel left to admit she had every intention of meeting him in the bar. She was in business and he had a business deal to discuss and, heaven knew, Madison Dynamics had a long way to go before she could summarily dismiss prospective clients.

  Yes, she'd thought as she plugged in her hot rollers and got out her eye makeup, this was strictly business.

  Trouble was: she didn't believe it.

  Not by a long shot.

  "Face up to it, Madison," Kelly muttered to her reflection in the full-length mirror thirty minutes later. "If it were strictly business you wouldn't be wearing a red dress."

  She knew all about red dresses.

  Red meant power.

  Red meant presence.

  Why beat around the bush?

  Red meant passion.

  No self-respecting businesswoman back home would wear a cherry-red knit slip dress to meet with a prospective client. She would wear her latest dress-for-success number that was long on good intentions and short on sex appeal.

  But this was Hawaii, wasn't it? Hawaiians didn't spend an inordinate amount of time worrying about dressing for success. They dressed for beauty and they dressed for comfort and success somehow took care of itself quite nicely, thank you very much.

  She brushed out her hair until it cascaded over her shoulders in shiny blonde waves then fastened sparkling diamond studs to her ears. The sparkle in her eyes, however, was practically indecent.

  Who was she trying to kid?

  She looked like exactly what she was: a woman hoping to impress
a man.

  Ten days of tropical sunshine, tropical punches, and those seductive tropical breezes had taken their toll on her sanity and all she'd needed was the first male specimen high on the food chain to tip her over the edge.

  Sure, Steel was gorgeous but that wasn't enough to bring about this change of heart. She'd grown up on movie sets surrounded by gorgeous men. She had a father in the Manwatchers Hall of Fame and an ex-husband who was a male model. The relationship between great looks and even greater egos hadn't been lost on her as it was on most people.

  But, then, she wasn't most people.

  Most people were swayed by good looks. Hadn't Dr. Joyce Brothers done a thousand and one surveys on the subject? A handsome man could murder someone before a score of witnesses and there would still be one woman out there who claimed he'd just had a bad day.

  Maximilian Steel was a page from GQ come to life. From the soles of his Italian loafers to the top of his perfectly barbered head, he was technicolor perfect.

  In fact he was every single thing she normally disliked in a man on sight.

  But, for some odd reason, not even all that technicolor perfection was enough to turn her away from the look in his eyes. There was anger in him, a dark rush of anger that lit his bottle- green eyes with flecks of golden fire that some hidden part of her sensed and understood.

  She wouldn't be able to sway him with her smile or intimidate him with her intellect or bowl him over by the sheer force of her will.

  Most men were infinitely pliable and even more disappointing. Broken dreamers like her father or first class bums like her husband who relied on women to pick up their socks and kiss away the pain.

  She would never be able to master Max Steel and that, for her, was a first.

  He was strong and he was confident and he was more purely male than any man she'd ever known.

  That combination spelled nothing but danger to the defenses she'd carefully built up over the years.

  If she had half a brain, she would take off this siren dress and put on something more sedate, more mainland, and tip the odds a little to the side of reason. A white pique sundress, perhaps, or--