License to Thrill

body were paralyzed. She recognized the arm of her couch peeking out beneath a mountain of books and other debris. Drawers and shelves had been emptied, with no thought to replacing the items. Scarcely a bare spot remained on the floor. Pots and pans, bathroom linens, clothing—the contents of the rooms had been commingled and abandoned.
    She lifted her hand to her mouth and whispered, "Can they do this?"
    "Apparently so," James replied, lifting a carbon of a written order that had been taped to the door. He swung his head back and forth to survey the damage. "Seems a bit sloppy to me."
    Kat's legs felt rubbery. In the space of a few seconds, the events of the last twenty-four hours had caught up to her.
    He curled his arm around her waist. "You're quite pale, Pussy-Kat, maybe you'd better lie down."
    Which seemed like the most hilarious thing she'd ever heard, considering there was no place for her to lie down. She opened her mouth to laugh, but only a pathetic little squeak emerged.
    James released her and removed his jacket, hanging it from a bare nail where a picture had once hung, then began rolling up his sleeves. "I'll clear us a spot to sit while you freshen up," he said cheerfully.
    She smoothed a hand down the sleeve of the ratty cardigan she'd thrown on over her dinner clothes—God, had it been only this morning? Her skin itched, her scalp crawled, her tongue tasted stale. Her state of grooming seemed insignificant compared to everything else she'd been through, but right now the small solace of hot water sounded like nirvana. "Well, perhaps just a quick shower," she murmured.
    He waved her toward the bedroom, then began retrieving books from the sofa and shelving them. Kat yanked a semi-folded clean towel from a mound on the floor and walked into the disaster area that used to be her bedroom. Swallowing a lump of frustration, she marched straight through the strewn articles of her life and into the white tiled bathroom, which was too small for the police to have wrought much damage. At least the shower curtain hung intact.
    She turned on the water and let it run over her fingers until it was warm. Kat stole a glance toward the living room, then slowly pulled the bathroom door shut. Every nerve ending, every muscle quivered as she undressed, keenly aware of the man only a few strides away.
    A stranger, really. Handsome, aloof, confident, oozing more testosterone than all the men she'd been complaining about to Denise yesterday at lunch put together. How had they become so...so... comfortable that she had relaxed her normal paranoid security measures where people, and especially men, were concerned?
    She unbound her hair and stared at the lock on the bathroom door. It had never worked. Was she being foolishly trustworthy? She had never even seen the man's identification—she'd taken him at his word that he was some kind of secret service man for the crown, or something like that. Walking into the shower backward, she jerked the curtain closed.
    Kat reached for the shampoo and dumped a glob on the top of her head. Where exactly had Agent Donovan been during the burglary? If anyone in the group could get around security measures, it would be him. Perhaps his scam was accompanying a piece of art to its destination, then stealing it and selling it on the black market. He'd make money, the owner would collect insurance....
    Lathering her hair furiously, she mulled over what she knew about him. If he was a secret agent, then he probably knew all kinds of ways to kill people. Plus, how to make it appear accidental. And if he worked for the British government, he probably had diplomatic immunity—a license to thrill, er...kill.
    At the sound of a muffled thump, she jerked up her head. What was that? Had he barricaded them inside the apartment? Would he hold her hostage? Make her bend to his sexual will? She sounded hysterical, even to herself, but she couldn't stop the rush of adrenaline. She had to get out of there.
    Rinsing her hair frantically, she remembered his gun—and God only knew how many other weapons he carried: poison-tipped writing pens, detonating jewelry, a switchblade.
    The scene from Psycho flashed through her mind and she looked around quickly for something to use in her defense if he came crashing through the door. A rusty disposable razor lay in the corner—she could nick him to death and hope for tetanus.
    Kat soaped and rinsed her skin in mere seconds, then turned off the water with