pamela burford

"Pamela Burford's Twice Burned is wonderfully sexy and exciting! . . . Double Dare is a delight! Two fabulous books by two very talented writers!"



"Twice Burned is a superb romantic suspense novel."



"Pamela Burford has a winner in Twice Burned, a perfect blend of sizzling romance and chilling suspense that will find its way to every keeper shelf! . . . Double Dare is a smashing success!"

Chapter One

Wolf’s eyes, Zara thought, watching the man weave through the crowd at Kennedy Airport’s International Arrivals Building, that feral golden brown gaze riveted on her.

It struck her then, where she’d seen those eyes. In that painting of a timber wolf that used to hang in her father’s den.

A little shiver scuttled up her spine. Exhaustion, she told herself. The flight from Sydney to New York had been interminable, and she’d yet to refine the art of sleeping on planes. On top of that, the geek in customs had given her short, tight-fitting fuchsia suit a lingering once-over and made her wait another half hour while he took his time pawing through her luggage and ogling her cleavage.

Now she wanted nothing more than to cab it back to her penthouse apartment on East Eighty-sixth and soak the kinks away in an aroma-therapeutic whirlpool bath. Maybe she’d call her masseuse.

She grimaced, remembering her masseuse was a thing of the past, thanks to Tony. Her ex-husband’s greed and vindictiveness had left her emotionally and financially drained. She’d lost even the privacy she so desperately craved, since she now lacked the means to install her mother in a place of her own.

With any luck, Mom would be out bowling or something and Zara would have a few rare minutes of solitary peace.

With even more luck, her twin sister, Emma, wouldn’t have bollixed up the transaction Zara had arranged. The transaction that would give her back her privacy.

Wolf Eyes was nearly upon her now, striding with single-minded resolve. He was hard to ignore, towering over everyone else by at least half a head, his dark hair pulled back in a ponytail, those eerie, unsmiling eyes locked on her like heat-seeking missiles.

She sighed. What now?

Whatever business he had with her, it could wait till Monday, and office hours. She refused to deal with it now, when she was mentally fried and both her Movado watch and her internal clock were set at Sydney time. She rationalized that since she’d already made it to Saturday morning, she could ignore this pushy fellow who was still getting through Friday afternoon.

He was probably some hack author who took exception to receiving a form rejection letter from the Zara Sutcliffe Literary Agency.

She tried to veer away from him, but her progress was hampered by the gigantic wheeled Hartmann suitcase she was hauling, with assorted smaller matching bags dangling from it by straps.

Suddenly he was there, planted directly in her path like some damn sequoia, blocking her escape route. She skidded to a graceless stop in her stiletto heels, nearly landing on her fanny when the heavy suitcase rolled into her, driven by forward momentum.

Rather than reaching out to steady her, as any gentleman would have done, Wolf Eyes flashed an open badge wallet in her face.

“Special Agent Logan Pierce. FBI. I need you to come with me, Miss Sutcliffe.”

Zara’s jaw dropped and she gaped at him like a beached mackerel. “What?”

He reached around her and seized the handle of her suitcase. “No time to explain. The first priority is to get you somewhere safe.”

“Safe! What the—”

The fingers of his free hand wrapped around her upper arm like a steel band. He swiftly propelled her along with him toward the distant exit.

They were halfway there when the shock wore off and her mind lurched into high gear. She was accompanying a strange man—a very large and intimidating strange man—to God knew where, for God knew what purpose. He didn’t even look like an FBI agent. Didn’t G-men wear suits and ties? This guy was in jeans and a black windbreaker over a maroon T-shirt.

Zara jerked hard against his unyielding grip, to no avail. He didn’t even slow his pace. He towed her ponderous luggage with such apparent ease, it might have been a toddler’s pull toy.

“Hold on!” she cried. “Wait up a minute.”

No response. Those stony wolf’s eyes never stopped scanning the noisy crowd, for what hidden perils, she could only imagine.

“Mr. Pierce! I mean, Agent Pierce, please!” She twisted her arm where his long fingers crushed the silk. “You’re hurting me.”

“You’re hurting yourself. Take it easy.”

“Take it easy? Listen, mister, if you don’t let go of me this instant and tell me what this is about, I swear I’ll scream my head off.”

He stopped, but he didn’t release her. He stared down at her, his expression revealing impatience and more than a little distaste. His features were strong, not classically handsome but interesting.

Okay, intriguing. She couldn’t help it. Behind those cool amber eyes she detected more stories than one man had a right to.

She almost laughed at the fanciful notion. Her imagination would be the death of her yet. If she could write worth a damn, she’d be a novelist herself instead of a literary agent.

She tried to sound assertive. “I need to see your ID again.”

“No time.” He was off once more, Zara’s spiked heels clicking on the tiled floor as he hauled her along, just another piece of baggage.

Outside the terminal, the air was balmy, the sky clear azure—a flawless May afternoon. Zara squinted against the dazzling sun, wishing she could get to her shades. Somehow she doubted Pierce would be willing to stop and let her fish them out of her carry-on.

They crossed busy airport roads, darting through traffic. All the while he continued to scrutinize their surroundings.

Suddenly it occurred to her that his loose windbreaker almost certainly concealed a holster. She swallowed back a knot of apprehension. Her voice wobbled as they sprinted across the parking lot. “You said you had to get me somewhere safe. Safe from what? From who?”

“MacGowan Byrne.”

She lost her precarious footing as that sank in, and would have ended up sprawled on the pavement if not for Pierce’s death grip on her arm.

“Mac Byrne?” she squeaked. “The art dealer?” The man she’d made Emma promise to meet to complete the lucrative sale she’d arranged? The man who was going to solve all her financial problems?

“That’s the one.” He retrieved a key chain and thumbed a keyless entry button. A car chirped nearby. A small, sleek BMW. Black with tinted windows and wide tires. He quickly stowed her luggage in the trunk, then opened the passenger door and shoved her inside. She barely had time to pull in her feet before he slammed the door.

He circled the car and slid behind the wheel, his movements swift and economical, as graceful as the timber wolf she’d likened him to.

And no doubt as dangerous.

He seemed to completely fill the compact sports car, his big body radiating heat and male vitality. Turning the key, he said, “You should be more careful who you do business with. Mac Byrne tried to kill your sister when she went to meet with him.”

“Emma?” she whispered.

Zara was drowning. Air. She needed air. She dug her nails into the leather armrest, her chest heaving with the effort to make her world stop reeling.

“Is she . . . is she okay?”

Pierce didn’t spare her a glance. “She’s no longer in danger. But he’s got your mother. Candy Carmelle. Kidnapped her from your apartment over a week ago.”

A sob broke through the fingers she clamped over her mouth.

Dear God, what have I done?

A solid metallic snick made her jump. The sound of power door locks engaging. She glanced at the spot where her own lock button should have been, only to spy an empty hole. Her gaze flew to her companion’s impassive profile as he palmed the steering wheel and backed out of the parking space.

“A little insurance.”