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Deadly Obsession Now Available from New Concepts Publishing Copyright © 2004 by Jaycee Clark. All rights reserved.

PROLOGUE

He'd found her. Finally, after all this time.

The opera CD he'd put on soared to a crescendo--and he remembered. The music stirred the memories within him. Strains filled his mind with thoughts, yearnings so strong he could scarcely breathe. He could all but taste the sweet nectar.

Her soprano voice, young, yet worldly, released all the emotions known to man within notes and keys appreciated only by a few.

And she had been his.

No.

She was his still. She would always be his. He'd promised her that.

He opened his eyes, his leather chair squeaking slightly as he shifted. The smoke from his Cuban cigar drifted up from the Waterford ashtray--the taste sweet with a hint of citrus behind the robust tobacco flavor.

Her face stared up at him from the photograph. That smiling picture had sat at the corner of his desk for the last eight years. It was her in youthful beauty, the innocence still there in the soft lines of her face. Except for her eyes.

Those smoky gray eyes had always seen too much, understood too much. Those eyes haunted him.

With one finger, he traced the line of her mouth, remembering what it felt like beneath his, what it had tasted like, the music that could come from those lips. The glass protector was cool to his touch.

His sigh carried with it tension and elation. Carefully, he set the photo so that the edge of the frame was an inch from the corner of his blotter, and just a finger length from the family picture. In the photograph, her hair was the color of dark winter wheat. He'd loved the long tresses, the smell of them, the feel.

She wasn't to cut her hair.

The man took a deep calming breath and heard voices drift down the hall.

No matter, no one would disturb him.

He opened the top drawer to his right, the moan of wood on wood familiar, the jingle of the handle dropping back down unnoticed.

His fist clenched atop the polished mahogany as he withdrew another photo from the drawer.

His angel.

He'd know her anywhere.

Somehow, he'd known all along she wasn't dead. But to find her again...

Ahhh...

He shook his head sadly. A shame, all that beautiful hair, cut short now, in some feministic stylish flip. The shortened tresses were darker and made her round eyes even larger. Her straight nose, slightly tilted at the end was the same. At least she hadn't had a nose job. And he had to admit that the new hairstyle accentuated her long, graceful neck. He traced the swan-like column, remembering how soft her skin was just there. The lines of her face were not as soft as in the other picture. Time had sharpened them to an edge, prominent cheekbones and that stubborn, arrogant chin. His fisted hand relaxed, and he curved it around the crystal faceted tumbler sitting on his desk.

She should have long hair. And not this deep brown color. What had she been thinking? Did she dye it? Probably.

He sipped his brandy, the taste full and rich on his tongue, swirling away and melding with the taste from his Havana best.

Always was too smart for her own good, which was why he was drawn to her. Her brain, her looks, her voice.

She was older now, more worldly.

Her young voice shimmered from the speakers as she held a note, as she drew it out.

Kinncaids. She was with the Kinncaids. A more noble, honorable family he could not think of. Strange, them being so old to the Washington , D.C. area, yet none of the elite family had ever had a thing to do with political circles. A shame really. With their money, brains and ambitions the possibilities would be endless. Or could have been.

Christian Bills. She was going by that deplorable name. Christian, Chris. He'd hated it, as he recalled, did her mother. And Bills? It was so very low class, so incredibly common. Though he suspected it stemmed from William. Always was the daddy's, even granddaddy's girl. Christian Bills? No.

Josephine. She was his Josephine.

And she always would be.

He'd let her think herself safe, for now.

He smiled. The cat's advantage to the mouse was in the fact the cat knew of his prey's existence. Unfortunately, from the mouse's point-of-view, the rodent was all too often unaware of the feline until just before the pounce.

Cat and mouse.

A game they knew well.

Eight years.

Full circle.

The game was just beginning.

He grinned, touched the lips of the woman, caressed her cheekbone, the column of her neck. His lungs filled with his sigh, just as blood rushed to fill his veins, his passion. It would not be long. Not long at all.

Opening his eyes, he tapped her lips one last time before he gently placed the photo in the top drawer and locked it. Footsteps neared his door.

In one gulp, he finished off the brandy and hit the remote. The opera and Josephine's voice silenced. Carefully, he set his empty glass on the desk just as the door opened.

"There you are. I'd wondered where you'd gone." She propped her hands on her trim hips. "Come on. You can't hide out here all night."

No, he supposed he couldn't, but he would dearly have loved to. He stood and inwardly longed for the house to be empty. Then, he'd be able to go up to his private, hidden room and enjoy the memories and plan for the future. It wasn't to be.

Smiling, he ran a hand down his jacket, straightened the black bow tie and held his hand out to her.

"I just needed a moment, darling."

"Hmm. Well, come on then. There are guests waiting. Don't want to give the wrong impression, do you? The constituents should be placated."

A glance over his shoulder and his eyes landed on the photo on the edge of his desk.

Gray eyes.

It was her. He'd found her. His angel.

The music from the terrace drifted down the hallway as he turned and led the woman away.

He'd found his Josephine and he was never again letting her go. No one else would have her.

Ever.

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