So, every weekend, on Saturday and Sunday night between ten p.m. and one a.m., she hosted a nationally syndicated call-in show and answered any question posed regarding sexual behaviors, fetishes, obsessions, addictions and frustrations. Though she possessed a Ph.D in psychology, Rachel’s primary focus had always been more in tune with biology or anthropology-the study of human sexual behaviors. As an expert, she provided her listeners with keen insight into their problems. Last ratings period, her show had become the number four rated syndicated radio show nationwide, a jump of seven spots from the previous quarter.

But now, that popularity came with a price that far outweighed the benefit. She was living like a hunted animal, always looking over her shoulder, frightened of what or who might be waiting in the dark. The police were trying to find the stalker, but they had few leads.

Drawing a deep breath, she opened the door of the SUV and jumped out. As she walked toward the elevator, she turned back to set the alarm on the truck. It was then that she noticed the shadowy figure approaching from her right.

“Miss Merrill?”

Rachel picked up her pace and when she reached the elevator, frantically pushed the button again and again, hoping that the door would open and she could escape. She wanted to scream, but her adrenaline was pumping so hard, her throat seemed to close. As the stalker got closer, she knew a decision was at hand. Spinning around, she aimed her pepper spray at his head and pushed the nozzle.

Funny enough, her first reaction to his face wasn’t fear. Instead, she was immediately struck by how handsome he was. Stalkers weren’t supposed to be handsome. Or well-dressed. He held out his hand, as if to stop her, but a wave of panic suddenly overwhelmed her.

He saw the spray coming and he raised his hand just in time to block the stream. But the pepper spray had the desired effect. Just the smell made him cough and sputter and his eyes began to water. Cursing, he bent over at the waist, tugging his jacket up over his mouth and nose.

The bell for the elevator door sounded and Rachel dropped the pepper spray and rushed inside. Just as the door closed, he called her name again. “Leave me alone!” she screamed. “Just leave me alone.”

“I work for Trevor Ross,” the man shouted, adding a string of curses to the statement. “He sent me.”

The door shut and the elevator began to silently rise. Rachel’s pulse pounded in her ears and her breath came in quick gasps, but she felt as if she were outside her body. Slowly, her mind began to work again and confusion replaced the panic that had overwhelmed her.

He had been dressed much nicer than the average stalker, although she didn’t know exactly what the fashionable stalker wore these days. She imagined a hooded sweatshirt and grubby clothes, not a tailored sport jacket and finely pressed trousers. And his dark hair wasn’t shaggy and unkempt but neatly trimmed.

If Trevor Ross had sent the man, what was he doing skulking about in the garage? And how had he gotten inside? She needed some answers. So when she reached her floor, she pushed the button for the garage and the elevator slowly descended. When she got back to the garage, Rachel found him squatting against a pillar, his cheeks wet from tears, his head tipped back. He’d tossed his jacket aside and unbuttoned his shirt.

“Who are you?” she demanded, snatching up her pepper spray and aiming it at him again.

“My name is Declan Quinn,” he said, squinting up at her. “I run Quinn Security and Investigations. Trevor Ross has our firm on retainer.”

“Why are you here?”

“I’ve been called in to provide you with personal security. There was a death threat made last night during your radio show. Ross thought I might be able to convince you to accept round-the-clock security. Your security detail was supposed to call you and let you know I’d be waiting here.”

Her stomach roiled. “A-a death threat. Why didn’t someone tell me?”

“That’s why I’m here,” he replied.

Rachel wasn’t sure what to do. The guy looked trustworthy. And he did seem to know the specifics of her situation. “Let me see your badge,” she demanded, her voice shaking.

“I don’t carry a badge. I’m not a cop.” He reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his cell phone. A tear trickled down his cheek and traced a path along his strong jawline. For a moment, Rachel couldn’t take her eyes off of it. “Here. Call Trevor Ross. His number is on my speed dial. He’ll explain everything.”

She hesitated. If he was working for her boss, then she’d just made a very big mistake. “Why did you come after me?” she asked.

“I was trying to introduce myself.”

With a soft oath, Rachel tossed the pepper spray aside and stepped closer. She grabbed him by the arm and pulled him along toward the elevator, the fumes from the pepper spray burning at her own eyes. “You shouldn’t have startled me,” she scolded. “I’m really jumpy lately. And you came out of the dark. What was I supposed to do?”

“You did the right thing,” he admitted.

She stopped short. “I did?”

He nodded. “Your first duty was to protect yourself. And you did.”

They got inside the elevator and he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. Rachel pulled her jacket up over her mouth and nose and observed him silently, taking her first good look at the man. Her heart skipped a beat as she took in his handsome features, the dark hair casually mussed, the straight nose and strong jaw. Her gaze came to a stop at his mouth and a shiver skittered down her spine.

How could she have ever thought this guy was a stalker? A man as gorgeous as him would have to beat women off with a stick, not chase them around in the dark. She wondered what color his eyes were. It didn’t really matter. Regardless of the color, they’d just make him more attractive. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

He glanced over at her, his eyes narrow slits, then shook his head. “You hit me in the chest and the hands. I have to get these clothes off. And it’s burning my hands. But if you’re going to count on pepper spray as a defense, we’ll need to improve your aim.”

When the door opened on her floor, Rachel stepped out and the man followed her down the hall, his hand resting on her shoulder. His fingers were warm and gentle and when they slipped down to rest at the small of her back, Rachel felt herself go weak in the knees.

Such a simple, innocent touch shouldn’t have affected her so strongly. Perhaps it was all the adrenaline pumping through her body that heightened every sensation. Every nerve in her body tingled and she found herself fantasizing about all the other places he might touch her body.

He’d introduced himself, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember his name. In all the excitement, she’d completely lost her ability to think clearly. Quinn. That was it! But was it his first name or his last?

When they got inside, he gave the apartment a cursory glance. “I’ve got to get out of these clothes,” he murmured. “Where’s the bathroom?”

Rachel pointed to the hallway on the other side of the living room. “Down that hall, last door on the left.” She watched him retreat. She could count on two fingers the handsome men who’d wandered into her life over the past couple of years. Not that she’d been actively looking for a relationship, but she hadn’t been “not” looking for a man. It wasn’t supposed to be so difficult. If her talk show had taught her anything it was that there was a match out there for everyone. But then spraying a guy with pepper spray didn’t exactly create a great first impression.

She hurried down the hall and stood outside the bathroom door. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Do you have any cooking oil?” he asked through the door.

“I think so.” Rachel frowned as she headed to the kitchen. If he’d asked her for cottage cheese she would have felt obliged to provide it. After retrieving a bottle of canola oil, she returned to the bathroom and rapped on the door. When he didn’t answer, she pushed the door open.

He stood in front of the sink, bare-chested, his shirt wadded up in the corner. Rachel’s breath caught in her throat as she stared at his reflection in the mirror. He was slender, but quite muscular, broad-shouldered with a narrow waist and a flat belly. His trousers hung low on his waist, revealing a trail of hair that ran from his belly to beneath his waistband.

As he bent over the sink, she handed him the oil. He poured a bit onto his hands then rubbed it in. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“Taking away the sting.” After he removed most of the oil with a towel, he doused his hands in her facial astringent. “You’re supposed to use alcohol, but I think this will do.”

“I have a bottle of vodka,” Rachel offered cheerily.

“I’d prefer Scotch,” he said. “On the rocks.” His voice was deep and rich, with a slightly cynical edge.

“I-I’ll just go get-”

He chuckled softly. “Never mind. I don’t drink on the job.”

“I could use a drink,” she murmured.

“Go ahead. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

Rachel turned and walked back down the hall. When she reached the kitchen, she took a bottle of vodka from the freezer and poured a measure into a tumbler, then took a slow sip. This was not how she had expected the evening to end, with a half-naked man in her apartment.

After her show had finished at one a.m., she’d looked forward to a long, hot bath, a good book, perhaps a movie to wind down, and then a decent night’s sleep. In truth, that’s the best she hoped for every night. But since the letters had started, she hadn’t slept much at all. And now, a death threat. What was she supposed to do with that?

Rachel kicked off her shoes and sat down on the sofa, sinking into the down-filled cushions. She tucked her feet beneath her and sipped at the vodka, listening to the sounds of a real live man in her apartment. She closed her eyes and tried to pretend he was here for a different reason-for a romantic reason, that he’d emerge from the bathroom completely naked and aroused and ready to seduce her.

The fantasy was enough to distract her mind from her stalker, but then Rachel groaned and pressed her flushed face into a pillow. After what she’d done, the last thing he’d be interested in was getting cozy with her.

A few minutes later, he walked into the living room. His hair was wet and he’d draped a towel around his neck. His eyes weren’t watering anymore and Rachel could see they were a deep shade of blue. She swallowed hard and tried to smile. “Better?” she asked.

He nodded, then plucked at the towel. “I hope you don’t mind. My shirt is trashed for now. And I left my bags down in my car. Any chance you have a T-shirt I could borrow?”

Bags. He obviously intended to stay, at least overnight. Who was she to object? Rachel shook her head. “No.” In truth, she probably did have something he could wear, but she preferred him half-naked. “If you call the parking valet, he’ll get your bags and bring them up.”

He sat down across from her and rubbed the towel over his damp head. “How long have you been carrying pepper spray?” he asked.

Rachel shrugged. She didn’t want to talk about the stalker. For once, she just wanted to put it out of her mind and relax. She was safe for the time being and she wanted to enjoy it. “What did you say your name was?” she asked, running her finger around the rim of the tumbler.

“Quinn. Declan Quinn.”

“And Trevor sent you?”

He nodded. “After the latest threat was called in to the-”

Rachel held up her hand to stop him. “I don’t need to hear about it.”

“Do you have any idea who might be doing this?” Declan asked.

Her gaze flitted over his body, coming to rest on his hands. They were beautiful hands, well-formed with long fingers and neatly groomed nails. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a drink?” Rachel countered. “I think I do have some scotch.” She got up from the sofa and he quickly rose and grabbed her arm to stop her. His fingers were warm on her skin and she looked down at the spot where he touched her, suddenly unable to breathe. “I-I guess not.”

“Sit,” he insisted. Rachel did as she was told, only this time, Declan sat down next to her, stretching his arm out across the back of the sofa. “Why don’t you want to talk about this?”

“I’d just like to stop thinking about it for a while. I don’t know who’s behind the letters. I don’t know if he’s serious or just out to scare me. I’ve talked to a few thousand people over the past couple of years, so it could be anyone. The police can’t seem to find this person and they don’t take his letters very seriously.”

“They will now,” Declan said. “It is serious. He threatened to kill you.”