The facial identification program surrendered, telling him there was no match, which he’d expected. “Come on, look at the birdie,” he murmured to the man. “Let me take your picture.”

He was focused so intently on his task that, until Cotton gave an uncomfortable cough, Jackson didn’t realize what he was watching. “Damn,” he muttered. “He’s doing her right there, out in the open.” Not that they could really see anything, but it was obvious from the couple’s positions and movements what was happening on that balcony.

Then the unknown man swung them around, presenting his back to the camera, and half-walked, half-carried the girlfriend into the penthouse, pulling the sliding glass door shut behind him.

Not once had he provided them with a clear look at his face.

AFTER THE BRIGHTNESS and warmth of the sun-drenched balcony, the penthouse was blessedly cool and dim, and private. Drea clung to him for support; her legs were like cooked noodles and her brain felt like mush. He dipped his head to trail a line of slow kisses down her throat and across her collarbone. “Is this place bugged?” he asked in that low, half-audible tone of his, his lips moving against her shoulder as he murmured the words on her skin. “Cameras anywhere?”

“Not now,” Drea replied, then a sharp surge of combined lust and fear turned her insides to water. She worked hard to make people see her as ornamental, self-absorbed, and more than a little dumb: in short, nonthreatening. Having people underestimate her gave her an enormous advantage…but he didn’t seem to underestimate her at all, and that both pleased and frightened her. If he could see the brains beneath the act, then others might, too. At the same time, his easy assumption that she’d know the answer to a question so crucial fed a need that she hadn’t realized was there, a hunger to be treated as an equal on some level.