There was a moment's silence. "You know," Bill said. "I don't think I heard your name."
Megan waited curiously for his response. She couldn't help remembering his hesitation when she had asked for his name that morning in the hospital. Was it only yesterday? He'd said it as though the syllables sat awkwardly on his tongue. Without consciously realizing it, she had found it hard to think of him by a name. It had been easy enough to picture him, tall and lean and dangerous.
He didn't look at Bill as he said quietly to Megan, "I lied to you. My name's not Ross McKenzie. I'm sorry. I was uncomfortable doing it, when you'd just saved my life."
"I knew you were lying," she admitted.
"Yeah?" He smiled ruefully. "I must be losing my touch."
She just waited.
"My friends call me Mac. That much is the truth. I was born James McClain."
"Born?" That seemed a strange way to put it.
"I've used a few other names along the way." He said it with outward indifference, but Megan thought she heard bitterness he couldn't quite hide.
Obeying a sudden impulse, she touched his hand. "Okay. Mac it is."
His eyes searched hers for a long moment, and then he smiled. The smile was charming, sensuous and very dangerous. Megan's pulse gave a ragged jump.
"So why the fake name?" she asked.
He raked his fingers through his hair. "My last assignment was undercover. I spent almost a year penetrating a particularly nasty crime family in Miami. Mostly into drug distribution. Anyway, my cover got blown by somebody I'd busted before. Sheer bad luck. We had enough to indict some of the lower echelon, but not the kingpin. And since Saldivar doesn't take kindly to what he regards as betrayal, he put out a contract on me. It seemed like a good idea for me to disappear for a while. We'll get Saldivar sooner or later. We're close. In the meantime..." He shrugged.
"Is that how you got the scar?" Megan asked softly.
Mac nodded. Bill looked from one face to the other, but didn't ask any questions.
"So...how did they find you?"
"I don't think they did find me. Although I'm checking out that possibility, too."
She frowned. "But why would anyone else want to..."
"I've made enemies."
"In Devil's Lake?"
He rubbed his forehead, and again Megan noticed how tired he was. There were shadows under his eyes and his face looked drawn. "Not to the best of my knowledge," he said. "Like I said, I picked the place because I came fishing here years ago. I had good memories. And, hell, it seemed like the back of beyond. But I did work here in the Northwest. Maybe somebody who hates my guts has taken up fishing, too. It's always possible."
"You haven't recognized anyone?" she asked tentatively.
"Not a damn soul."
"But, then, isn't it likelier that—"
"How?" he interrupted. "How the hell would they have found me here?"
Megan tried to think, but she knew so little about the alien world he lived in. "Somebody must know where you are."
"A handful of people." He suddenly frowned. "This part isn't your problem."
"But I'm involved!"
"I want you as uninvolved as possible," he said harshly. "When I can be sure nobody is interested in you, I'll disappear again."
Megan tried to imagine what assuming another identity would be like. A strange town, a strange name, anonymity of the soul as well as the body. Wouldn't you begin to wonder yourself who you really were? She found the thought strangely disturbing.
"You make it sound so easy," she said.
He looked surprised. "It is easy. There's nothing to it."
"But your family, your friends." Why was she arguing? Why did it seem to matter so much? "Don't you have a cat or dog? And a home? And...and things?"
Even Bill was staring at her now, puzzled by her sharpness. Mac's expression was quizzical.
"Things can be replaced," he pointed out. "You are who you are no matter who or what's around."
"No." She shook her head forcefully. "I don't believe that. We're shaped by the people we love. 'No man is an island...'"
"I've heard that." His voice was hard. "I don't believe it. If it were true, I wouldn't exist at all."
Again she was caught by his bitterness. "What do you mean?"
"Nothing." The chair legs scraped as he abruptly pushed it away from the table. After pitching the beer can into the trash under the sink, he stood looking out the window, his back to them. He rubbed his neck with one hand, as though trying to release tension, but his voice was almost expressionless. "I work undercover a lot. Do you know what would happen if you spent all your time pining for some damn dog? Or your own TV? Sure you forget who you are. That's the only way you can function. You have to be the slimeball you're pretending to be. But then you walk away from it, from who you were, and that person doesn't exist anymore." He turned to face her. "Nothing to it."
Something painfully close to pity stirred in her chest. "I see," she said carefully. Why did she want to touch him, to smooth away the harsh lines on his face?
"So?" he said. "Are you going to be smart enough to drop out of sight?"
"It's not for me."
"Damn it!" He slapped his hand on the counter. "Don't be a fool!"
Megan didn't say anything, just stared stubbornly back.
He looked at Bill. "Can't you convince her?"
Bill had the bewildered expression of a spectator at a football game who'd been asked to take the quarterback's place. "Convince her? To do what? I don't understand."
"She needs to take a vacation away from here for a while. Just until this whole mess is cleared up."
"But if she didn't see anything..."
He swore. "I didn't know it was possible to be so naive!"
"Better naive than paranoid," Megan said sharply.
His laugh was short and humorless. "Let me spend the night at least."
She reacted with instinctive alarm. "What do you mean?"
"Obviously not what you're thinking. I'll sleep on the couch, keep out of your way."
"That might not be a bad idea," Bill said. "Unless... Hey, why don't you come home with me? You can even have my bed. Or sleep in the truck. They'd never find you there."
"They, they, they!" Suddenly angry, she jumped to her feet. This whole thing was ridiculous—no, insane! She refused to be frightened out of her own house! But she couldn't help remembering those headlights that had appeared from nowhere in her rearview mirror, the car hesitating at the head of her driveway. "Enough already! If it'll make you happy, you can sleep on the couch, I don't care! But don't think for a minute that I believe any of this!"
"Hey, calm down," Bill said. "He's just trying to take care of you."
She gave her brother a fierce look. "Drop it! I agreed, didn't I?" When neither man said anything, she stalked out. Using some of her adrenaline, Megan snatched sheets and blankets out of a closet and wrenched the couch in the living room out with a clatter. With quick, angry movements she made it, trying not to think about Mac's long, hard body sprawled carelessly on those pristine sheets.
When she looked up, Mac stood in the doorway watching her with an odd expression. "I'm sorry," he said in that rough-edged voice. "You're having to pay a price for saving my life. That's not fair."
Somehow her anger had slipped away. Megan gave the pillow a last punch and straightened. "We always pay a price for our choices."
"It's the price others have to pay for us that hurts."
She knew that too well. Trying to change the subject, she said at random, "You don't even have a toothbrush."
"I'll survive."
"You could go get your..."
One dark brow quirked. "Things?"
"Yes, things!" she said acerbically. "Surely even you like to brush your teeth and put clean underwear on in the morning?"
At that he grinned, and again Megan was startled by the transformation. Laughter warmed his face, made him wickedly charming. Her heart
seemed to lurch, and she bit her lip. He wasn't for her; she had to quit responding as though he were. He was a man who'd known so many names he had probably forgotten some of them, a loner. Soon he would be gone, without looking back. If she let him touch her heart, even a little, she would be sorry.
"Okay. If your brother will hang around until I get back, I'll go get my 'things.' " With that he vanished from the doorway.
A moment later Bill appeared. "He's gone," he said abruptly. "Megan, I don't know if we should trust him. His story's so far out, it's like something on TV! And he's made damn sure we can't call anybody to check on him. I don't know. Maybe you should come home with me instead."
It was hard for Megan to separate into small compartments the muddled feelings she had for Mac. Fear and uncertainty and anger and a deep, unreasoning attraction that she suspected had had something to do with her capitulation. But trust?
"I'm pretty sure he's telling the truth," she said slowly. "I saved his life and he doesn't like the idea of owing anybody. Unnecessary or not, this is his way of paying off the debt. I think I should let him."
Bill continued to hover in the doorway. He looked uncertain. "Listen," he said awkwardly. "Is there something...well, between you two? I sort of felt in the way. I mean..."
"No!" She tried to moderate her voice. "No. Really. There's nothing. It's just...different, when you've been through something together like that. We're strangers but we're not. It makes us uneasy with each other. That's all."
From her brother's expression, Megan didn't think she'd convinced him. She hadn't even convinced herself. There was an odd thread of tension between her and the man who'd come so dramatically into her life. It was more complicated than mere physical attraction, although her feminine instincts told her that it was mutual. But she didn't understand it and wasn't sure she wanted to.
Refusing to let herself get too analytical, Megan forced a smile for Bill's benefit. "I could use a cup of tea. How about you?"
"Did you already have dinner?"
"I took a break at work."
Her brother shrugged. "I'll have another beer."
Twenty minutes later Mac returned with a small suitcase. Bill left immediately, after telling Megan in an undertone to call if she wanted him.
Megan closed and locked the front door. She was proud of her casual tone when she said good night to Mac. "I'm tired. It's been a long day."
They were in the narrow hallway. But when she took a step forward, Mac didn't move, and she hesitated. If he didn't stand politely aside, she would have to brush by him to get to the stairs. It seemed safer to wait.
"You don't have to run away from me," he said. His voice was quiet, his body relaxed. Yet she had the sense of him coiled and ready, the stillness an illusion.
"I'm not running away," she lied. "I think you should get some rest, too. I'll bet the doctor didn't intend for you to chase after me all day."
Amusement showed in his gray eyes. "Is that what I've been doing?"
"When you weren't scaring me to death," she said tartly.
"I meant well."
"If I didn't believe that, you wouldn't be here."
"You're just humoring me, aren't you?"
"That's right," Megan agreed. "Now if you'll excuse me?"
Mac smiled and stood aside. But as she passed, Megan made the mistake of pausing. Her glance met his and she saw the way he looked at her, the smile gone but his mouth curiously tender. Her feet seemed rooted to the floor. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he took a step toward her and his hands gripped her upper arms. She could feel his warmth and her heart climbed into her throat. Her voice didn't sound like her own. "I don't think..."
"I'm sure you're right," he said huskily. His eyes held an odd light and he let go of one of her arms to lightly grasp her chin instead. She couldn't have moved to save her life. All the tumult of the last days seemed to have been leading to this, as though it were all that mattered.
"I should let you go," he murmured. But now his thumb traced soft patterns on her cheek.
"I...I..." Where were the words? But it was too late, she knew, when she saw his gaze lower to her mouth. The next moment he was kissing her.
Gently, oh so gently. His lips brushed hers, touched her cheek as lightly as a snowflake that melted against her warmth. She made a small, shaky sound, flattening her hands on his chest. He groaned and for just an instant his mouth hardened with demand and his arms tightened. Heat shuddered through Megan, frightening her with its insistence, and she resisted, pushing blindly against his chest. Immediately he released her and stepped back, his hands falling to his sides.
Breathing hard, they stared at each other in taut silence. What was she doing? Megan thought in horror. He was an almost total stranger who would be gone soon, the man he'd been here forgotten. Nothing to it, he'd said. But she couldn't forget so easily.
His eyes were hooded, his voice rough when he said, "I'm sorry."
Megan only nodded jerkily. Without a word she passed him and went up the stairs to her bedroom. He still stood unmoving in the hall below when she gently closed her bedroom door.
CHAPTER 4
Kissing Megan Lovell was one of the stupidest damn things he'd ever done. Mac turned restlessly on the thin, hard mattress, no nearer sleep than he had been an hour ago. What the hell had he been thinking?
He didn't like even acknowledging his attraction to her. He owed her. He couldn't afford to complicate that. Without much success, he tried to convince himself that his uneasiness was rooted in his dislike of owing that kind of debt. He was used to operating without ties. His most recent bureau partner, well, that was different. They had a working relationship. Neither had tried to becomes buddies.
Mac's every instinct screamed for him to run, but he couldn't desert Megan, no matter how stubbornly she dug in her heels. And who knew? Maybe he was wrong. Maybe the two hit men had congratulated each other on a job well done and never looked back. Maybe no stringer for UPI would notice the article in the Devil's Lake Caller. Maybe he and Megan would get lucky.
Unfortunately, Mac didn't believe in luck.
He did finally sleep, but not deeply. The throaty bark of a dog didn't quite fit in Mac's dream, and he surfaced so quickly, he was alert before his eyes were open.
The barking came from upstairs, though even as he sat up and reached for his gun he heard the scrabble of claws on the stairs as the big golden retriever bounded down, baying all the way. Mac swung his legs off the bed and rose soundlessly. The dog hit the bottom of the stairs and slid on the wood floor as he turned toward the kitchen. If there had been an intruder at all, he was probably long gone.
Then Mac heard the tinkle of glass breaking. Zachary's barks deepened to a roar. Mac slipped across the hall into the dark kitchen right behind the dog. The big windows at the dining end allowed just enough light so that he could see a silhouette. The bastard was climbing through the broken window even though eighty pounds of fierce muscle and teeth was launching itself at him.
A flurry of movement, and something rammed into the dog, who fell with a howl of mixed pain and anger. Mac covered the kitchen at a run, crouching to make himself as small a target as possible.
"Freeze!" he snapped, locking into a stance and taking aim.
Things happened too fast then. He couldn't tell whether the dark shape in the shattered window hesitated at all before Zachary scrambled to his feet and lunged again, knocking a kitchen chair against Mac's bare legs.
He stumbled sideways. The intruder swung something that slammed against Mac's shoulder, driving him to his knees. Mac flung the chair away, but by the time he was up, the intruder was gone. Still barking, Zachary leaped through the window and disappeared in pursuit.
Mac swore and headed for the front door. He dove out it into the shrubs, than ran across the damp grass to the protection of a tree. At the end of the driveway the retriever's barks were cut off at the same instant a car engine started. Mac abandoned caution and sprinted down the
driveway. The gravel cut into his bare feet.
Tires squealed. The car was gone by the time he reached the road.
Mac swore again, bitterly. If it weren't for the damn dog... Yeah, if it weren't for the dog he might not have awakened at all.
Where was the dog? Mac whistled. Silence. He'd better get some shoes on, and a flashlight. Limping, he returned to the house. The front door still stood open, but now light poured onto the porch. He shook his head in disbelief. Why didn't she just have invitations engraved?
Inside, Megan waited, her heart pounding, her mother's walking stick clutched in sweaty hands. It had been all she could do to make herself creep down the stairs. The silence was now more terrifying than the crashes and Zachary's ferocious barking earlier, when she had been pulled out of a deep sleep.
When with a lurch of relief she recognized the man who appeared in the doorway, she slowly lowered the stick.
He glowered at her. "Why don't you open the back door while you're at it?"
"Don't yell at me," she retorted. "You're the one who left the door open."
"Yeah, and what if I hadn't been the one who walked through it?" He kicked it shut.
She hoped her voice didn't sound shaky. "I figured I was safe. Not too many burglars work with bare feet."
Not that she felt safe. There was nothing about the angry man in front of her to reassure the timid. Especially not if the timid happened to be a woman. He'd been dangerous enough lying in a hospital bed. Stalking toward her, the next thing to naked, he made her heart rise into her throat. He wore black sweatpants that hung low on his hips and emphasized how narrow they were in contrast to wide shoulders and sleekly muscled chest. His legs were long and powerful, the gun that he carried in one hand a violent match for the scar that slashed across his stomach. Megan was forcibly reminded of the last time she had faced him, right here in this hall.
Swallowing, she took a step back. "Where...where's Zachary?"
"I don't know. Do you have a flashlight?"
She retreated a few more steps. "I...I'll get one.”
He strode past her into the living room, where he snatched up a sweatshirt. Megan closed her eyes. She wouldn't watch him get dressed. She wouldn't.
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