The Rogue

by Lindsay McKenna

  Killian studied the scribbled note, utterly thwarted. No one knew better than he did about the night and the terrible dreams that could stalk it. He understood Susannah's pleading request, probably better than anyone else could. His heart squeezed at the pain in her admission, because he'd too long lived a similar life. With a sigh, he muttered, "All right, but then I'm staying at your place with you until we can get this settled. I need to know for sure whether this guy is real or just a dream."

  Shocked, Susannah stared at him, her mouth dropping open. She felt the brutal hardness around him again and saw anger, touched with anxiety in his eyes. Her mind reeled with questions as the adrenaline left her bloodstream and left her shaky in its aftermath. With a trembling hand, she wrote:

  Who are you? You carry a gun. I don't think you are who you say you are. Morgan suspects something, doesn't he? Please, tell me the truth, even if you don't tell my parents. I deserve to know.

  Killian fingered the note, refusing to meet her challenging gaze. Stunned by Susannah's intuitive grasp of the situation, he realized he had to tell her. Otherwise, she'd never allow him to stay at her house.

  "All right," he growled, "here's the truth. Morgan suspects that the man who tried to kill you will come and hunt you down once he knows you survived. You can ID him, and he's going to try to kill you before you can do it." He saw Susannah's eyes grow dark with shock. Angry that he had to hurt her with the truth, Killian snapped, "I'm here on assignment. I'm to protect you. Please don't tell your parents my real reason for being here. Morgan feels they've been through enough. I wasn't going to tell you, dammit, but you're so stubborn, you didn't leave me any recourse. I can't have you staying alone at the other house."

  Susannah felt Killian's anger buffet her. Despite her fear and shock, she felt anger toward him even more.

  How dare you! How dare Morgan! You should have told me this in the first place!

  Killian didn't like being put in the middle, and he glared at her. "Look, I do as I'm ordered. I'm breaking my word in telling you this, and I'll probably catch hell from my boss for doing it. I don't like this any more than you do. If you want all of the truth, I don't even want to be here—I don't take assignments that involve women. But Morgan threatened to fire me if I didn't take this mission, so you and I are in the same boat. You don't want me here, and I damn well don't want to be here!"

  Stunned, Susannah blinked at the powerful wave of feeling behind his harsh words. She sensed a desperation in Killian's anger, and it was that desperation that defused her own righteous anger.

  I'm sorry, Killian. I shouldn't be angry with you.

  He shook his head and refused to meet her eyes. The frightening truth was, every time he did, he wanted simply to find his way into her arms and be held. "Don't apologize," he muttered. "It isn't your fault, either. We're both caught between a rock and a hard place."

  Without thinking, Susannah slowly raised her hand and placed it across Killian's clenched one on the table. His head snapped up as her fingers wrapped around his. The anger dissolved in his eyes, and for just a moment Susannah could have sworn she saw longing in his stormy gaze. But, just as quickly, it was gone, leaving only an icy coldness. She removed her hand from his, all too aware that he was rejecting her touch.

  All she had wanted to do was comfort Killian. From her work, Susannah knew the healing nature of human touch firsthand. Killian had looked positively torn by the fact that he had to be here with her. Susannah had wanted to let him know somehow that she understood his dilemma. He didn't want anything to do with her because she was a woman. Her curiosity was piqued, but she knew better than to ask. Right now, Killian was edgy, turning the cup around and around in his long, spare hands.

  You don't have to stay out there with me.

  Killian made a muffled sound and stood up suddenly. He moved away from the table, automatically checking the window with his gaze. "Yes," he said irritably, "I do. I don't like it any more than you do, but it has to be done."

  But it was a nightmare! You said so yourself. You can stay here with my folks.

  Killian savagely spun on his heel, and when he spoke his voice was hoarse. "There's nothing you can say that will change my mind. You need protection, Susannah."

  With a trembling hand, Susannah touched her brow. It was nerve-racking enough to stay by herself at the abandoned farmhouse. She was desperately afraid of the dark, of the terrors that came nightly when she lay down as her overactive imagination fueled the fires of her many fears. But Killian staying with her? He was so blatantly male—so quiet, yet so capable. Fighting her own feelings toward him, she sat for a good minute before writing on the notepad again.

  Please tell my folks the truth about this. I don't want to lie to them about the reason you're staying out at the house with me. It would seem funny to them if you suddenly started living out there with me.

  Killian couldn't disagree with her. He paced the room quietly, trying to come up with a better plan. He stopped and looked down at her exhausted features. "I'll talk to them this morning." Relief flowed through Susannah, and she nodded.

  Morgan was trying to protect us, but this is one time when we should know the whole truth.

  "I tried to tell him that," Killian said bitterly. He stood by the table, thinking. "That's all water under the bridge now," he said. "You saw the killer's face in your nightmare. I need you to draw a picture of him this morning so that I can take it to the police station. They'll fax it to Lexington and to Morgan."

  Trying to combat the automatic reactions of fear, rage and humiliation that came with remembering, Susannah nodded. Her hand still pressed against her brow, she tried to control the cold-bladed anxiety triggered by the discussion.

  It was impossible for Killian to steel himself against the clarity of the emotions he read in Susannah's pale face. "Easy," he said soothingly. "Take some deep breaths, Susannah, and the panic will start to go away." He watched her breasts rise and fall sharply beneath her wrinkled cotton gown, and he couldn't help thinking how pretty she looked in the thin garment with lace sewn around its oval neckline. She was like that lace, fragile and easily crushed, he realized as he stood watching her wrestle with her fear.

  Miraculously, Susannah felt much of her panic dissolve beneath his husky-voiced instructions. She wasn't sure if it was because of the deep breaths or merely Killian's quiet presence. How did he know what she was experiencing? He must have experienced the very same thing, otherwise he wouldn't know how to help her. And he was helping her—even if he'd made it clear that he didn't want to be here.

  "Good," Killian said gruffly as she became calm. He poured them more tea and took his chair again. "I'll sleep in the bedroom down the hall from yours. I'm a restless sleeper," he warned her sharply. "I have nightmares myself. . . ." His voice trailed off.

  Susannah stared at him, swayed by the sincerity in his dark blue eyes. There was such torment in them. Toward her? Toward the assignment? She just wasn't sure. Morning light was stealing through the ruffled curtains at the window now, softening his harsh features.

  Nervously fingering the rectangular notepad, Susannah frowned, uncertain of her own feelings as she was every time he was with her.

  "I won't bother you, if that's what you're worried about," he added when he saw the confusion on her face. He prayed he could keep his word—hoped against hope that he wouldn't have one of the terrible, wrenching nightmares that haunted him.

  Agitated, Susannah got to her feet and moved to the window. The pale lavender of dawn reminded her of the color of her favorite flowers—the lilacs. Pressing and releasing her fingers against the porcelain sink, she thought about Killian's statement.

  Killian studied Susannah in the quiet of the kitchen. Her dark hair lay mussed against her tense shoulders, a sable cloak against the pristine white of her nightgown. Killian ached to touch her hair, to tunnel his fingers through it and find out what it felt like. Would it be as soft as her body had been against his? Or more coarse, in keep
ing with the ramrod-straight spine that showed her courage despite the circumstances?

  "Look," he said, breaking the tense silence, "maybe this will end sooner than I expect. I'll work on the house over there to stay close in case something happens. I'll paint and fix up the windows, the doors." Anything to keep my mind off you.

  Turning, Susannah looked at him. He sat at the table, his long fingers wrapped around the dainty china cup on the yellow oilcloth. His body was hunched forward, and he had an unhappy expression on his face. She would never forget the look in his eyes, his alertness, or the sense of safety she'd felt when she'd fallen sobbing into his arms at the back door. Why was she hedging now about allowing him to be near her?

  Licking her lips, she nodded. Suddenly more tired than she could remember ever being, she left the counter. It was time to go home. When she got to the screen door, Killian moved quickly out of his chair.

  "I'll walk you back," Killian said, his tone brooking no argument. Opening the screen door, she walked out.

  Although he wanted Susannah to believe he was relaxed, Killian remained on high alert as they trod the damp path through the orchard back to her home. The sky had turned a pale pink. It wouldn't be long before the sun came up.

  Killian felt Susannah's worry as she looked around, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. He wanted to step close—to place a protective arm around her shoulders and give her the sense of security she so desperately needed and so richly deserved. Yet he knew that touching her would melt his defenses. That couldn't happen—ever. Killian swore never to allow Susannah to reach inside him; but she had that ability, and he knew it. Somehow, he had to strengthen his resolve and keep her at arm's length. At all costs. For her own sake.

  "Maybe if I patch that torn screen in your bedroom and put some locks on the windows, you'll feel better about being there." He saw her flash him a grateful look. "I'll tell your folks what happened when they get up. Then I'll contact Morgan."

  Susannah nodded her agreement. She longed simply to step closer to Killian, to be in his protective embrace again. She couldn't forget the lean power of his body against hers, the way he'd used himself as a barrier to protect her.

  She wrestled with conflicting feelings. Why was Killian so unhappy about having to stay out at the house with her? She couldn't help how she felt. She knew that right now, if she went back to her old room at her folks' house, the nightmares would return. Her life had begun to stabilize—until tonight. If only Killian could understand why she had to be at the old homestead.

  "I'll make sure your house is safe. Then I want you to get some sleep. When you get up, you can draw me the face you saw in the nightmare."

  Killian saw Susannah's eyes darken.

  "Don't worry, I'll be around. You may not know it, but I'll be there. Like a shadow."

  Shivering, Susannah nodded. Her life had turned into nothing but a series of shadows. Killian's body against hers had been real, and never had she needed that more. But Killian didn't like her, didn't want to be with her. She swallowed her need to be held, still grateful that Killian would be nearby. Perhaps her mind was finally ready to give up the information it had seen, and that should help in the long run.

  Touching her throat, she fervently wished her voice would come back. At least now she could make some noise, and that seemed a hopeful sign. She stole a glance up into Killian's grim, alert features. She'd welcome his company, even though he didn't want hers. Right now, she needed the human contact. Thinking back, she realized that the anger she'd sensed in Killian had been due to his not wanting to take the assignment. It hadn't really been aimed directly at her. Sometimes it was lonely out there at the homestead. He wasn't a willing guest, Susannah reminded herself. Still, if her attacker was really out there, she would feel a measure of safety knowing that Killian was nearby.

  After thoroughly checking Susannah's home again, Killian allowed her into the farmhouse. He'd double- check around the house and quietly search the acreage around it just to make sure no one was hiding in wait. At the bedroom door, Susannah shyly turned and gave him a soft, hesitant smile. A thank-you showed clearly in her eyes, and it took everything Killian had for him to turn away from her. "I'll be over about noon," he rasped, more gruffly than he'd intended.

  Susannah waited for Killian's promised noon arrival as she sat at her kitchen table. She questioned herself. Her real home was in town, near the school where she taught. Why didn't she have the courage to move back there? Glumly she admitted it was because she was afraid of being completely alone. At least this broken-down homestead was close to her parents.

  Killian deliberately made noise as he stepped up on Susannah's porch, carrying art supplies under one arm. He knew all about being jumpy. He'd decked more than one man who had inadvertently come up behind him without warning. Wolf had been one of those men, on assignment down in Peru. The others on the team had learned from his mistake and had always let Killian know they were coming.

  Susannah was waiting for him at the screen door. She looked beautiful, clothed in a long, lightweight denim skirt and a fuchsia short-sleeved blouse. She'd tied her hair back with a pink ribbon, and soft tendrils brushed her temples. Killian tensed himself against the tempting sight of her.

  Stepping into the kitchen, Killian sniffed. "You've got coffee on?" He found himself wanting to ease the seriousness out of her wary eyes. The dark shadows beneath them told him she hadn't slept well since the nightmare.

  Placing sketch pad, colored pencils and eraser on the table, Killian eased into a chair. Susannah went to the cupboard, retrieved a white ceramic mug and poured him some coffee. He nodded his thanks as she came over and handed it to him.

  "Sit down," he urged her. "We've got some work to do."

  Looking over the art supplies, Susannah sat down at his elbow. Somehow Killian looked heart-stoppingly handsome and dangerous all at once. His dress was casual, but she always sensed the inner tension in him, and could see some undefinable emotion in his blue eyes when he looked at her. But the anger was no longer there, she noted with relief.

  "I'd like you to sketch for me the man you saw in your nightmare," Killian said.

  Hesitant, Susannah fingered the box of colored pencils. Her throat constricted, and she closed her eyes for a moment. How could she make Killian understand that since the attack her love of drawing and painting had gone away?

  "It doesn't have to be fancy, Susannah. Draw me something. Anything. I have a way to check what you sketch for me against police mug shots." He saw pain in her eyes, and her lower lip trembled as she withdrew her hand from the box of pencils. He cocked his head. "What is it?" He recalled his sister's pain, and the hours he'd spent holding her while she cried after realizing her once-beautiful face was gone forever. A powerful urge to reach out and give Susannah that same kind of help nearly overwhelmed him, but he reared back inwardly. He couldn't.

  With a helpless shrug, Susannah swallowed against the lump and shakily opened up the sketch pad. She had to try. She believed in Killian, and she believed he could help her. Suddenly embarrassed, she took her pad and pencil and wrote:

  I'm rusty at this. I haven't drawn since being wounded.

  He grimaced. "I'm no art critic, Susannah. I can't draw a straight line. Anything you can do will look great to me. Give it your best try."

  Susannah picked up a pencil and began to sketch. She tried to concentrate on the task at hand, but she found her senses revolving back to Killian's overwhelming presence. All morning she'd thought about him staying here with her. It wasn't him she couldn't trust, she realized—it was herself! The discovery left her feeling shaken. Never had a man influenced her on all levels, as Killian did. What was it about him? For the thousandth time, Susannah ached to have her voice back. If only she could talk!

  Quiet descended upon them. Killian gazed around the kitchen, keenly aware of Susannah's presence. It was like a rainbow in his dismal life. There were at least forty colorful drawings tacked to the kitchen walls, obv
iously done by very young children. Probably her class. Peace, a feeling that didn't come often to Killian, descended gently around him. Was it the old-fashioned house? Being out in the country away from the madding crowd? Or—he swung his gaze back to Susannah and saw her brows drawn together in total concentration, her mouth pursed—was it her?

  Unconsciously Killian's shoulders dropped, and he eased the chair back off its two front legs, loosely holding the mug of coffee against his belly. Birds, mostly robins, were singing and calling to one another. The sweet scents of grass, ripening fruit and clean mountain air wafted through the kitchen window. Susannah had a small radio on in the corner, and FM music flowed softly across the room, like an invisible caress.

  His gaze settled on Susannah's ponytail, and he noted the gold and red glints between the sable strands. Her hair was thick and luxurious. A man could drive himself crazy wondering what the texture of it was like, Killian decided unhappily. Right now, he knew his focus had to be on keeping her protected, not his own personal longings.

  The sketch of the man took shape beneath Susannah's slender fingers over the next hour. Frequently she struggled, erasing and beginning again. Killian marveled at her skill as an artist. She might consider herself rusty, but she was definitely a professional.

  Finally her mouth quirked and she glanced up. Slowly she turned the sketch toward him.

  "Unsavory-looking bastard," Killian whispered as he put the coffee aside and held the sketch up to examine it. "Brown eyes, blond hair and crooked front teeth?"

  Susannah nodded. She saw the change in Killian's assessing blue eyes. A fierce anger emanated from him, and she sensed his hatred of her attacker.