Target Of Opportunity

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Target ofOpportunity by Justine Davis


SILHOUETTE BOOKS 300 East 42nd St.,New York ,N.Y.10017 TARGET OFOPPORTUNITY Copyright © 1993 by Janice Davis Smith All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilisation of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forMAfem without the permission of the publisher, Silhouette Boofes, SMS E. 42nd St., New York, N.Y. ISBN: 0-373-07506-5 First Silhouette Books printing July 1993 An the characters in this book have no existence outside the imagination of the author and have no relation whatsoever to any one tearing the same name or names. They are not distantly inspired by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all incidents are pure invention. ®: Trademark used under license and registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Printed in the US.A.

Silhouette Intimate Moments

Hunter's Way #311 Loose Ends #391 Stervie's Chase#402 Suspicion's Gate #423 Cool Under Fire #444 Race Against Time #474 To Hold an Eagle #497 Target ofOpportunity #506


Silhouette Desire

Angel for Hire #680 < the> Found Father #112

JUSTINE DAVIS lives In San Clemente, California. Her interests outside of writing are sailing, doing needlework, horseback riding and driving her restored 1967 Corvette roadster—top down, of course. A policewoman, Justine says that years ago, a young man she worked with encouraged her to try for a promotion to a position that was, at that time, occupied only by men. "I succeeded, became wrapped up in my new job, and that man moved away, never, I thought, to be heard from again. Ten years later he appeared out of the woods ofWashington state, saying he'd never forgotten me and would I please marry him? With that history, how could I write anything but romance?"

As always, to Tom. With thanks for the love, the support and the pink bow tie. Chapter 1

"Nobody is going to kill me. You're wasting your time, and mine. Walt will see you out." Well, Kyra Austin thought wryly, she couldn't say she hadn't been warned. "Mr. Riordan," she began, for at least the fifth time since she'd been shown into the inner sanctum. "Goodbye, Ms.Austin ." His voice had an undeniable edge. She'd been arguing with the man for nearly half an hour now and had managed-to push him from politely apologetic right on through assertive to aggressive. And stubborn. But she tried again anyway. "Don't be foolish-"


"I'm not being foolish, Ms. Austin. But I will be rude if that's what it takes. Now get out!" Kyra winced inwardly, but didn't move. She'd been told to get out before. She'd been told in that tone of voice before. She'd even, once, been told to leave in that tone by a man in just about this same stage of undress. But that, of course, had been her—at the time—husband, and he'd been in that stage of undress because she'd just caught him in bed—their bed—with the bouncy little cheerleader type from the apartment next door. But, she had to admit, even Jack hadn't looked this good in only a pair of unbuttoned jeans. At least he hadn't then. "Mr. Riordan-" "Look, I'm sorry you made a wasted trip, but I don't need you, and I don't want you." Funny, Kyra thought sourly, that's exactly what Jack had said. "I'm sure; you don't want me," she agreed smoothly— she'd had a lot of practice in appearing unruffled, no matter what she was feeling underneath. And Cash Riordan's broad, sleek, naked chest was making her feel quite uneasy. "But yon doneedme." "The hell I do." Her five-foot-ten height, nudged to over six feet in heels, was usually an advantage in confrontations lite this. But when her counterpart was over six foot—in Cash Riordan's case, six-two, according to the file—she had to admit some of the impact was lost. "Mr. Riordan," Kyra said carefully, "death threats are nothing to take lightly." "Death threats." He snorted derisively. "What a bunch of-" He cut himself off, looking at her as if he resented that she were there, and female, so he couldn't finish the sentence the way he wanted to. She'd come across many men, and some women, who didn't care about using some of the choicer swear words in mixed company; Cash Riordan clearly wasn't one of them. She wasn't certain what that meant, if anything, but she filed it away in the mental comer she'd allotted to this case the moment she'd been assigned to it. He ran a hand over hair still damp from a shower. It would dry, she knew from the photograph in the file—as if she hadn't seen him twelve feet high on a movie screen, and more than once—thick and straight, nearly brushing his shoulders and falling over his forehead, dark but rich with deep copper highlights when caught by the sun. "Look," he said after a moment, gentler now, "I'm just a dumb country boy who got lucky. Nobody's going to kill me for that. Go on home, Ms. Austin. Walt will see that you get paid for your time.'' Kyra didn't believe the dumb-country-boy bit for an instant. But she merely said, "I've already been paid for my time. In fact, I've been paid for a month of my time. For starters." Cash stared at" her, his fabled green eyes showing surprise. "Dave," he spat out after a moment. "Damn him!" He whirled and disappeared out the same door he'd come in through. And Kyra took the first real


breath she'd managed since Walt Carter had shown her into the cozy, warmly masculine den in the big Malibu Hills house that belonged to the man they were calling the star of the decade. A title well earned, she thought, if the plaques and awards that added a golden gleam to the wood-paneled room were any sign. She was uncomfortable with all these reminders of who she was dealing with. Or trying to deal with, anyway. How did one deal with a person who lived this kind of life, always in the public eye, their life on constant display? She shook her head as she wandered out of the den into the expansive, bright living room. If, she thought wryly, glancing around, that's what you called a room this size. You could play football in here. Heck, you could play polo in here. A little tough on the horses, though, she thought with a grin; the floor was smoothly tiled. And gorgeous tile,at that. The sparkling white background was cool and crisp, and the graceful design in teal blue and green looked hand painted. Probably custom-made to match the colors of the furniture, she decided. Or vice versa. Must be nice. What did you expect? she chided herself silently. This was, after all, Cash Riordan's house. One of them, anyway. The file her boss had handed her had listed three; this one, a house in Denver where he'd grown up and his parents still lived and—she still nearly choked with laughter at the thought—a genuine castle in Ireland. True, the report had said it was a derelict and that he had bought it only to keep it from being torn down, but it was still a castle.

The rich, she thought, truly were different. And the celebrated rich, those darlings of the tabloids andHollywood press, were even more different. For someone who craved privacy as she did, the idea of a life in the kind of limelight Cash Riordan lived with was unthinkable. And protecting him in that limelight would be, at best, very difficult. Well, she could always just leave, she thought, only half joking. She could go home—she had been ordered to, after all, by the man himself—and tell Bill they'd been fired already. She could just imagine her boss's reaction, and a rueful grin curved her lips. A plum like protecting Cash Riordan didn't fall into their laps every day, and if she slunk home simply because he didn't want her around, she'd never live it down. "—said no, damn it!" "But, Cash, what harm can it do?" Uh-oh, Kyra thought as the voices echoed in the hallway, obviously coming closer. She stifled the instinctive urge to run, and made herself sit down on one end of the long, white leather sofa. She ran one hand through her short, tousled cap of almost-black hair. She rested one arm with studied casualness on a canary-yellow pillow, one of three scattered across the sofa, bright, hot spots of color that rescued the room—pleasantly, she thought—from too much blue-green coolness. Leaning back, she crossed her linen-clad legs at the knee, as if prepared to wait all day until her client came to his senses and admitted he was just that, her client. And when it came down to it, she supposed she was prepared to do just that. "What harm?" Riordan's voice echoed down the hall. "Having somebody constantly following me


around, watching me every second? It would drive me crazy, that's what harm it would do!" "Cash, listen to me! You've got to take this more seriously." "You're the one who thought it was a joke." "That was in the beginning. At worst, I figured it was going to do wonders for the picture." Dave's tone became rueful. "And it did, you know that.Ten Daysis breaking records right and left. I couldn't have planned a better ad campaign. But—" "Dave," Cash said, in the tone of a man who has heard this once too often, "if you want to believe that crap, I can't stop you. But it's a bunch of harmless babble, no different than those threatening letters I got afterHeart of Silence, blaming me for glorifying war. They're always out there, Dave. You know that. And they write letters." "And make phone calls? On private numbers they should have no way of having? And while you're there?" "Okay, so this one's a little more persistent. That doesn't mean I need a nursemaid." "She's not a nursemaid. She's a perfectly qualified protection specialist. In fact, Bill Sanders said she's one of the best he's got, and you know the reputation Sanders Protection has." "I didn't mean that. I don't care if it's a man, a woman or a German shepherd. I'm not having a damned bodyguard!" Well, score one for equality, Kyra thought as the two men came into the room from the hallway that had carried their voices-so well. Cash was backing in, still facing Dave Kowalski, the man who'd hired Sanders Protection to protect his friend, who was also his partner in the oddly named ZIP Productions. Dave was a few inches shorter than Cash and somewhat stocky, but the neatly trimmed beard, with a distinctive splash of gray that was obviously premature marking one side, made him look quite distinguished, Kyra thought. She also noted—objectively, she thought—that Cash Riordan's back was as sleek and well muscled as his chest. His shoulders were broad, upper back firm and strong, waist trim and flat, buttocks taut and— Kyra felt color flooding her face and jerked her gaze away. Well, she muttered to herself, let's just say they obviously don't do any trick photography to make him look good in those overheated love scenes. "You have to admit," Dave was saying, "she's a lot easier to look at than some muscle-bound wrestler. She'll blend right in, no one will even realize. They'll think she's a new girlfriend or something. Everybody's been waiting for that anyway." "Oh, that's just what I need," Cash said sourly. "I've got enough problems without the press jumping on the new romance bandwagon. Besides, they'd never believe it. If you'd seen her, you'd know that." Kyra felt her jaw tighten. She fought back the tide of pain that threatened to rise up. She'd learned too well she was not heart-stealing material, but it hurt to hear it so bluntly. And the fact that the assessment was coming from a man who no doubt had access to the most beautiful women in the world did little to alleviate the pain.


An image flashed through her mind of another photograph from the Sanders file. A photograph of a petite, beautiful blonde, a former schoolmate of Cash's. The woman had appeared, according to the report—not coincidentally, Kyra had thought cynically, about the timeTen Dayshad been released to raves and record-setting crowds-saying she was pregnant with Cash's child. The report also stated that Cash hadn't fought the claim and shelled out a generous amount of money each month for the support of the baby boy that had been born. Money which was, a hand-scrawled note in the margin had observed sourly, apparently spent mostly on keeping the mother in silk and diamonds forHollywood parties. The image of the gorgeous blonde lingered in Kyra's mind until Dave Kowalski's next words interrupted her contemplation. "I have seen her," Dave Kowalski said, looking pointedly past—he was too short to look over—Cash's muscled, bare shoulder at Kyra. "And I think you're crazy." Thanks for that, Kyra thought, rising to her feet as Cash turned slowly around to face her. He had the grace to look chagrined. "I thought you were in the den," he said awkwardly. "Obviously." She couldn't help it, her voice was stiff. "Look, I didn't mean that the way it sounded." He sounded horribly-embarrassed, which surprised her and helped her recover. "It's quite all right, Mr. Riordan. This is a fight to keep you alive, not a beauty competition.'' He shrugged off her reference to the threats. "That's not what I— It's just that you're—I only meant you're not…my usual type, okay?" "True," Dave said in an affectionately mocking tone. "You usually ran to flashy blondes, natural or otherwise, who stand about five-foot nothing in three-inch heels and have as much substance-as cotton candy. No room in your life for a long, tall—and smart—brunette, even one with big blue eyes." He turned to look at Kyra. "Or are they gray?" Kyra blushed, a reaction she'd thought she'd conquered forever years ago. She hated it; it showed so horribly in her pale skin. She thought it best not to speak at the moment, having no idea what might come out, or what it would sound like. Besides, she had no answer to give him; sometimes her eyes looked gray, sometimes blue, depending on what she wore. Cash was glaring at his friend. Kyra noted that he didn't comment on Dave's description of her. If you can't say something nice, don't say anything? she wondered. No doubt. She shook herself out of the momentary rush of self-pity and concentrated on the two men. "I can do without the commentary on my social life, Dave," Cash was muttering. Dave merely shrugged. "Now, admit it, Cash, even if she's not your… standard fare, it'll work. You stay safe, I sleep at night and everybody just thinks your taste has… changed. Nobody on the outside knows the difference." "I'd know the difference," Cash answered grimly. Then he turned to Kyra. "I apologize if I offended you," he said. "I honestly didn't mean to. And this is no reflection on you or your abilities. But I've just finished six straight months of eighteen-hour days, with a crowd of people around every second, and I'm


going home for the first time in over a year. I just couldn't tolerate a shadow." He sounded very sincere, Kyra thought. And kind. And rather endearing, with that tentative smile of shy apology. He was also, she pointed out to herself, an actor. A good one. Cynic, she muttered inwardly. But then something he'd said caught her attention. "Home?" she asked, glancing around the house furnished with the latest in pastels and leather. Cash's mouth quirked. "Yes. And that doesn't mean this place." "No," Dave groaned. "It means that damned island. Twenty acres in the middle of god-awful nowhere."' Island? Kyra wondered. There'd been nothing in the file about an island. "Rain half the year, and not even a damned bridge," Dave went on, shivering dramatically. "All you can do is sit there and look across at the needle, wishing you were up there, looking out at that dinky little chunk of land. I don't know how you stand it.'' "I love It," Cash said simply, and actor or not, Kyra knew he meant it. "And I'm not leaving it again for a long, long time." She caught a glimpse of his eyes then and nearly gasped at the vivid emotion that lit his eyes. He was eager, she thought, desperately eager to get to this place he called home with such passion. Something shifted inside her, tight and warm, and she made another addition to the picture she was building of Cash Riordan. "Mr. Riordan-" He held up his hand to stop her words. It was a strong hand, she thought, with long, finely muscled fingers and calluses on the palm. Not a weak, pampered hand, but a hand that had seen work, hard, physical work. Another piece for the puzzle. "I will be very isolated there, Ms. Austin. And very safe, not that I believe a word of those crackpot letters and phone calls. Tell your boss I appreciate it, but your presence won't be necessary." "You tell him." Irritation flickered in his eyes, and Kyra wondered if anyone, other than perhaps Dave Kowalski, talked back to him these days. Certainly not the unctuous Walt, who, when he had shown her in, had seemed resentful of the demand on Cash's time, even for a thing like keeping him alive. He'd been so grudging that Kyra had—cynically, she admitted-wondered if it hadn't occurred to him that if anything happened to his boss, he'd be out a pretty cushy meal ticket. "All right," Cash grated out. "I'll call him and tell him myself." "Don't bother," Kyra said casually. "He's right here." Cash blinked at her, his eyes—Lord, they really were that green, she thought—widening in puzzlement as his brow furrowed. "What?"


She gestured at Dave.'"Mr. Kowalski signed the contract with Sanders Protection." Dave cleared his throat self-consciously as Cash looked at him, then switched his glare back to Kyra. She shrugged. "He's paying the bill, so he's my boss. And," she added, "he's the only one who can fire me." Cash's jaw clenched. It was true, Kyra thought as she watched him, waiting for his next move. She'd read in the articles in the file that Cash Riordan had always downplayed his own looks, saying that he was just an average-looking guy that the camera happened to love. Although she herself would classify him, with his tall, lean body and thick, habitually tousled and shaggy dark hair, as considerably better than average—though not as flawless as Jack— Kyra thought she could see what he meant.-He was attractive enough in person, especially with those incredible green eyes, but on-screen he took on some other dimension- that drew every eye to him. "Dave," he said warningly. Dave swallowed tightly, but stood his ground. "Sorry, Cash. Somebody's got to take this seriously.'' "Damn it, what makes you think these ate different from any other crank threat?" Dave shrugged. "I told you, I didn't In the beginning. That first press report sounded like the typical declaration by some deranged splinter group.'' "And that's ail it is," Cash insisted. "Maybe. But something about the rest of the threats bothers me. And I don't want to take any chances." "Youdon't? I'm the one you want to attach a tail to!" Dave looked at Kyra, lifting his hands in a helpless gesture. Cash followed suit and looked at her, but his hands, curled into fists, were jammed deeply into the pockets of his jeans, his muscled arms stiff and straight. He'd be digging in his heels, Kyra thought, stifling a smile, if he was standing on something other than a tile floor. And then, as she realized his position had put his unbuttoned jeans in some peril, her smile faded. She yanked her wandering gaze away and fastened it carefully on Dave. On his beard in particular, as if studying that streak of gray could distract her. But her mind insisted on playing the picture back over and over, like a confused VCR. Tanned skin over a taut belly ridged with muscle, changing to paler skin bisected by a narrow path of curling hair that started at his navel and ran downward to disappear into the V of the open waistband. As if he'd read her mind, or had only now realized his state of undress, Cash reached for the shirt that was draped over the back of a pale blue chair and shrugged it on, then buttoned his jeans. After what he'd bared to the world onscreen, she was surprised he bothered. Yet when she glanced at him again, she was startled to see a flush had tinged his face. Another, this time surprising, piece to the puzzle. "You agree, don't you?" Dave finally said when Kyra didn't speak. It took her a moment to break the reverie and drag her mind back to the matter at hand. "If you mean do I think this should be taken seriously, then yes. And you're right, Mr. Kowalski. If it had stopped at merely that blanket statement to the media, then I would agree you didn't have much to worry about. Scirocco is a small group, and they've been on the run, with agents from half a dozen countries hot


on their tail." "So why do a couple of phone calls make a difference?" Cash protested. Kyra sighed inwardly, wishing she had something concrete to say. But how could she explain what was pure instinct, a gut-level reaction to the wording, the method of delivery, the tone of a few short phone calls? Especially to someone who hadn't, she knew, even heard them. He rarely answered the phone himself, and had only been told what had been said; it was different than hearing the threat directly, as she had when Dave had sent the tapes he'd begun to make after the first couple of calls. Bill had made her listen to them all. As they progressed, they had taken on a personal note that was a red flag to anyone used to dealing with such things. That and the apparent knowledge of Riordan's location and private phone numbers were more than enough to put the calls in the category of genuine threat. "You should take it seriously, Mr. Riordan," she said at last. "There's something very…personal in these threats, something in the tone that wasn't in the public declaration." "I'm supposed to rearrange my life because you think there's some 'tone' to these threats?" "Not just me. Everyone at the agency who's listened to them agrees. Including," Kyra said, "Rita." Cash let out an exasperated breath. "Rita? Who's she?" "It, actually. It's an acronym for our computer system. Relative Threat Analysis. It analyzes things like your phone calls and rates the degree of actual hazard, using criteria like the tone, clarity and intensity of the threats. And, of course, the reason for them. This is not your typical obsessed fan of a celebrity." "Great. A computer's decided I'm in trouble. What, it didn't like the group's politics?" "No. Not that much is known about Scirocco, other than they're brutal and ruthless. Even the other radical groups disown them. And they haven't made a public threat on an individual before, so we don't know if there is a pattern to their threats, and if the ones you've received match it." "Lucky me," Cash muttered. "Then what makes you think-" "What we do know, Mr. Riordan, is that the last-person who made them look bad, died. That, and the fact that they somehow got your private phone numbers, the fact that you got the calls both in L. A. andNew York , and while you were there…" Cash grimaced, shaking his head, but Dave quickly jumped in to support her. "That's what I mean. They called here, but when you went toNew York , they called there. They knew where you were."' His voice rose with anxiety. "Damn it, they're watching you, Casher!" Cash seemed startled. He studied his old friend for a long, quiet moment. "You haven't called me that in years," he said at last, his voice soft. Dave shrugged as if embarrassed. "I haven't been this worried in years." Cash let out a long breath. Somehow that nickname had gotten to him. Kyra spoke now, while the moment was right, softly, aware of her position as the outsider.


"Listen to him," she urged. "Don't shrug him off. He's your friend. You're lucky to have someone who cares enough to worry." "I know." Cash's voice was low, but its sincerity was unequivocal. Hedidknow. And he cared about his old friend just as much in return.Yet again her image of him shifted, broadened. She could, she thought warily, come to like this man. "Look, Dave-" "Hey, Cash, the car's ready, we should make the airport in—" Walt Carter skidded to a halt—literally, as one of the thick throw rags, clearly custom woven in a larger version of the pattern on the tile, slipped under his feet—and gaped at Cash's unbuttoned shirt and bare feet. "You're not even ready yet," he said, stating the obvious. "I know," Cash said wryly. "I've been too busy trying to convince these two that I don't need a chaperon." Walt grinned; to Kyra it seemed oddly off center. He was a thin, angular man who seemed all bones and stringy muscle, with a long face and moist brown eyes that reminded her of a gamboling puppy. "You and a chaperon? Now that's a thought. Cramp your style a bit, though, wouldn't it?" The wide eyes fastened on Kyra for a moment, assessingly, almost angrily, and-the image of the puppy faded a bit. "But then again, maybe not." Kyra felt the blush begin and fought it down; it was difficult, especially when all she could think of for a moment was how she'd so avidly been looking at Cash's half-clad body. "I doubt that," Kyra said primly. "As Mr. Riordan has already pointed out, I'm hardly his type." Cash made a small, pained sound. Then he looked at the other man. "Knock it off, Walt. You know I never take anybody to the island with me." His eyes narrowed as his gaze shifted to Kyra once more. "I go there to be alone, Ms. Austin." "I see.'' He was getting to her, and she didn't understand why; she had never been prone to star-worship. The confusion made her voice exceptionally cool as she went on, struggling to regain her equilibrium. "You go off for a vacation and leave everybody else behind to worry about whether you'll make it back alive." Cash let out a short, exasperated breath. "Hey," Walt said with a shrug, "nothing's gonna happen, not on the island. It's so cut off from the world, he won't need a bodyguard." "Isolation can be a curse as well as a blessing," Kyra said, hiding her irritation. "Help isn't exactly around the corner." "Especially," Dave put in, "when that damn radio phone doesn't work half the time."


"Won't need to call for help," Walt insisted. "I'll be there to keep an eye out, and Dave'll be there now and then." Kyra lifted a brow and glanced at Cash. "I thought you said you never take anybody there.'' Incredibly, Cash blushed. "I… er…" "He meant women," Dave put in dryly. "Ah." It was all she said, but Cash shifted uncomfortably. Dave was chuckling, while Walt just looked at him. Kyra waited as the silence stretched out. "All right!" he snapped suddenly. "I'll make a deal with you, Ms. Austin." She blinked. "A deal?" "What kind of a deal?" "One that will get him—" he gestured at Dave "—off my back. I hope." Kyra studied him for a moment, then said coolly, "I believe a deal is an arrangement that benefitsboth parties." One brow If fed at her tone, but he said only, "It does. If you meet the terms of the deal, you get to do what you came "But, Mr. Riordan," she answered, in a formal tone of purposefully mild surprise, "I shall do that in any case, with or without your cooperation." He drew back sharply, eyes widening. Walt was gaping at her, Dave was smothering a smile behind one hand. And then, suddenly, Cash was grinning. It transformed his face, and she saw in that moment what the camera saw and loved, that vital, intangible something that set him apart. 'But it would be a lot easierwithit, wouldn't it?" "Of course." She said it with a shrug that said clearly that in either case, her job would get done. She meant it; she'd had to work with uncooperative subjects before and she could do it again. From the way he was looking at her, with that sparkle of challenge lighting his eyes, he'd obviously understood her message. "Are you really that good?" He said it without hostility, and she answered it without defensiveness. "I'm very good, Mr. Riordan." "Good enough to meet your end of the deal?"


"Which is?" He grinned again. "You've heard them griping because the island is isolated. It is, but it's not particularly remote.No one knows I own it, except Dave and Walt here. Not even, unless I misread you, Sanders Protection." Kyra hid her surprise. He was clearly very observant; she didn't often give things away. "Correct, Mr. Riordan," she said, giving him his due. "I assume it was purchased under some kind of front, to keep your name hidden? We haven't had enough time to research that kind of thing." He nodded. "It's hidden so deep, it would take weeks to follow the paper trail." "Your point, Mr. Riordan?" Kyra asked. "As I said, no one knows I own the place. People know I have a place I go, a…" He stopped for a moment, and Kyra supplied quietly, "A sanctuary?" He looked startled. "Yes. I guess that's what it is." He looked at her intently for a moment, and Kyra had the oddest feeling he was doing exactly as she had been doing, adjusting his mental image of her, changing it as he came to know more about her. "Anyway," he said after a moment, "they know I have a place, but they don't know where it is. No one here does, except Dave and Walt." "Lucky us," Dave grumbled, mimicking Cash. "Your point?" Kyra repeated patiently. "You say you're good, Ms. Austin. Are you good enough to find it?" She stared at him. "Your island?" He nodded and grinned again. "You find it—and me—in a week, and you've got my full cooperation." One comer of her mouth twisted wryly. "Hide-and-seek, Mr. Riordan?" "Sort of." "This is not a game," she said severely. "You could be dead by then." "That's my problem." "And mine. It doesn't look good on the resume." The grin again. He was, she realized ruefully, enjoying this. "What is it, Ms. Austin? Afraid you can't do it?" "That sounds like a dare."


The grin widened. "Yep. Sure does." He was manipulating her, but doing it so openly and with such humor that she found it hard to be upset. "I see," she said smoothly. "You should have made that clear sooner." "Why? Would you have given up and left me in peace?" "On the contrary, Mr. Riordan. You see, I'm genetically incapable of passing up a good dare.''

Chapter 2

"Tell Bill I'm sorry, but it was the best I could do," Kyra said into the phone. "He really isn't taking this seriously at all." "I'll tell him, darlin'. And don't worry. You know the boss'll forgive you dam near any thing.'' Cole Bannister's lazy drawl made Kyra smile. It melted other women at the big Texan's booted feet, if they hadn't already been reduced to a small puddle with one look at his ruggedly handsome face, black hair and blazing blue eyes. Kyra's instinct had been to ran like hell at her first sight of the six-four, two hundred twenty pounds of muscle that was Sanders Protection's vice president in charge of investigations. But now he was a friend, trusted as she had never thought to trust another drop-dead gorgeous man again. "I'll let Bill know what I need when I get to this island. Wherever it is among the million or so in Puget Sound," she ended wryly. "I'll pass it on. How long do you think it'll take?" Kyra smiled again. Cole hadn't asked herifshe would be able to find it, he'd assumed she would. Once she had proven herself to him, he had never questioned her abilities. He trusted her, too, and that had done a great deal toward rebuilding her self-esteem, shattered by Jack Lange's cruel defection and even crueler ridicule. "I'm not sure," she answered. "I was right behind him on the tram at SeaTac, but I lost him in front of the terminal because he had a car already waiting. By the time I got a cab, he was out of sight." "No ID on the car?" "I couldn't get there in time to get a plate. With Walt running interference for him and no baggage to pick up, he was through that airport in a flash." And virtually nobody, she thought, had recognized him. Perhaps because he'd been moving so fast, perhaps because of the absence of any kind of entourage that drew attention, or because he was out of


context, or because of the dark glasses and Seattle Supersonics' cap he wore. Or maybe, she thought, because he had made a point of not trying to stand out in the crowd. Who would think that Cash Riordan would walk through an airport carrying his own bag? And a battered old duffel at that? "Could you see who met him?" Cole asked. "A guy. About Riordan's age. A friend, it seemed like." "So it wasn't a limo, or transport service?" "Limo?" Kyra chuckled. "I don't think he's the type. It could have been a transport service—there was some kind of writing on the car—but the guy didn't act like it. Hugged Riordan and Carter like an old buddy. All I could tell about the car itself was that It was some kind of four-wheel-drive wagon. Green." She wondered sourly If the car had been already arranged, or if It had been done midflight, just for her benefit. The wonders of modern travel. "Parked in the no-parking zone, of course," she finished, her voice echoing the sourness of her thoughts. "Must be rough." "Actually, it was a good thing. I got a lead. The porter there noticed it because it was pretty blatant. Told me the writing on the door was in white. Some kind of company name, he said, but he couldn't remember what. But it said Lake Union, so I've got a place to start." "Good luck." "I'll need it," she said wryly. "I think Mr. Riordan is trying to lose me." "I'll bet he was one surprised puppy when you followed him to LAX and just hopped on that plane right behind him." Kyra could almost see Cole's slow, wide grin, and it made her smile at the phone receiver. "Probably never knew a woman who'd get on a plane without a mule load of luggage, let alone without even a toothbrush." "He did look a little…startled," Kyra agreed, remembering Riordan's expression when he had turned around in his first-class seat as if he'd recognized her voice as she spoke to the flight attendant. Kyra had merely nodded politely, as if he were any other passenger, and made her way to her own seat—considerably farther back, at this late moment. And she tried not to smile as she thought of how he had, after a moment, grinned at her. "You need anything else? Clothes or anything? I hear it's raining in Seattle." "Not yet. I'll get what I need here. Tell Bill I'm making up for that skimpy expenses claim I turned in last time." "I'll do that" Cole said with a chuckle. "So tell me, what's he like, so far, besides quick through an airport?" "So far," Kyra said, "he's just like" his PR says. A nice guy. A little naive, even, about these threats, anyway. And fanatic about this island of his. I'm lucky I got this far. There's no way he would accept a whole team." "No other problems?"


"Besides his tendency to treat this whole thing as a joke? No." "I meant you." "Me?" Kyra asked warily, "Yes, you, darlin'. Him bein' Mr. Hunk and all, I thought you might go running off in the other direction." "I can stand being in the same roomwith you, can't I?" Kyra teased. "Now you can," Cole agreed, his voice suddenly serious. "But for a while there I wanted to hunt down that pretty-boy husband of yours and rearrange his face." Kyra was startled. "You did?" "I did. I've never had a woman be so afraid of me before, Kyra. I didn't like the feeling.'' "I didn't know." Kyra caught her breath as realization dawned. "Is that why you were so ...careful around me?" "Just wasted you to know you could trust me. Good thing I'm a patient man.'' "I do trust you," she said, touched. "With everything except your heart," he muttered. Then the drawl was back, announcing the return of the laid-back, nonchalant Cole. "That's why I never made a pass at you, darlin'. Although I'm always available if you change your mind about us hunk types." Kyra laughed. "You'll always be my favorite hunk type, Cole. I love you like a brother." "Ouch," he groaned theatrically. "The kiss of death from a woman." Then, after a moment, "Does that mean Cash Riordan is just another one of the names in your long book of untrustworthy pretty fares?" "Actually," Kyra said slowly, "no. It's true, you know, he's not really a… a heart-stopper in person. I mean, he's good looking and all, but not like he is on-screen, where he takes your breath away.'' "I wouldn't know," Cole said dryly, "He never did a damn thing for me." "I'm glad to hear that," Kyra shot back. "It's hard to explain, though. He's not like I expected. He's… real." "And you like him better because of it," Cole guessed shrewdly. "Maybe. At least I can work with him. When," she amended ruefully, "I find this island of his." "You will. Need any help from here?" "Just keep working on that paper trail, in case I come up empty." "Never happen, darlin'."


Kyra hung up, with Cole's deep chuckle echoing in her ear. She'd never realized he'd been so aware of her mental state in those days when she'd first come to work for Bill Sanders. She smiled wryly at the idea of Cole Bannister making a pass at her, partly because she knew she would have indeed gone naming off in the other direction, probably screaming, and partly because his looks attracted women who would come in at about a twelve on a ten scale, not her own decidedly average appearance. Getting up and walking to the semi comfortable chair in the motel room she'd checked into—close to the water if for no other reason than it logically put her closer to the islands—Kyra went over what little she knew. She had only been to the Pacific Northwest a couple of times, but she knew the basic layout of Seattle in relation to Puget Sound. Once she knew that Cash was headed for Seattle, Dave's obscure reference to "the needle" had made sense. The Space Needle, that six-hundred foot towering leftover from the World's Fair was one of the most recognizable landmarks in the country. And Dave had said the island was twenty acres. That narrowed it down, but not enough considering that there were over three hundred islands in the sound. Dave had also said no bridge, so accessibility had to be only by sea and air. The fact of its small size and private ownership told her there was most likely no ferry service, and twenty acres wasn't large enough for much of an airstrip, or to leave room for anything else. For air travel, that left the more likely possibility of helicopters. By sea, boats. Kyra sighed. Boats. There were probably thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, in the sound or with access to it down the Lake Washington ship canal. Including any boat in Lake Union. If that was why the car that had picked him was labeled with the name, if he'd gone that way, it would be hopeless. Her only chance lay in Cash's eagerness to get to the island; she hoped he wouldn't want to take a slow boat when he could take a fast chopper. She got out of the chair and crossed the room—decorated in motel-copyrighted colors of tan, brown and orange—back to the nightstand that held the phone and the phone books. She picked up the business directory labeledA-L, then went back to the desk and reached for the map she'd gotten when she'd rented a car—she hadn't thought Bill's forgiving her for "dam near anything" would run to taxi fare all over the metropolis of Seattle. She unfolded the map, turned it to the "Seattle/Tacoma and vicinity" side and spread it out. Then she opened the phone book, holding her breath. She let it out when she saw that the listings for helicopter services and charters weren't nearly as numerous as she'd feared, barely half a column. She scanned them, then looked at the map, trying to match up air field and charter service. It turned out to be simpler than she'd thought; most of the services were at Boeing Field, which also served as the King County Airport. Since a quick phone call to SeaTac Airport Operations had told her that few private aircraft flew out of the big airport, and most of those were corporate jets, she knew Boeing was her best bet. Huge Boeing Field, with no doubt hundreds of helicopters, she thought grimly. She noticed that the last ad in the section said "See our ad under Aircraft Charters," so she flipped back to theA's. She saw the same companies she'd already found, some combination charter, rental and flying school operations, and a few labeled simply Air Service or Flying Service. She scanned the pages of ads, with their drawings of aircraft that ranged from helicopters to sleek, small jets to a rather ungainly looking seaplane.


Seaplane. Kyra felt her jaw drop. Of course. Why hadn't it occurred to her? Just because the only seaplane she'd ever seen in person was the Spruce Goose was no excuse not to think of what was no doubt, here in the land of a thousand islands and inlets and bays, a popular means of transport. Hadn't she even seen once, in some kind of documentary, someone's lakeside cabin with a small floatplane tied up to the dock? Okay, so you're a little slow today, she muttered. Get on with it. There had been nothing in Cash Riordan's file to indicate he was a licensed pilot, and that was not something Cole's people would miss. So if she was on the right track, it had to be a commercial service. She looked back at the listings, counting. And her breath caught in her throat. Of the seaplane services listed, half were at Late Union. She looted at the map again and saw the tiny airplane emblems at the south end of the lake. Lord, you could probably see them from Dave's blessed Space Needle. She couldn't believe her tack. "To heck with helicopters," she whispered to herself. First thing in the morning, she would bead straight to Late Union… Quickly she made a list, then folded the map open to the rout© she would have to take. She slid it into the large tote bag she'd bought to carry the few purchases she'd made today.Toothbrush and paste, shampoo, underwear, warm, lace-up hiking boots, three pairs of jeans,a few sweaters and shirts and the rainproof jacket that was indispensable in Seattle anytime between September and April. Or, as the clerk who had sold it to her, a not top happy Arizonan, had groused, from September to Sept added the file folder, then sat back in the chair. There wasn't much more she could do tonight. So she thought with a wry little smile, she might as well go to the movies. . It was amazing, Kyra thought, about five minutes info the movie and about two minutes after Cash Riordan had first appeared—literally ten feet tall—before her. He was quite recognizable as the man she'd met, yet there was an intangible, inexplicable difference. As he'd said, the camera loved him. Somehow, the man who was attractive enough in person became someone magical, mythical, a man of heroic looks and proportion. A man whose every move bespoke power, grace and masculine beauty,a man whose every close-up convinced the watcher that here was the perfect vision, a man among men. Men liked him, liked his devil-may-care grin and innate honesty, but the breathy, feminine sighs that rose from various parts of the theater made it quite clear who was affected most by the overwhelming image. By ten minutes into the movie, Kyra was having trouble remembering she was here because of her job. By fifteen minutes into it, she was so raptly involved that she'd forgotten it was Cash Riordan up there. It was Ray Hawthorne, the quiet, unassuming man who, in a time of horror, had been thrust into the role of leader. She was with him as he tried to calm his fellow hostages. Her heart warmed at the way he soothed the frightened children. She caught her breath when he dared to confront their captors, cringed as if it were real when they struck him down. She cheered inwardly when he found a way out for the children and managed to pull off the little ones' escape under the noses of the brutal abductors, to their fury. And cheered again when the others, bonded together by both the horror and Ray's quiet courage, refused to admit to the terrorists that he was behind the children's ran to freedom. She breathed a sigh of relief along with the rest of the audience when at last, after the ten grueling days of the title, the release was negotiated, for much less than the terrorists had expected; the escape of the children had cost them dearly in bargaining chips. She watched the hostages leave the building, walking arm in arm into the sunshine. They tamed to look back, all smiling, all waiting for the man who had saved


their children and their own sanity during the ordeal. And then Ray Hawthorne, hero, walked out into the sunlight that seemed to halo around him, smiling, shrugging almost sheepishly at the attention. The camera zoomed in as he lifted his face to the sun. A split second later he lay dead in the street. Kyra had cried out at the sound of the terrorist's shot, and her whispered "No!" wasn't the only one that echoed in the darkened theater. She sat in shallow-breathed silence as the credits began to roll, beginning with the awful truth—the terrorists who had murdered Ray Hawthorne had never been captured, had never paid for their crime. When the house lights came on, Kyra was vaguely aware that others besides herself were sitting motionless, as if stunned. Then, gradually, she heard the whispering begin, subdued, quiet, as people finally rose from their seats and began to file out. It was as if they were at a funeral service. And In some sort of odd way, that's what it was, she thought. Thanks to Cash Riordan, millions of people had done this, and millions more would; walk out of-a silent theater murmuring a prayer for Ray Hawthorne. She was so under the spell of the film that it wasn't until she got back to her room that it struck her. No wonder they'd threatened him. He'd not only made them look vicious and evil, he'd made them look like fools. Just as-Ray Hawthorne had. And they wanted him just as dead. It chilled her, even as it made her even more determined to keep Cash alive. It was a long time before she slept. In shock, Kyra stared at the sign, at the vehicle parked beside it and at the seaplanes gently bobbing on the lake's calm water. It couldn't be, she thought numbly. It couldn't possibly be so easy. But she knew it was true, knew it with a deep-down gut instinct that rarely failed her. It had been odd enough to her Southern California eyes, used to seeing lakes only in rural or parklike settings, to find this natural lake in the middle of a commercial district. But, as she'd cruised slowly up Westlake Avenue, past the rotting hulk of an old, wooden ferry boat, she'd been stunned when, behind a large building, a smaller one came into view, with a sign that made her swerve quickly into the parking lot. " Tipperary Air Service, Lake Union, Washington. Tipperary Air Service, "with its green sign, green planes… and green four-wheel-drive wagon. All with white lettering spelling out the company name and the "slogan It's -Not A Long Way With Tipperary. World War I, she thought inanely, that's when the song was popular. The name sounded familiar. She reached for the file to double-check, but she was already sure. And when she pulled out the photocopy of the map of Ireland—Cole's staff was nothing if not thorough—there it was. Circled in red, the small Irish town of Cashel, the source of Cash's name, the home of his great-great-grandparents. And a short distance away—on the map, anyway—another red circle, marking the crumbling old castle he'd bought for no better reason than to keep it from being destroyed. And both sat square in the middle of County Tipperary. It couldn't be coincidence. It couldn't be. It wasn't. The minute she walked into the small but tidy office, she saw the photograph on the back wall.


Cash, with his arm around the shoulders of a grinning, sandy-haired man nearly his height. The man, she could almost swear, who had picked him up at the airport. She couldn't read the inscription on the picture from this side of the counter, but the bold signature was unmistakable. She felt that little thrill that always seized her when she knew she was on the right track. Her fingers tightened around the file in her hands. The young woman who sat at the desk below the photograph looked up as Kyra approached the counter. "I'll be right with you," she called out, smiling widely as she patted her bulging abdomen. "I'm not moving as fast as I used to." She must be, Kyra thought as she returned the smile, at least eight months pregnant. "No hurry," she said, even though it wasn't exactly true. As the woman filed away some papers, Kyra's mind was racing. Would Cash have warned these people, who were obviously friends of his, that she was coming? Told them not to tell her where he'd gone, where his precious island was? It was quite possible, even probable, she thought. She couldn't just start in asking about him. She rapidly turned over the possible approaches in her mind. By the time the woman had awkwardly levered herself out of the chair and started toward the counter, Kyra had her plan.

Cash leaned back against the trunk of the tree, thinking vaguely that if someone had designed the perfect tree for a backrest, this would be it. The angle was just right, the trunk just wide enough—and it was putting him to sleep. It was one of those spring days that made the citizens of this part of the world remember why they'd come here, a simple thing that they sometimes forgot during the seemingly endless wet, gray days. It was crystal clear; the smog that was beginning to plague even the pristine air of Seattle was nowhere in sight. The sun burned in a brilliant sky, its light sparkled on the dancing water dotted here and there by the white specks of small boats dwarfed by the big ferries and, farther out, the huge freighters and container ships that traversed the shipping lanes. Cash yawned. He could almost feel his body starting to slow down, to adjust itself from the fast lane to the slow, peaceful pace of the island. This was what he came here for, to go back to the days when people lived a simple life, driven only by the demands of the world around them. He rose when he woke up, ate when he was hungry and went to sleep when he was tired. He glanced at the bare spot on his left wrist and smiled. The first thing he did when he set foot on the island was take off his watch. He would know he was truly at peace on the day he quit looking at his wrist out of habit. His gaze fastened on an ancient-looking fishing trawler that was making its way steadily across the calm waters of the sound. It looked familiar, but it was too distant to tell. There were thousands like it, part of the ageless rhythm of the sound. He treasured these days like nothing else in his life. Days without the demands that so drained him, without the hectic schedules, the craziness…the phoniness. He needed these days to rebuild his sanity, and he loved the place that gave them to him, the place that was so beautiful, so isolated, that it let


nothing interfere with the rebuilding process. Nothing. Unless, of course, Kyra Austin happened to find her way here. He frowned, wishing the thought hadn't come to him. There was little chance she'd pull it off, he told himself, but something about the look in her eyes when she'd accepted his dare had told him she wasn't the kind to give up easily. Blue eyes, he thought suddenly. He didn't know why Dave was confused about it. They were nearly the same shade as the trim, linen pantsuit she'd had on. A soft blue, somewhere between the blazing blue of today's sky and the sparkling, deep blue of the water of the sound. A blue he'd recognized immediately when he'd jerked alert in his seat aboard the plane, taming to look at the source of the voice he'd just heard, the low, melodic voice of the passenger who'd just boarded, the low, melodic voice of the woman who'd just spent an hour trying to convince him he needed a keeper. "I don't believe it,"Walt had whispered incredulously. "She must have followed us right to the airport!'' "So it seems," Cash had answered as he stared at her. Then, as he remembered that look in her eyes as she spoke about dares, he realized he should have expected it. And he hadn't been able to stop the lopsided grin that had twisted his mouth. He'd still been grinning when he'd made the call to have Steve Zsitler meet him in front of the terminal rather than come inside and wait at the gate. He'd pay, he'd promised his old friend, for the parking ticket. "Right," Steve had said with a chuckle. "like they're going to give me one when I tell them I'm there to pick up Cash Riordan." "Just take the ticket, Steve, and don't mention my name. I don't want anyone knowing you picked me up. That green behemoth of yours is conspicuous enough." "Okay," Steve said agreeably. "What's the deal? Some woman scorned on your tail?" "Not exactly," Cash had said, "but close enough." Not exactly scorned, but hehadhurt her feelings, Cash thought now as he let his eyes drift closed. He knew it. He'd seen it in her eyes the moment before that cool, poised calm had descended to hide it. He knew it because he'd become an expert in reading such fleeting expressions. It was a talent he'd gained unwillingly, by seeing so often that instant of surprise on people's faces when they first met him, in recognizing "the look." He hadn't meant to hurt her. He truly hadn't meant his words in the way they'd sounded, in the way she'd obviously taken them. Why she'd taken them that way he didn't know; she was, perhaps, not a stunner, but she was certainly striking. Long and tall, Dave had called her, and she was that. And she carried it well, Cash admitted grudgingly. She had seemed so self-assured, so dauntless, he'd been surprised at the flash of pain his careless words had caused. "You've got a big mouth, Riordan," he muttered under his breath, opening his eyes to let the expansive vista of sparkling water and the distant Seattle skyline wipe out the image of a tall, blue-eyed woman who had faced him down as few did these days. The trawler was still there, closer now, and he wondered what the man was looking for.


Striking. The word echoed in his mind. He supposed that it was the best word for a woman whose intelligence flashed in her eyes and whose spirit was evident in every line of her long-legged body. She might be plain, he thought, but she would certainly never be boring. He shifted uneasily against the trunk of the madrona tree. She'd never find this place, he told himself as the old trawler chugged out of sight past the point of the island. And even if she did, it would be only to do the job she insisted she would do with or without his help. So why did he feel like a man who'd narrowly escaped a threat that had nothing to do with grim phone calls in the middle of the night? He let his head loll back against the trunk of the tree and let his eyes close again. A nap, maybe, he thought. It had been a long time since he'd done that, since he'd done anything but ran like a maniac on five hours' sleep or less each night. Yes, a nap sounded like just the thing. He didn't know how long he'd been asleep when the oddity of the dream woke him up. Somehow his crisp, pine-scented island had become a tropical one, laced with the enticing scent of some jungle flower, some rich, exotic, spicy fragrance that tickled his nose. His eyes snapped open and realty flooded back. But a trace of that exotic scent lingered, making his nostrils flare with the fascination of some wild thing on the hunt for some new, exciting prey. He sat up abruptly, shaking his head to clear the last remnants of sleep. "Nice place, Mr. Riordan." He jerked around so sharply, the bark of the tee dug painfully into his back. She was smiling at him, without a trace of gloating or mockery. And, incredibly he found himself smiling back. "Welcome to my island, Ms. Austin." Chapter 3

"Don't blame Mrs.Zeitler," Kyra said. "I know you probably warned her, but I'm afraid I tricked her." "Oh, I'm sure you did. Rachel would never sell me out intentionally." Kyra winced. "She didn't 'sell you out at all. I doubt if she would have told me anything, if she'd thought it was you I was looking for. She was as suspicious as a mother hen." Her mouth twisted as she recalled Rachel Zeitler's advanced state of pregnancy. "No pun intended." For a moment she thought he was going to smile again, but it never surfaced. "Just what did you tell her?" "That I had something urgent that had to be delivered to Walt." He lifted a brow. "Walt?" She shifted position, crossing her legs and resting her elbows on her knees as she sat on the thick carpet


of pine needles beneath the tree. "From Dave," she said when she was comfortable. "A new cellular phone." Cash blinked. "A what?" "A Hew phone. Cellular. Dave said the radiophone you have doesn't work half the time, so I figured Rachel would know that." His eyes widened. "You just picked that up from what Dave casually said and used it?" She shrugged. "It's part of what I do. I knew if I even mentioned you, I'd be out in the cold." His mouth twisted. "I see I should have made my warning a little more detailed. All I did was tell her and Steve that if anyone came looking for me, they didn't know anything." "It's not her fault. Especially," she added apologetically, "since I told her Dave sent me directly to Tipperary Air because they could get it there the quickest. I thought with what's been going on, she'd buy that." What could have been admiration flickered in his eyes. Then his brow furrowed. "But you didn't come by seaplane. I would have heard it." "I know. Her husband was out on a charter for a couple of days, and the other pilot was out sick." "Then how…" "When I told her Dave had said it absolutely had to get to Walt today, she sent me to see her uncle." "Her uncle? What—" He broke off, realization dawning in his face. "The trawler," he exclaimed. "You came over in Ed Brewer's boat? That thing's barely bathtubworthy, let alone seaworthy.'' "I noticed," she said dryly. "I kept calculating every foot of the way whether I could swim to shore one way or the other." "What makes you think I won't make you swim back now?" His words were severe, but his expression gave the lie to them; his eyes were twinkling and his mouth was quirking at the comers. "Because," Kyra said simply, "you gave your word." Something odd shifted in his gaze. "Haven't you heard, Ms. Austin? No one in Hollywood keeps their word." Kyra studied him for a brief but intent moment. "And that's why you're here and not in Hollywood, isn't it? To get away from that?" He looked startled. "You don't fit in there, do you? Not really, I mean." He stared at her for a moment. Then he jerked his gaze away, turned It out onto the sparkling sound, and Kyra got the oddest sensation that she had somehow frightened him. "I take it back," he muttered after a moment. "There was no way I could have warned Rachel about you."


"Please don't blame her. She was so nice, so concerned about Walt getting the package." She sighed. "I'm sorry. I don't like using people like that." He looked at her then, his expression unreadable. "But you do it." She met his gaze levelly. "To get the job done. Just like you deal with… the ones who don't keep their word." He let out a long breath. Then he smiled, a wry, tight little smile. "Yes," he said shortly. Then, "How did you find Tipperary Air in the first place?" "It was…a hunch, mostly. I saw the color of the car you left the airport in, and the skycap there told me it said Lake Union." She shrugged. "When I found out most of the seaplane services operate from there, I thought it was worth a chance. Once I saw the company name, I was fairly sure." "Why?" "It just seemed too much of a coincidence that somebody picked you up in a car painted like the ones for an air service named for the county in Ireland where the town you're named after is, and where you own a…castle," Kyra said breathlessly. He winced. "You know about that, huh?" "It's in the file. Sanders Protection is very thorough." "So It seems. But still, that was quite a jump." "Not really. And, of course, when I went into the office, I knew for sure." "Oh?" "The picture." His brow furrowed, then cleared. "Oh. I forgot. Steve and I, the day he reopened." "Reopened?" "Yeah." He shrugged. "He… had to close for a while. His partner skipped out on him. Left a mess of bills behind." "And you bailed him out?" Kyra guessed. Cash shook his head. "I just invested in a business. And he's paying me back. He delivers all my supplies. Rachel even does what grocery shopping I need." "That's still very generous—'' "It's an investment," he repeated. "Steve'll get it going again. All he needed was a little time, a little breathing room." And you gave it to him, Kyra thought. Friendship. She wondered if many in the world he lived in


understood that kind of friendship. Not many, she supposed, or he wouldn't have been so desperate to come here to get away. "So," he said quickly, as if he knew what she were thinking and was hastening to divert her from saying anything about it, "how did you convince Ed you had to hand-deliver this package?" "I told him I had to set it up." Her month twitched. "He said something to the effect of 'Damn newfangled gadgets' and let me aboard. For a healthy price, of course," she added sourly. "Bill's going to love this expense account." "Excuse my lack of sympathy.'' She looked at him, trying to determine just how angry he was that she'd found and invaded his precious sanctuary. That earlier glint of humor had seemed promising, but now that he knew how she'd used his friends to get to him, she wasn't so suns. "Try and be a good loser, Mr. Riordan. Especially since you're getting a new cellular phone out of the deal." He blinked again. "I am? There really is one?" "I figured I'd better back up my story. So between Tipperary Air and theAfrican QueenI stopped and bought one." She grimaced. "Bill is not going to be happy with me this time." "Take it back then. I like the old one." "But Dave said it doesn't work half the time." "Iknow." He grinned suddenly, and her breath caught in her throat; this was him again, the man who was idolized by thousands. "That's what I like about it." Kyra stared at him. Then, slowly, she smiled back. It seemed impossible not to. She glanced around, looking at the thick stand of fir tress. She drew in a deep breath of air scented with the clean fragrance of the trees and the salty tang of the sea. She heard the lap of the water against the rocks below them, and in the distance the distinctive blast of a ferryboat's whistle, but neither distracted from the quiet. From the peace. "Yes," she said slowly, "I imagine you do." He mimicked her motion of looking around. Then he madeagesture that took in all of the small island. "But surely you see now this is al academic. Even if someone really was after me, they'd never find me here." "I did." "Yeah, but you're…" He trailed off, as if he could find no words-for what he thought she was. And that, Kyra thought wryly, left open a great range of possibilities. She decided she didn't want to hear most of them, and hurried on. "I found you, Mr. Riordan, and in fairly short order. True, I had the advantage of being able to follow


you to Seattle, and enough personal information to bluff my way out here, but it still. wouldn't be impossible for someone else to do it." "You mean it wasn't just because you're a brilliant investigator?" She drew back a little, looking at him assessingly, trying to determine just how much sarcasm was in the mocking question. She couldn't tell, which was odd in itself; she was generally very good at reading people. But, she told herself, she'd never had to try and read someone who made a living out of pretending to be someone else before. "Relax, Ms. Austin," he said with a sigh, looking out at the wafer once more. "I wasn't insulting you. I'm just…not used to people who don't take all the credit for themselves. You surprised me." She grinned suddenly."But not as much as when I got on that plane right behind you." His gaze snapped back to her face. Then he let oat a rueful chuckle. "No. But only for a moment. Before I realized that I should have expected it." "Why?" She was genuinely curious. "Dave tells me Sanders Protection has the best reputation in the business. I don't expect they got it by hiring people who give up easily.'' "No. We don't give up." "Never lost a client, huh?" Kyra felt the old pain tug at her. She tried to ignore it. "Once," she said briefly. He looked at her with a sudden intentness, as if he'd seen the brief flicker of sadness. "One of yours?" "No." He lifted a brow at her sharpness. "Well, that's reassuring. I'd hate to trust my safely to someone who makes a habit of… losing clients." Kyra felt her body tense. The client had been Cole's, and he'd gone through hell over it. She wouldn't let anyone belittle his pain, even out of ignorance. "That client," she said tightly, "was killed because he refused to follow our recommendations. The agent assigned to him was nearly killed trying to save him anyway. He spent three months in the hospital for his efforts, and he still hasn't forgiven himself, after five years." Cash drew back a little, any trace of sarcasm vanished now. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…" His voice trailed off, and he let out a long breath. "I'm sorry," he said again, simply, and Kyra couldn't doubt the sincerity of it. He looked out at the sound. "So am I.I didn't mean to snap at you." He shrugged, then gave her a sideways look. "I presume there was a message in there for me? That bit about following your recommendations?"


Kyra nodded. "We do have a good reputation. And I'd like to keep it that way." He looked back out at the expanse of water. Ed Brewer's boat was rounding the far side of the island, Kyra saw, and headed on toward the fishing spot he'd been bragging about. She hoped he'd take at least some of the exorbitant fee she'd paid him and do some repairs on that ancient vessel. Then her gaze shifted to Cash. The slightbreezestirred his dark hair and lifted it where it lay long on the back of his neck. His face was half in sunlight, half in the shadow of the tree he leaned against. A strong face, she thought. But ail the human strength in the world couldn't stop a bullet, or a bomb. Cole had found that out, and it had nearly cost him his life. The thought of some fanatic's weapon ripping Cash Riordan to shreds made her slightly ill—and very, very determined. "I've met my end of the deal, Mr. Riordan," she said softly. "Will you meet yours?" He looked at her, reluctance clear in his eyes. She understood it better now; if she had a place like this, a sanctuary that held such beauty, such serenity, such peace away from life in the spotlight, she would be unwilling to allow even thoughts of the uglier side of the world to intrude. "I understand how hard it is for you." Her voice was gentle. "Better, now that I've seen this place. It's hard to believe in anything evil in a place like this. And maybe you're right, maybe the threats aren't real… but why take the chance?" He closed his eyes, and she knew it was to hide the pain of losing the perfection of his haven. She hated to upset the island's serenity, but it had to be done. "This place is easily defensible. It won't take much. And I'll try to disrupt your life as little as possible." His eyes snapped open, and she saw something that looked like a rueful acknowledgment flicker in the green depths, although of what, she didn't know. She studied him for a moment, trying to figure it out before she went on. "Please, just let me do my job." He sighed. "That was my end of the deal, wasn't it? All right, Ms.Austin. You have my cooperation." He glanced around at his island once more, then at Kyra, as if he were only now accepting her presence here. "You've earned it." Kyra let out a small sigh of relief. "Thank you, Mr. Riordan." His mouth quirked. "This is a very small island, Ms. Austin. If you're staying, we're going to be seeing a lot of each other. Do you think you could drop the Mr.?" "Okay, Riordan," Kyra said agreeably. Cash blinked. "That wasn't exactly what I had in mind." "Oh. You mean I should call you Cashel, then," she said in mock innocence. "Lord, no," he said with a groan. "I took enough heat for that as a kid to last me a lifetime. Just Cash, please." "Cash. Right. Whatever you want.Ican follow instructions."


She couldn't hold it back then; she grinned at him. Obviously realizing she'd been teasing him all along, Cash glowered at her. Or tried to; an answering grin kept trying to break through. "Okay, okay, I get the drift. So where do we start?" "We start by hooking up that phone I brought so I can call my boss." Cash looked around questioningly. "I left it down where Ed dropped me off," she explained, "along with my bag. I didn't want to lug it all over looking for you." "You mean you packed a bag this time?" he asked wryly. She grinned. "Yep. New clothes, courtesy of my expense account. Bill's going to remember you, Mr. Ri—Cash." He gave her a look she couldn't quite interpret. "That's only fair. I doubt if I'll forget you, either." Kyra felt color steal up into her cheeks. She fought it down; he hadn't meant it in anything other than a mocking manner, she told herself. She was a nuisance to him, and as he'd made clear, not even an attractive one. She shouldn't have tried to tease him, not Cash Riordan. She must seem incredibly naive to him, compared to the sophisticated, polished women he was used to. It didn't matter, she told herself. She was what she was; Kyra Austin, tall, gangly ex-cop, current private security specialist, and she was here to do a job, not worry about what her client thought of her. Or if he thought of her at all. She got to her feet, dusting herself off. "I'll stay out of your way" she promised again. And before he could answer, she started down the slope. This woman, Cash thought as he led the way through the tees, bothered the hell out of him. Either Sanders Protection had a file on him that dug into his psyche so deep he didn't want to think about it, or she was the most perceptive woman he'd met in a very long time. He wasn't sure which possibility scared him the most. He glanced back over his shoulder at her. She was close behind, carrying the bulky tote bag with seeming ease up the steepest part of the slope. She was also carrying the box holding the telephone. He'd thought about offering to help, but something about the assured ease with which she'd taken up the load had stopped him. He didn't want the damned thing anyway, he thought, so why the hell should he carry it? He quickly tamed his attention back to the last stretch of the path that led to the house. He felt a grin start to break through again when he thought of how she'd used such simple things to find aim, and he wasn't sine he wanted her to see it. Shewasgood, as Dave had said. And yet she felt bad about having used his friends to get to him. While he still couldn't believe he was in any real danger, he supposed it was her business to believe it, and she'd done what she had to do to find him. She'd taken his dare and found him with time to spare, and the least he could do was live up to his end of the bargain. He broke through the trees into the clearing with her right behind him, and he heard her soft gasp as she stopped in her tracks. He turned to look at her. "Oh," she breathed. "No wonder you want this all to yourself."


She was staring out over the cleared, gradual slope that ran down to the small boat house and dock and down the wide, island dotted sound that seemed to go on forever. Almost all the islands were so thick with trees that there was little sign, at least at this distance, of man's incursion. It was what Cash loved most about it, that feeling of being so peacefully alone. "Most people are…more impressed by the other side, with the view of Seattle," Cash said neutrally. "They think I should have faced the house that way." "No," Kyra said, her voice still hushed with awe. "Seattle's beautiful, but it's still a city. This… this is like it must have looked before…" She shook her head. "This is like you're all alone in paradise. It's wonderful." Cash bit back a groan. Figures, he thought sourly, that she would understand. And there was no amount of research in the world that could have told her so unerringly how he felt about this place. He'd been right about this woman; she was dangerous. Stick to the airheads, Riordan, he told himself harshly. And some of that harshness echoed in his voice when he spoke. "There's no mansion here, Ms. Austin. Not even close. If you expected the lap of luxury, you lose.'' "Kyra." He blinked. "What?" "My first name is Kyra. SpelledK-Y-R-A. Pronounced Keer-a. Or is it back to 'Mr. Riordan' again?" Damn, she kept doing that, taking him off guard. Part of her job, he supposed, was to keep people guessing. "All right," he said after a moment. "But I meant-what I said…Kyra. This—" he gestured up to the inland end of the clearing "—is all there is." Her expression never changed as she looked up at the simple, solidly built log house, situated to take advantage of the view down the sound through its expansive windows on the water side. "I think," she said quietly, "it's beautiful. I think it fits the island. I think anything more would be out of place." She looked back at him. "And," she added pointedly, "I think things will go a lot smoother if you quit assuming the worst." Cash winced. He knew she was right; he had assumed she would be disconcerted at the least, amused at best when she saw the simple home, but instead she had responded with his own feelings about it. And once again the little alarms went off in his head; he was right to be wary of this woman. "I thought you wanted me to assume the worst" he said defensively. "Not about me," she retorted quickly; then her eyes widened when she realized what she'd said. "I mean… I just…" Her voice trailed off; she was at a loss for words for the first time since he'd met her. She looked away quickly, but not before he saw she was blushing. "Kyra," he began, liking the sound of her name, liking saying it. "Look," she cut in, "could we just get on with it? I have a lot to do."


"Yes, ma'am." His words were scrupulously polite, but his voice was teasing; he knew she only sounded that way because she was embarrassed, just as he had been moments ago. It made him smile, but it did nothing to quiet the alarm bells clamoring in the back of his mind. All right, all right, he muttered silently to the noisy inner voice, I get the message. Knock it off. It's only business, I know that, so I don't need you hammering at me. Besides, she's not my type. "Let's go," he said abruptly. "I'll give you the nickel tour." He grinned at her. "Can't charge any more, place is too small." "I imagine it keeps the guest list small," she said. "Very," he agreed. "Just like I want it." When they went up the three half-log steps to the wide, covered front porch, Kyra stopped and tamed to look once more down the grassy slope to the water. When she looked at him then, her eyes were the deep blue of the sound on a stormy day. "I really am sorry, Cash. Sorry to have to do this. To have to be here, to intrude on your haven. I understand what it is to you." He studied her for a long moment. He'd spent years now dealing with people who could project any given emotion on command, so the genuineness of her regret stood out like the purest, clearest of diamonds among a sea of imitations. "Yes," he said slowly. "I think you do." And that, he thought, scared him more than anything. Although, he amended a few moments later, the way she looked around the interior of the house with smiling eyes bothered him nearly as much. Her delight in the simple home, the warmth of the log walls and the colorful baskets woven by the local Snoquahnie Indians, was obvious. She was fascinated by the wood stove and the thought of heating the house with it. And she exclaimed at the sight of the brightly painted cast-iron dragon that sat atop the squat little stove. "Walt bought him," Cash explained. "He's adorable!" "He's functional," Cash said, trying to stifle the odd feeling her appreciation of his home was giving him. "He's full of water, to put out steam. For moisture. The stove's efficient at heating, but it also dries out the air, the wood and everything else." "Then he's adorable and useful, and Walt has good taste," she said blithely, and Cash had to bite back a grin as they moved on. "This is wonderful," she said when he showed her the small library with its floor-to-ceiling shelves and an old-fashioned library ladder and rail. "It cost me one of the bedrooms, but I like it," he said as they walked past the temporary plywood


barrier he'd put over the hole in the wall on his last trip here. "You're adding on?" she asked, eyeing the partition. He nodded. "An office. I hope to be able to work just from here when I'm not on a film, someday." "And dump L.A. altogether?" "With any luck." Her mouth curved into a wistful smile. "I envy you that.'' He leaned a shoulder against the rough wooden sheet as he studied her. He remembered her comment about Seattle, accepted by most as one of the most beautiful, livable cities in the world. "You don't like the city?" "No." She shrugged. "But then I've never had the chance to try anything else." "Well," he said dryly, "you do now." She met his gaze. "Yes, I guess I do. I'm sorry it's at your expense." "You mean Dave's expense," he retorted. He still hadn't quite forgiven his old friend for pulling this stunt behind his back. "It's costing him money," Kyra agreed, "but it's costing you your sanctuary. I think that's a higher price." Cash wheeled away; for some reason he couldn't face her when she looked at him like that. Her eyes—odd, they looked gray now, indoors—threatened to suckhim in with their warmth and kindness and understanding, and he felt suddenly as if he were tottering on the edge of a dangerous drop. He made himself move, leading her to the small but efficient kitchen with its large propane freezer and stove. "I'm afraid the food around here is pretty basic. Walt's no cook, and I'm worse than he is, so there's nothing' fancy." "Don't look at me," Kyra said dryly. "I never learned on purpose, just for occasions like this." "Don't assume the worst about me, either," Cash said in mocking tones. "I didn't mean I expected you to cook. I was just warning you that you're on your own." "Oh." She had the grace to look chagrined. "Sorry." He grinned; he couldn't help it. "We're even." He led her down a long hallway, gesturing at a closed door. "That's Walt's room." "Where is he?" she asked, a little warily; she didn't know the man, but she doubted if he would appreciate being used as a ruse to get her here. "Down in the boathouse, checking things out." "What about Dave?" she asked.


"He uses that smaller room at the back when he's here, which isn't often." He gave her a wry smile. "This place is too…removed for him. He can't be this far from his fax machine." "His loss." There was no doubting her sincerity, and it made Cash uneasy al over again. "Here's the bathroom," he said quickly, pushing open the next door to reveal a surprisingly large room with a deep Koman tub that commanded a view of the sound matched only by that of the living room. The door on the other wall, beside the counter with its double sinks, was open into the next room, and as he saw the tangled covers, Cash remembered that he hadn't made up the big, four-poster bed this Cash saw that Kyra was looking at the big tub and the skywall of glass that arched up over it. He wondered what she was thinking about this piece of sybaritic whimsy, the one part of the house where he had let himself go. He could just imagine what she thought about the tub, more than large enough for two, and what he used it for. "There's a smaller bathroom down at the other end," he said, a little edgily. "Your room?" was all she said, indicating the bedroom visible through the opposite door. "Yes. It has a door into the hall, too. The guest room is right across from it. You can put your stuff in there." In a quick stride he crossed the hall and threw open the door. "Open a window if you want. It hasn't been used in a while, so it's probably a little stuffy. I'll let you get settled." Kyra stood still for a moment, listening to his footsteps fade away down the hall. He'd seemed in an awful hurry to leave all of a sudden, she thought. But then, he'd been more gracious than she'd expected to an unwanted, unexpected interloper. If this was the only guest room, she thought as she set the box and her bag down on the bed, then he hadn't lied about not having company here often. It was stuffy. And dark, and she crossed the room to-pull back the heavy curtains and slide open the window. A rush of light and fresh air, rich with the scent of trees and the sea, brushed over her face. She drew in a deep breath, thinking no wine could match this sense of refreshment, this feel of sheer, heady intoxication. She turned to look at the room again. It was neat, if a little dusty, the only furniture a double bed, two small night-stands, and a dresser of some rough-hewn wood that looked solid enough to have been here for centuries. The quilt that covered the bed was obviously handmade, in simple, bright colors that spiraled out in an intricate, meticulous pattern, a contrast that made her smile. She wondered where it had come from. There was a frame on the nightstand—no clock, she noticed—and she walked over to it. It held a color photograph of an attractive couple with a young boy. It took Kyra a moment to realize that the boy was Cash, so much had he changed. While there were traces of the man she knew in the color of the eyes and hair and the shape of his nose and mouth, she doubted if anyone could have guessed that the short, wiry—no, skinny, she had to admit—boy who barely came up to his father's elbow would bloom into the


tall, muscular specimen of manhood Cash Riordan was today. Thoughtfully, she studied the pair flanking him. The man was tall and lanky, with sandy hair; here, Kyra realized, was the source of those green eyes. The woman was tiny, petite and delicate looking, almost fragile. No gangly all-knees-and-elbows stage for her. Kyra thought with a wry smile. And here was the source of that thick, dark, copper-touched hair. And that grin, she thought suddenly; it was as if the photographer had snapped the shot an instant too soon, before it could spread completely across-the woman's face. Odd, she thought, to have this picture in the guest room. Unless, of course, these people were the guests who most frequently occupied it. And that, she thought, could explain the quilt, as well. Odd, to think of someone like Cash Riordan with a mother who hand-made quilts. But hadn't he warned her not to assume things about him, just as she had warned him? Just because he was usually seen in the single dimension of film didn't mean the man himself was one-dimensional, she-told herself. He couldn't give the performances he gave if that were true. And he might not give one again, if she didn't get moving, she chided herself. She'd get settled later, she thought as she turned to reach fox the box that held the cellular phone. First things first, and that was to get communications set up. Then she would call the office and tell them what she needed. A perimeter alarm for the house, she thought, with some window foil for all the opening windows. Vibration detectors maybe. Pressure mats at all the likely spots. And infrared for the interior. As for outdoors, she'd have to see about that; she couldn't very well string wire around the entire island. She'd think of something, though. She always did. And that, she thought, was the least of her problems, anyway. The biggest one hadn't changed an iota since she'd first confronted Cash Riordan. He didn't believe for an instant that someone was really out to kill him.

Chapter 4

"Are you always up at this hour?" Kyra asked, smothering another yawn as she shivered in the early morning chili. Cash added pieces of split log onto a small pile, then turned to grin at her. "I don't know. What hour is it?" Kyra's mouth twisted wryly. "I get the idea time is not one of your priorities here. Is there a clock anywhere?" His grin widened. "In the library. For Dave's sake. It even runs if I remember to change the battery." She glanced at his wrist, at the slightly paler band of skin that showed below the sleeve rolled up on a muscular forearm. "I gather this is… an island practice?"


He caught her look. "First thing I do is take the thing off. Time doesn't matter here. I do what I feel like doing, when I feel like doing it. But I'm sorry if I woke you." She shrugged, tugging her jacket closer around her. "It was time. I've got work to do." He frowned slightly, as if he didn't care for the reminder of why she was here. She couldn't blame him and tried to regain the light mood. "So this morning you just happened to feel like chopping wood?" "Yep." He leaned over and picked up another small log. "You know what they say, firewood warms you twice." Judging by the sweat he'd worked up, it was true, Kyra thought. At least—thankfully—he hadn't taken his shirt off. She'd had as much as she could handle of Cash Riordan's naked chest. She looked around now with interest. She hadn't seen this, the back side of the house, except for what she could see through the guest room sliding glass door. "These trees are huge," she said, tilting her head back to see the tops of the towering firs. "Actually, they're second growth. The whole island was logged off back in the 1890s." She looked at him, startled. "All of it?" Cash nodded. "It was too easy to pass up. The island's small enough that all they had to do was cut and push, and the logs rolled right into the water for transport." She tried to picture the denuded land and winced at the thought. Cash shrugged. "The old war, progress or preservation. Maybe someday they'll find a middle road." "I hope," Kyra said, taking a deep breath of the clean air as she looked around. Several yards away, almost hidden in a duster of white-barked trees that stood out against the green and dark brown of the evergreens, was a small outbuilding. "What are those trees, the white ones? And that little building?" He glanced up. "Alder," he said. "They grow near fresh water." He went back to centering the small log on the ties stump that served as a chopping block. "And that's the generator and well house." "Well house?" He nodded as he wiped the ax blade on his worn jeans. "I was lucky. Had to go two hundred and fifty feet to hit water, but it puts out a steady twenty-five gallons a minute." For one born and raised where water came from reservoirs, this was a novelty. "How does it work?" "A submersible pump down in the well pumps the water up to a pressure tank that supplies water to the house at a constant pressure." "Oh. And the generator?" She was suddenly realizing that this would be important; without power, all her


electrical alarm systems would be useless. "Don't have to ran it that much. With the stove, freezer and water heater on propane, I only need power for the lights at night, and sometimes I don't evendothat. Kerosene lanterns work fine. Nicer, even." "Er, Cash," she began, "that's not going to work at all. I've got to have constant power for some of the equipment I sent for." He frowned. "Equipment?" "Alarms, mostly. They can ran off a twelve-volt battery, but those are bulky and heavy, it would take too many of 'them, and I'd just as soon not rely on them for too long." She'd called—on the new phone that worked perfectly, she'd been glad to discover—last night and told her office what she needed, and secured a promise that it would all be shipped out immediately. And then she'd persuaded a reluctant Cash to call the Zeitlers and tell them anything that arrived for her was okay and to be delivered as soon as possible. Rachel, who had answered, had been obviously curious, but Cash had stalled her off with a promise to explain later. "This is ridiculous. I don't want—'' "I know," Kyra interrupted, "but it's necessary." "Maybe I should just get a guard dog." "I thought of that. It's a good idea," Kyra agreed. "But keep in mind he comes with a handler. I didn't think you'd want another intruder." "I don't," he said fiercely, and Kyra was startled by the little dart of pain that stabbed at her when she realized he still so resented her presence. Of course he did, she told herself sourly. What did you expect? "I meant…just a dog," he finished. She shook her head. "It would take too long to train an already experienced dog to obey you. And a new dog would take too long to train, period. You need something now. An alarm system is the best answer. For the house, anyway. I haven't figured out exactly what to do outside yet." He swore, low and soft. "I know you don't like it, Cash. But it has to be done. It's part of my job." He looked at her for a moment. "And part of the deal?" She nodded. He sighed. "All right, all right. I'll ran the damned generator." His mouth quirked as he raised the ax and turned back to the neglected logs. "Your room's closest to it, so you're the one who'll have to try and sleep through the noise ail night.'' "I'd manage," she said, thankful that he had given in so easily. She hoped Walt would understand. He would be taking the brunt of the noise as well, with his room next to hers. He had been, at the least, startled when she'd run into him in the house last night. "Made it, huh? Guess you must be as good as Dave said," he'd told her. And after the initial surprise he'd been polite enough, if not friendly.


"I hope this doesn't go on for long," Cash muttered. "I don't want to have to bring in more fuel for the generator." Kyra didn't have the heart to tell him that it could well go on a very long time. Instead, she continued her perusal of the area in back of the house. She saw the sturdy corner posts that marked where the new addition would rise, and a neat stack of boards beside an odd-looking piece of machinery. "What's that?" she asked. "Sawmill," Cash answered briefly as he split the log with one, smooth, practiced swing of the ax. He did this often, she thought. Then what he'd said truly registered. "A sawmill? Like in making your own boards?" "Mmm-hmm." He reached for another log. "From your own trees?" "Mmm-hmm," he repeated as he split this one, tossed one section onto the pile, then set the other, larger part up on the block to split again. "Why?" He split the remaining section, dumped the two pieces on the pile, then straightened up to look at her. "Because I wanted to do it that way." "Back to nature?" She hadn't meant it disparagingly, but something flickered in his eyes that made her think he'd taken it that way. "I didn't mean to be flip. I'm…curious." "I'm not radical about it, I just don't want to use any more trees than I absolutely have to. I didn't want to clear the swath out to the water that the contractor who built the house did, I just wanted enough for some sub to get through. But we needed the lumber, since most of the house was built with trees from right here. And what was left over and the scraps—" he gestured at the huge stack of bigger logs waiting to be split" — I'll use as firewood. But I'm doing this differently." "The addition?" He nodded. "It will be as big as the lumber from the cleared area can make it. No bigger." He grinned suddenly. "Just as well, at the rate I'm going." "You're building it yourself?'' She couldn't help her surprise. "Alone, I mean?" "Every blistering little inch." "Why?" she repeated. " Therapy?" he suggested, sounding like he was only half joking.


Kyra looked again at the rising walls, at the portable sawmill and then back at the man who was taking such care. "I imagine it works," she said softly. "Using your own trees, doing every step yourself, seeing the progress…" With a short, sharp motion, Cash turned abruptly away from her. He picked up another log and again hefted the well-honed ax. And again, Kyra had that odd sensation that she had somehow frightened him. "No wonder you chose that bathtub," she said lightly, not understanding what she'd done that had caused his reaction. "You must need to soak up to your neck if you work like this all day." His head snapped around and he stared at her. "I figured you'd have thought it was there for… other reasons," he said after a moment. It didn't take Kyra long to guess what conclusion he'd assumed she would come to when she'd seen the big tub. "Making assumptions again?'' He lowered his eyes. "I guess so." Then, apologetically, "Actually, I put it in for my mom. Her arthritis flares up whenever they come to visit here, and it seems to help." "Oh." That, Kyra thought, was an answer she never would have expected. Not that she would ever have actually asked to begin with; it wasn't any of her business. She was here to do a job, not examine the,personal habits of her client, except as they might affect her job. That self-lecture on professionalism delivered, Kyra turned her attention to the task at hand. She waited until he split another log with another smooth stroke. "Your parents won't be visiting soon, will they? It could get tricky, with that many people around." "No. They're in Australia at the moment. Have been for a month or so, and will be for a couple of months longer." He smiled, a fond, soft smile that was much more the man she was coming to know here than the man on the big screen. Much more the man who was so very dangerous to her equilibrium. "They're on a fifth honeymoon." She blinked, startled. "Fifth?" "Yep. They take one every ten years, on their anniversary. It's their fortieth next week." "That's…wonderful." "They're crazy about each other." He shrugged. "They just can't figure out what they did wrong with me. They expected me to be settled down by now." ' Kyra hesitated as he reached for another log, wondering why she wanted to ask; if he hadn't wanted to marry that beauty that had had his child, what on earth would it take? Then she went ahead, telling herself the more she knew about him, the easier her job would be. "You never were… inclined to cooperate?"


He froze, his face going bleak. "Once. Years ago," he said shortly. He centered the log and split it with a blow that was clearly harder than necessary. "What happened?" For a moment she thought he wasn't going to answer. Then, after he'd fiercely split yet another of the waiting logs, he did. "She realized this was the real me. Joe Average. And she changed her mind." Kyra couldn't think of a thing to say in the face of those words. They were flat, unemotional, but Kyra sensed they hid a world of pain. That woman, Kyra thought, was a fool. A fool if she couldn't see that this Cash, this real, living, breathing Cash was worth so much more than any perfect, fictional hero. Uh-oh. Watch it, she warned herself. Remember this is just a job. And Cash Riordan is just a client. But she couldn't help wondering if the woman he'd been going to marry was one of those tiny blondes such as the woman in the file. After a moment she said briskly, "I'm going to look around. Anything I should know?" He'd been in the process of picking up another log, but stopped when she spoke. He swung the ax, burying the blade in the stump to a depth that spoke of the strength hidden by that easy movement. "I'll show you around.'' "You don't need to. I can hardly get lost on an island." "Probably not," he agreed easily, wiping his hands on the snug seat of his jeans, his earlier tension apparently forgotten. "But you could fall off the cliff at the north end, on the high bank side where it drops off without warning, or you could slip and break your leg on the rocks down on the low bank." "Afraid I'll sue you?" Her tone made it clear she was joking, but he answered her seriously. "No. I'm sure it's in the contract somewhere that you can't or Dave wouldn't have signed it." She smiled. "You're right. He made sure of that." "Dave's a smart businessman." "He looks out for you well." "In more ways than one, you mean?" he asked wryly. "Yes. And I'd better start earning his money." She tamed to go, only to find him moving to follow her. "There really are a couple of tricky places. I'll show you, then you're on your own." "I don't want to take you away from your work." He grinned, and there it was again, that indefinable something that seemed permanent only on film. "No problem. The best thing about doing it yourself is no one to answer to if you take a break." It didn't take very long. And it was, for the most part, heartening; Kyra doubted if anyone not familiar


with the island would be able to approach without making a warning racket. Of course, there was nothing to stop Scirocco from recruiting some local talent to do the job, so she couldn't assume anything. She would think of something. Something simple, which would blend in with the surroundings. "Well?" Cash's query snapped her out of her musings. "What?" "I've already got the best moat in the world," he said, gesturing out at the sound behind her, "and with no drawbridge. Do I have to put up a wall, too?" "No, I don't think so." She smiled at him. "I think we'll go the Daniel Boone route. You know, a few trip wires, that kind of thing." He stared at her, bemused. "Real high-tech, huh?" "Sometimes simple is better." Her smile became a grin. "I thought you'd appreciate that." He started to smile, then stopped as something behind and above her caught his eye. His head tilted back, and she saw him focus on something in the distance. The smile began again, only this time it was not one of amusement, it was one of pure pleasure. She turned, surprised at her own eagerness to see what had caused that smile. "She's back," he whispered. Kyra stared out at the water, but saw nothing. "Up there." He pointed. "Just past that blue spruce on the point. She's circling." Kyra adjusted her gaze upward to the sky, following the line of his arm and finger. And there, just beyond the tree he'd indicated—it really did look blue, she realized, next to the deep green of the surrounding, taller firs—barely ten yards away, she saw a dark, arrow-sharp shape circling lazily, seeming to float effortlessly on a breeze Kyra couldn't even feel. Her breath caught in her throat at the beauty of the large bird, at the sheer wildness of its look. "What is it?" She found herself echoing his whispering tones."It looks like a hawk or something." "Close. Ah osprey. See the white underside and the bend in the leading edge of the wing? I first saw her a couple of years ago. She was smaller then,younger. She's about full-grown now." "How can you tell it's the same one?" "They're not all that common anymore. And see that barred pattern oh her tail? It's pretty distinctive." Kyra shifted her gaze to him, watching him as he watched the sailing bird. He was still smiling, that open, honest, genuine smile, as if a friend long missed had returned. He looked at her then, still smiling, and Kyra's breath caught. A fine thing, she told herself sternly, when you envy the welcome given a bird. You're here for a Job, stick to it. "How do you know it's a she?" she asked hastily. "Size. Females are larger, and she's about at the max now, almost a six foot wingspread, I'd guess." He shrugged, a little sheepishly as he finished lamely, "I just know." He looked back to where the bird had


changed its pattern of circling. "They go south in winter, and she's been—" He broke off, leaned forward to stare, then grinned. "I'll be damned. Look at that" Kyra looked again, and this time it was only a moment before she saw another, slightly smaller bird behind the first one. With the same white underbelly and the same ease and grace in the sky. "She went off and found herself a mate," Cash said, still grinning. "And she brought him back." "For your approval?" Kyra teased, wondering at the odd warmth that was welling up inside her as she watched this man known to millions take such joy in the simple appearance of two of nature's wildest creatures. He laughed, clearly taking no offense at the quip. Then his expression went suddenly thoughtful. "You know, maybe I'll give them that approval, whether they want it or not." He turned to look at her. "Did you see all you needed to?" She nodded. "I want to look around a little more, but don't let me keep you." She sensed his sudden energy, his determination, as he merely nodded and started back toward the house, and she wondered what he was up to. She wondered a lot of things about this man who seemed so different from the image. And found herself more than once wishing that he truly was the man on the screen, the perfect male, the handsome, self-confident hunk who made women sigh and overheat. She could deal with one of those. She was permanently immune to them; the painful inoculation administered by her husband had taken well. But this man was dangerous to her, and she sensed it on some level that hadn't clanged out a warning in a long time. After a couple of hours of scouting out likely places for booby traps, she headed back to the house. She hadn't heard a sound except a rather steady hammering, but when she got back to the house, she found he wasn't, as she'd thought, working on the office addition. In fact, he was nowhere .around the house. And now that she thought about it, the hammering was coming from some distance past the house, out toward the small point that jutted into the sound. She went looking, following the echoing sound, a task made more difficult by the thick trees. When she reached the place where they had stood and watched the pair of ospreys, she stopped dead in her tracks, her jaw dropping in astonishment. She scrambled along the rocky shoreline past the distinctive blue spruce to the tallest of the trees he'd told her were Douglas fir. "Gash Riordan, what the hell do you think you're doing?" she shouted when she reached the base of the tree. "Hey, great," he called down cheerfully from his perch some twenty-five feet up on the solid trunk, as if she hadn't just sworn at him. "You can save me another climb. Fasten that loop around those last two boards, will you?" "Are you crazy? I come here to try and save your neck, and you try and break it by climbing a damned tree to build a… what is that, anyway?" "Would you believe a condo for an osprey?" She stared at him. "A what?" He shrugged, barely visible amid the branches. "She seems to like this area. And they build their nests up


high, near the water. So I thought if I gave her a little nudge, like this convenient platform here…" "You're building a tree house for a bird?" He grinned. "Sort of." Kyra just stared up at him. She should be furious, had been furious when she'd first seen him dangling up there, but how could she stay mad at a man who built a tree house in the hopes that a pair of graceful raptors would share his home? Especially when he just grinned at her, acknowledging the fancifulness of it, and inviting her to join in. "So how about it, Ms. Bodyguard? Gonna help?" "Sheesh," Kyra muttered. She bent to fasten the dangling loop of rope around the two boards that lay at her feet next to a saw. "Thanks," Cash said as he hauled them up, laid them out on the cross beams and began to nail them down. He had on a leather carpenter's belt that held, she supposed, a tape measure, nails and whatever else he needed. A pair of odd-looking leggings were strapped to his lower legs and buckled around his calf in several places. Kyra looked at the platform then; it was about three feet square, neatly even, and he'd braced it solidly. "How much do they weigh?"' she called upward. He reached into a pocket of the belt and took out a nail. "Four or five pounds. It's holding me, so it should hold both of them and a nest, easy." He hammered in the nail. "Do you think they'll use it?" "Hope so," he mumbled around another nail he'd put between his lips for the moment while he reached for the last board. In moments he had it nailed down, checked it over one last time and started down the tree, his boots oddly seeming to cling to the rough bark. Despite her misgivings, he did it easily enough, and when he got to the bottom, she looked at his boots curiously. "Climbing spikes," he explained. "The loggers who cut the timber for the house showed me how to use them and left them for me." She realized what the odd leggings were now, as she saw the sharp metal spike that protruded out at the bottom beyond the sole of his boots, enabling him to walk down the tree easily. He unbuckled first one, then the other from around his legs. "That must have been fun for them. Something to tell their buddies about." "What?" "Teaching Cash Riordan to climb trees." He shrugged. "They didn't know who I was. They thought it was Dave's house. I wanted it that way." "They didn't recognize you?"


"Lots of times people don't," he said, an undertone in his voice Kyra didn't understand. "Anyway, I had my hair longer then, and grew a beard while we were building the house. They thought I was just a friend of Dave's." He picked up the saw and the rope he'd been using to pull up the wood. Then he straightened up and looked at her, the breeze tossing his thick, dark hair over his brow. "Still mad at me?" That little-boy look made her insides take a tumble as if she'd fallen from that lofty perch he'd built. "I should be," she said gruffly. "Just how would I explain that Scirocco didn't get you, but a damn tree did?'' "Not your fault." "Bill wouldn't see it that way.'' He looked at her intently. "What about you?" "I wouldn't see it that way, either. My job is to keep you alive, and I take my work very seriously." The intensity left his gaze. "I'm sure you do," he said flatly. And Kyra felt oddly bereft when he merely slung the coil of rope over his shoulder and started back toward the house. "Do you carry a gun?" Cash watched as Kyra wired the doorway, in which he was standing, to the alarm system. The large shipment of equipment she'd requested had arrived with all the speed promised by Sanders Protection, and she'd wasted no time in setting it up. She'd already wired his bedroom, spending an inordinate amount of time on the windows and the French doors at the end of the house, just around the corner from the dock. He probably couldn't sneeze anymore without setting something off, he thought sourly. And it was Steve, who'd made the delivery himself, more out of curiosity than necessity, Cash was sure, who had brought up the question he'd just asked. Kyra finished, stood up and at last looked at him. "I have one," she said slowly. "And I'm licensed to carry it in most states." Cash studied her uneasily. He was necessarily familiar with several weapons from his work in various films, but a prop gun safely loaded with blanks and used on a set was a far cry from the real thing. "It's a Glock automatic," she said, watching him steadily. "With one in the chamber, it carries seventeen rounds, it's only seven and a half inches overall, weighs less than two pounds because some parts are plastic and because of the light weight, it kicks like a mule—for me anyway. But I've learned to compensate because it's smooth and sleek, without many exterior parts, and it's quite accurate." Cash shifted, wondering what the barrage of facts was for; he didn't want to know any of this. He didn't want to think about her carrying a weapon like that, of maybe having to use it. "It has also," Kyra said gently, "never been fired outside of a range or field practice. If the circumstances degenerate to where I have to use it, then I've lost control and have failed in my primary duty: keeping my


client out of situations where deadly force is necessary. It's my last resort, Cash. And I've never been down to my last resort." "Is that supposed to be reassuring?" His voice was sharper than he'd meant it to be. He was having difficulty reconciling the woman who was competently wiring a sophisticated burglar alarm to his house, while talking so coolly about a deadly automatic weapon, with the woman who had watched the ospreys with such awe. "I suppose I hoped it would be. My job is a lot easier if my client has faith in me.'' Her job, Cash muttered to himself. The be all and end all. Then he silently chastised himself; he should be glad she took her work seriously. And he would be, he thought, if he really believed he was in danger. As it was, he was becoming far too fascinated with this woman who was just here to do a job, as she so often reminded him. Cash studied her for a moment, watching slim, deft fingers work with the magnetic switch that would send the alarm signal the instant the connection was broken. She'd already done the other doors and the windows, explaining that she was setting them extrasensitively for now, and would adjust them if the weather changed and the wind picked up. "How did you get into this business?" "I couldn't cut it as a cop," she admitted easily. Cash blinked in surprise. Not that she had been a cop, but that she had failed at anything. Maybe he had more faith in her than he realized, he thought. "What went wrong?" he asked after a moment. Kyra shrugged. "I got tired of the bureaucracy. Of a court system that gets in the way of justice more often than it serves it. And I don't function well in a paramilitary way of life. I sometimes have a different way of going about things, and there's no room in that life for anyone who thinks differently." She gave him a sideways look. "Despite what a couple of your movies have shown.'' Cash shrugged in turn. "I've never claimed they had any basis in reality. Fiction is fiction, whether it's on a page or on a screen." "And it's the people who don't realize that who get people like you into situations like this." "And keep people like you working," he said solemnly. She smiled, sudden and warm. His eyes widened; he hadn't realized what a great smile she had. "There is that," she agreed. "Thank goodness. My family's almost forgiven me." Cash's brow creased. "For what?" "For being the first Austin in four generations not to make it in police work.'' "That's quite a legacy."


"Yes, it is. My dad, his dad andhisdad. Plus assorted uncles, cousins—and my mother, before she had me. It took a while for them to accept Sanders Protection as a substitute." She crimped the last wire and wrapped it with electrician's tape. "Of course, they wrote my failure off to Jack—" She stopped abruptly, and Cash saw the flash of horror in her eyes. She stared at him, then looked quickly away, her expression clearly stating that she couldn't believe she'd said those words. He waited a long, silent moment. Then he said softly, "Jack?" "Jack Lange. My ex-husband," she muttered and got quickly to her feet and walked over to the large shipping box Steve had delivered. One look at Kyra had sent Steve's eyebrows soaring upward, muttering something about Rachel being right. The look he had turned on Cash then had been nothing less than speculative. Cash had ignored him. Now, despite not liking how curious he was, he followed her. "I didn't know you'd been married." "No reason you should have." Her voice was sharp. "Mylife isn't front-page fodder. Not anymore." Cash drew back a little, stung by her tone. "I'm not exactly happy that mine is," he said. Kyra let out a breath. She straightened up from the box, one of the components for an interior infrared alarm in her hands. She looked at it. She reached back into the box and pulled out the other part. She looked at it. And at last she looked at Cash. "I'm sorry. I just don't know… how you live like that. And I don't talk about Jack. Especially to…" Her voice trailed off, as if she weren't certain how to classify him. He wasn't sure he wanted to know, but he went on anyway. "Men?" he suggested. "Clients? Total strangers?" "All of the above." Well, you asked, he told himself. "And I guess I'm all of those, right?" Kyra looked startled at the edge in his voice. She studied him for a moment, and then an unexpected softening came over her face, and a smile curved her lips. "Well, you're most definitely a man. I'm still trying to convince you you're a client.'' Her vote went soft, as if she were surprised by the words that were coming. "But I don't think you're a total stranger anymore.'' Almost embarrassed by how much that small concession pleased him, Cash didn't push. "What's that?" he asked, indicating the pieces she held. "An infrared alarm." She answered quickly, and he sensed her relief at the change of subject; her ex had done quite a number on her, he guessed. She held up the larger of the two items, a metal box that had what appeared to be two leases in one end, and looked for all the world like an old-style home-movie camera. "This is the transmitter-receiver. It sends out a beam of infrared light, invisible to the naked eye. This—" she held up the other piece "—is the beam reflector. It bounces the infrared beam back to the receiver,


creating a constant circuit. Whenever that circuit is disturbed, the alarm activates." "That simple, huh?" "If it's set tight, it works well. We have another system for outdoors that regularly sweep-scans a preset area. I thought about it for the outside of the house, but I didn't want to deal with it going off every time a stray chipmunk strolled by." "Thanks for that," he said wryly. She bent to take out another two pieces of equipment that matched the first two. He watched her as she tamed to scan the living room of the house. "Two?" he asked. "It will take two. In a diagonal pattern, I think, corner to corner. All quadrants of the room will be covered that way. Hard for anybody to miss all the beams." "Including me," he muttered. She grinned. "Just don't go wandering around in the middle of the night." His mouth twisted. "Great. A prisoner in my own home." "Cash," she said, "it has to be this way. It's part of my job to make sure we have the edge, that we use every advantage available." "Right," he said gruffly. "Well, don't let me interfere with your… job." He stalked off, leaving Kyra staring after him. Kyra tied off the thin nylon line, stood back and surveyed her handiwork. The line she was using for the trip wire was a dusty brown color that blended into the needle-covered ground to the point of invisibility. It was a bare two inches above the ground, high enough to be tripped by a foot coming up, but low enough to be stepped on by a foot coining down. Either action would break the connection to the battery-powered alarm hidden behind - a large fern nearby, and the earsplitting Klaxon would sound. She'd set up several this morning, along the most likely routes to the house from all sides of the island. Her magic box of tricks was nearly empty, including the padded leather case that had held her Glock and several clips of ammunition. Since she didn't routinely carry it, she hadn't had it with her when she'd boarded the flight to Seattle in such a rush. But Cole had found it in her desk and sent it along as she'd asked. She had no intention of winding up in a situation where she had to use it, but she wasn't about to risk Cash's life by failing to take every last precaution. It was later than she'd planned; she'd gotten a late start after a strained evening had led to a restless night. Walt had listened in silence to her explanation of the interior alarms, but she sensed he wasn't happy about her presence. Perhaps the island was as much a sanctuary for him as for Cash, who had early on wished her a rather stiff good-night and gone to bed. She had called Bill late last night, knowing that her boss was the proverbial night owl and would be up. She'd updated him on the situation and the steps she'd taken, and he'd given her the news that there was


no news—there had been no more threats since they'd left L.A. four days ago. She wondered if it was blowing over, if perhaps Cash was right and there was no real threat. It had been awfully quiet, and that was unlike the typical terrorist group who felt a day without headlines was wasted. She'd sat up for a while after that, pondering Cash's mood. Ordinarily she would have written it off to the threat hanging over his head, except that she knew he didn't believe in it. That left the alternative that he was still irritated at the disruption of his quiet life here and at her because of it. She couldn't really blame him, she supposed. He'd come here for peace, and she'd ruined it. "Hope he stays mad. You're better off," she had muttered into the darkness when, after Walt had at last gone to bed, she had turned out the lights and set the infrared alarms. And she'd meant it. When Cash was pleasant, when she was dealing with that good-humored, self-effacing man, she felt altogether too vulnerable to his charm. And again she wished he were the perfect man the world saw on screen; she wouldn't be wrestling with these feelings if he was. Then his words had come back to her, words about the woman who had preferred the glistening image to the modest reality. And again she thought the woman a fool. But. after she'd spent hours tossing and turning, fighting off vivid dreams of the island Cash, it was herself she called a fool. She had turned on the light and gone to her bag to pull out the now dog-eared file. She paused at the studio shot of Cash, marveling once more at how the camera magnified his even, pleasant features into something spectacular, how it turned a good-looking man into a breathtaking one. Then she made herself dig out the photo of the bloade. The beautiful woman who was everything Kyra was not—and the mother of Cash's son. She studied the photo. At least, she thought, Cash is doing the right thing. Unlike Jack, who had denied that the children born of two of his flings were his. It didn't matter; Kyra knew they were, and the fact that Jack had always insisted to her he never wanted children with her only made the knowledge more painful—he'd ruined two more innocent lives, this time before they'd even begun. The report in the file said there was no record of any contact between Cash and the child; if the woman's aim had been to trap Cash into marriage, she had failed, as Jack's girlfriends had. But then, Jack's two ladies had traded the idea of marriage for revenge the moment each learned of the other's existence. Unfortunately, they had taken that revenge out on Kyra. God, she thought, trying to bury the ugly memories, how does anyone survive the kind of goldfish bowl Cash Riordan lives in, where things like that are an everyday occurrence and your every move is fodder for new, public gossip? She'd barely survived a few months of it. She had studied the photograph of the woman for a while longer, as if committing the near-perfect features to memory would help her keep silly thoughts about Cash out of her mind. Then she had tried again—not very successfully—to go to sleep. She held on to the memory of the woman's image as she went looking for Cash now. She needed to show him where she'd rigged the trip wires, so he wouldn't set them off himself on the daily ramblings she'd learned he took around the island. And when she did, she told herself, she would be cool and professional, totally businesslike. She meant it, too. But when she at last found him, leaning against a spreading madrona tree's short, twisted trunk, a fishing pole in his hand and a ragged, misshapen straw cowboy hat pushed forward over his forehead, her heart took that silly tumble again. She took a breath and tried to compose herself. It


was a moment before she trusted herself to cross that last few feet. "Catch anything?" "Nope." "Not biting?" "Nope." He never moved. "Not fishing." Kyra blinked. "What?" "Not fishing," he repeated. "Oh." Kyra stared at him, but he didn't look at her. His eyes were closed under the shadow of the hat's battered brim. "Hmm," she said. "Fishing pole, line, float…could have fooled me." "No bait,'' he said succinctly. "Qh. Well, that explains it, then," she said, as if it all made-perfect sense. "How long have you been…er, not fishing?" "Dawn." "Man of few words this morning, aren't you?" At last he moved, pushing the brim of the hat back off his forehead. A couple of strands of his hair escaped the hat and flopped forward to his brow. "I was a man of no words, until you arrived." Kyra winced. "Sorry. I just wanted to show you where I set the trip wires, so you don't hit any by accident." "Oh." With a resigned expression, he began to reel in his line. "Do you know where Walt is? I need to show him, too." "Walt's gone." Kyra blinked. "What?" "He left this morning." Cash's mouth quirked. "The minute I ask him if he prefers to chop trees or to carry lumber, the bright lights of Seattle become irresistible." Kyra gaped at him. She hadn't heard a thing. "How?" Cash grinned as if he'd easily read her thought. "Steve picked him up early this morning. Glad to know you're sleeping well." Only, Kyra thought grimly, because I didn't get to sleep until practically dawn. But that was no excuse; she should have been aware of a plane coming in. "Damn," she muttered.


Cash lifted a brow. "Something wrong? I got the feeling last night that you wouldn't exactly… miss Walt." If Walt was going to sit and just stare at her as he had last night, Kyra thought, he was right, she wouldn't miss him. But that was the least of her problems. "One less body makes things easier," she said, "but one less pair of eyes makes it harder." Her mouth twisted ruefully. "And you might as well hang out a sign saying you're here. It's not exactly a secret that Walt goes where you go." Cash shrugged.."He figured I'd be safe enough now that the expert's here." Kyra grimaced; there had been no sarcasm in his tone, but when she knew he didn't believe all her precautions were necessary, she didn't doubt it was in his mind. She kept silent, watching him turn the spinning reel's crank. "You weren't kidding," she said as she watched the naked hook clear the water. "You do this often? Baitless non-fishing, I mean?" His mouth quirked, and she thought he-was fighting a smile. "Only when I don't want to be bothered by fish." Kyra sighed. "So you got bothered by me, instead. I'm sorry, Cash." He shrugged as he fastened the hook over one of the guide loops on the pole and pulled the line tight to hold it. He set the drag mechanism on the reel, then got to his feet. "After this, it's all waiting," she promised as she started' off through the trees toward the nearest booby trap. "That's what my job is a lot of the time." "I'm sure it is." His tone was inflectionless, so Kyra didn't know where she got the idea he was irritated. Maybe it was her imagination that he sounded like that every time she mentioned her work. "This will only take a few minutes, I promise. I—" "I'm coming, aren't I?" She let out a breath, wondering what on earth had come over her, why she was apologizing so profusely for disturbing him when it was his life she was trying to protect. "I just feel bad about Interrupting your… peace." "You've been doing that since I met you," he said sardonically, and Kyra looked back over her shoulder at him sharply. "Tell you what," he said, his voice neutral again now. "I'll forgive you the Interruption If you'll tell me something." "What?" "Tell me about Jack." Kyra caught her breath, stopping in her tracks barely in time to avoid walking into a low-hanging branch of another isolated madrona tree. She noticed inanely how the red outer bark was peeling away In ragged strips. She noticed the glossiness of the green leaves. She looked at anything except Cash.


"Was he a cop?" His voice was gentle, and although she didn't know why, she couldn't doubt that he genuinely wanted to know. And she supposed It was only fair, after the way she'd pried into his life, no matter that It was just for her job. "Yes. He was. Is." "And?" She-sighed. "Jack-is…perfect. The prototype of tall, dark and handsome. Dimples, big, baby blue eyes, a killer smile and the charm to go with it." "Every woman's dream man come true." Cash's voice was level, but Kyra caught the undertone, the same note that had been there when he'd spoken of the woman who had left him when she'd found he was a real, mortal man, not the dream come true. "Yes. I couldn't believe it when he started to…pay attention to me. I should have known…" "Should have known what?" Kyra merely shook her head; the realities of her own limitations were something she didn't care to discuss, not with this man. "Anyway," she went on after a moment, "I had already been on the force for nearly a year when Jack came up. It was—" she smiled bitterly "—a whirlwind courtship. Short and sweet. Unfortunately, the marriage was nearly as short, and not nearly so sweet. One of the dispatchers finally took pity on me and told me about all the personal phone calls Jack was getting, from at least a half a dozen women." "I came home on duty one night, for something I'd forgotten. Found him with our next-door neighbor. In our bed. She was tiny, cute, bubbly…everything I wasn't. Which Jack took great pains to make clear to me, after he told me to get out because I was embarrassing her. That and the fact that he'd only married me because of who I was, an Austin, an established name with the department. He'd thought it would help his career." Cash swore, low and harsh. "Kyra, stop. I'm sorry I asked." She shrugged. "Ancient history. And it's only fair. I've certainly done my share of poking around in your life." She wondered, later that night, what had possessed her to spill all that to him. He must find it laughable. He lived in a world where that kind of thing went on all the time, and no one seemed to think twice about it or the fact that it was all public knowledge. But he'd seemed truly sorry he'd asked, as if he regretted making her drag out the painful memories. And she'd made him do some talking of his own, she thought. He had really, considering the natural wariness of someone who had dealt so long with the voraciousness of the entertainment media, been quite open with her. Except about the son living with his mother in the fast lane in Los Angeles; he never mentioned that, and Kyra didn't dare ask.


Don't let it bother you, Kyra told herself. It's none of your business, anyway. But it did bother her, not because he didn't talk about it, but because it made her wonder if she was wrong in her assessment of him, if Cash was, in this at least, like Jack, refusing to acknowledge an innocent child whose existence is an inconvenience. True, he was supporting the child, but still… It makes no difference what kind of man he is, she told herself sternly. Your job is to protect him, that's all. But she still couldn't quite reconcile the kind of man who would totally ignore his own son with the man she was coming to know here on the island. She tried to bury the thoughts. As they sat in silence in the library that night, Cash going over the design for the addition, Kyra at the desk writing up the obligatory accounting of all the equipment she'd set up so far, she wondered once more if perhaps Cash wasn't going to be one of the lucky ones. Maybe it had all been smoke, a verbal discharge of empty threats. Maybe they had grabbed their headline and run, the actual carrying out of the threats beyond their capabilities. They were, after all, a small splinter group, not associated with any of the more well-known Middle Eastern groups. And they'd been hunted mercilessly since their initial terrorist strike, the hostage taking that had been the basis forTen Days. Running cost nearly as much money as fighting. Maybe— The ring of the cellular phone at her elbow cut off her thoughts. Cash looked at the phone, then at Kyra. "It's your phone," he said laconically, and went back to the plans. She picked it up..Before the receiver even made it to her ear, she could hear Cole's deep voice. "Kyra? You there?" "Yes, Cole." "You'd best be on the lookout, darlin'. Riordan's house in Denver was torched tonight."

Chapter 5

"Cash, you can't!" "Hang on, Steve." He lowered the receiver. Then, to Kyra, "What do you mean? Can't what?" "You can't go to Denver." "Of course I can." He tamed back to the phone, glad for the first time that she'd brought the thing. "No, six is fine. That way you can make it back in time for your fishing charter. I'll be at the dock." "Cash—" "Thanks, Steve," he went on, ignoring her. "No, I'll call for the airline tickets from here, on my fancy new


cellular phoae. Give Rach and my soon-to-be-goddaughter a hug, okay? Bye." At last he hung up and turned to face Kyra. She was angry, he could see that, although he wasn't sure why. What did she expect him to do, just sit here when his parents' home had nearly burned down? "You can't go to Denver," Kyra repeated firmly. "Sure I can," he said calmly. "Cash-" "I suppose you mean I can't go alone? Okay, shadow, you can come, too. Steve's flying over first thing in the morning, and he'll ran us to the airport from his office. We may not make it back that night, so you'd better—" "Are you crazy or just plain stupid?" Kyra burst out. Cash lifted a brow. "Well, I've been accused of being both, but not recently. Look," he said soothingly, "I know .you think this is probably connected to those damned calls and letters—" "How can you think it's not?" She sounded utterly incredulous. He shrugged. "We don't know it was arson. Maybe it was an accident. Faulty wiring or something. Or oily rags, maybe. Dad's always painting something. Happens all the time." "Cash," she began, but he held up a hand. "I'm going to Denver. By the time I—or we—get there, they should have a good idea if it was arson or not. No sense going off the deep end before we know for sure." "Iknowfor sure," Kyra exclaimed. "Damn it, Cash, I can't do my job if you won't listen to me." "I am listening." I wish I weren't, he thought. His next words were pointed, despite his effort not to let his confused feelings through. "And I knownothing'smore important to you than your job. I'm just not as convinced as you are that this has anything to do with those threats. It's an old house, Kyra. Anything could have happened." "Of course my job's important to me." She hadn't missed the stress on those words, he thought. And he should have 'known better than to think she might. "It should be to you, too, since it consists of keeping you alive.'' He let out a compressed breath. She was right. He didn't know why he'd been so touchy about it, anyway. Itwaswhy she was here, after all, as she kept pointing out. To do a job. And thinking there was any more to it was a fool's game. Besides, he didn't want there to be more to it. Not with this woman. She was too dangerous. "Nothing's going to happen to me," he said at last. "Oh. Did it ever occur to you that this might be a trap? That the whole thing could be a setup? That this fire is ...is bait, damn it? To draw you out into the open so they can have a crack at you?"


Cash drew back a little, his brow creasing. That, he had to admit, hadn't occurred to him. Not that it made any difference; he still couldn't convince himself that he was really in danger. Every celebrity had to deal with the occasional crackpot. Some small group halfway around the world wasn't really going to come after him, not when all he'd done was play a role. They just wanted their day in the news, a headline or two. "I'm going to Denver," he insisted. He turned back to the desk, reaching for the small rotary file beside it to look up the number of the local travel agent Walt usually called. Kyra grabbed his arm, her grip surprisingly—or perhaps not so surprisingly—strong. "Cash, please…" The softness of the plea startled him. He turned back, then froze; he hadn't realized she was so close. She was right there, bare inches away, looking up at him with eyes wide with concern, and suddenly his breath was rasping in his ears. God, had he really thought her plain? With those eyes? Instinctively his hands rose to grip her shoulders, to hold her in place, to keep her from moving away. Her lips parted, as if breathing had become as difficult for her as it suddenly had for him. He stared down at the soft, ripe curve of her lower lip. He swallowed against the sudden tightness of his throat. Involuntarily he began to lower his head; the lure of that tempting softness and warmth was blurring the familiar alarms. "Cash…" she whispered, and his gaze shifted to her eyes. And there, in the depths that looked smoky gray now, he saw the same battle raging, saw the clash as the warnings tried to be heard over the sudden, unexpected need. And while the clamorings in his own consciousness were losing the battle, the sight of her apprehension came through loud and clear. He pulled back. Both taking long, harsh breaths, as if they'd run a gauntlet, they stared at each other. Then, gradually, he saw sense, saw awareness return to her eyes. And saw color flood her face. Hastily she backed up a step, as if desperate to put distance between them. The pressure in him eased the moment she stepped away and he released her. God, what the hell was he doing? Are you out of your mind, Riordan? he thought scathingly. She's everything you've spent years running from, a woman with substance. The kind who could make you fall, and fall hard. Never mind that she seems to want nothing from you other than to help keep your hide intact. Because it was her job, he reminded himself fiercely. This had begun on a strictly business level, and it had better stay there. Never mind that because of the circumstances it had become necessarily personal. You stick to the hollow ones, Riordan, the ones you never have to look beyond the surface with, the ones you're safe with because you can't stand to be with them for longer than a week. "You'd better pack if you're coming," he said brusquely. Then he turned his back and picked up the phone again. They should have sent Cole, Kyra thought vehemently as she yanked the hairbrush through her short, clipped hair, then jammed it into the tote bag. He'd just plant that six-foot-four, solid-as-a-rock body in the doorway and dare Cash to try and get by him. At least he would if he did fieldwork anymore, Kyra amended. Which he didn't. No one at Sanders


blamed him, and anyone foolish enough to suggest that the big Texan had lost his nerve along with his last client was unceremoniously and swiftly silenced; Cole Bannister's record spoke for itself. Of course, she thought as she smothered a yawn, she could take Cash on herself. Throw him and hog-tie him maybe; she supposed that's what it would take. She had the skills, Bill had made certain of that, and if she caught him by surprise, she could do it. She could keep him here where he was relatively safe… and end any chance at keeping his cooperation for the rest of this assignment. "Okay, okay," she muttered, "so we go to Denver." She would just have to be extra vigilant. She stuffed a change of clothes into the bag—she'd climbed around arson scenes before and knew she'd need them whether or not they made it back home tonight. Back home. Oh, God. She'd thought it easily, without turning a hair. Home. They. Dangerous words. More dangerous together. Implying things that weren't true, could never be true. Not for her, and especially not with someone like Cash. Cash moved in a world of beauty and grace, and she was anything but that. She was a too-tall, gangly ex-cop who had, by great good fortune, found something she was good at. She was happy she had that much. She wouldn't risk her heart looking for more. Not again. That lesson had been learned too well. She'd believed Jack. He'd sweet talked her into believing every lie he told about her beauty, his love, his desire… and then crushed her with the truth she'd always known; no man would fall all over himself for her, unless he thought there was something else in it for him. She tore her mind out of that old rut. She tossed her toothbrush, then her sunglasses into the tote bag. She closed it, then opened it again, considering. She went to the nightstand and took the Glock out of the drawer, studying the dark gray weapon. It was smooth, sleek and clean, and she hefted its familiar light weight easily. If she carried it, she would be held up at the gate while she showed her identification and permit to carry the concealed weapon. If she was only certain Cash would wait… but if he did, it would no doubt cause pandemonium in the airport if he was recognized. She found it hard to believe what he'd said, that people often didn't. It would be easier to leave it, but as long as there was a possibility this was a trap, that it was indeed bait to get Cash out into the open… She glanced at her watch and hastily finished her packing. She trotted out to the phone in the library and quickly dialed the office. Tim, the young college student who was putting in his time as receptionist until Bill decided whether to accept him as a trainee, wouldn't be there this early, but Kyra knew Cole would be. It seemed as if Cole was always there. He picked it up on the first ring. "Sanders Protection." "Hi, Cole." "Hey, darlin', you're up early. What's going on?" "Apparently," she said dryly, "I'm going to Denver." There was a pause. "He won't listen?"


"He still doesn't believe the threats are for real. I don't think he will until he sees proof with his own eyes that the fire was intentional, that it was arson." She heard a long exhalation. She knew this had to bring back painful memories for Cole, so she quickly got to the reason for her call. "Look, I don't want to take any chances. Could you activate that network of yours and see if anybody can get me through the gate at SeaTac with the minimum of fuss?" Kyra knew Cole had an incredible system of contacts, friends and people who just plain owed him. ''Sure. What time you figure on getting there?" "In a couple of hours." "Okay. Call me when you get to the airport, I'll have a name for you. And I'll call a buddy of mine at the PD there, on the arson squad. Let him know you're coming." "Thanks." "And, Kyra?" His voice had tensed, and Kyra asked softly, "What?" It was a moment before he said, "Be careful." "Always, Cole. Always." She hung up, wishing she could heal the man who'd done so much to heal her. Then she went back to her room, slid the Glock into a slim leather holster with a clip on one side, and put it into the tote bag. It had been a silent flight, seeming much longer than the just over two and a half hours it really was. The cab ride was even quieter, except for the occasional comments by the driver, who kept looking at the couple in the back seat, as if he thought he should know them. Cash was glad he'd remembered to don the Supersonics' cap and the sunglasses. The memory of that moment in the library last night had hovered between them, and Cash knew Kyra was retreating behind the shield of her work. He couldn't blame her, not when he'd spent the night himself dragging out all the youthful memories of laughter and rejection by the girls he'd paid homage to. Now, of course, they'd changed their tune. Women who had never looked at him twice in school fell al over him. Women who'd known him then, the same ones who'd called 'him"'that skinny little geek," now claimed they'd always known he was something special. And now the simpler, plainer girls, the ones who had been his refuge, his true friends in those painful days, wouldn't come anywhere near him, thinking, he supposed, that he had turned into something just like those shallow, beautiful women. At least the shallow ones were honest about what they wanted, he thought. They made no bones about the fact that they just wanted to be seen with him, or wanted him to use his influence to further their careers. And he didn't even care, he told himself, that when they first met him, they gave 'him "the look" that told him they didn't quite believe he was really Cash Mordant. He glanced at Kyra. She was looking around as if her life depended on seeing every bit of Denver she


could see. And then he looked away quickly as he realized that, as far as she believed, it washis life that depended on it. She'd disappeared into the plane's rest room just before they'd landed, carrying her tote bag. When she'd come back, she'd had her jacket on, despite the fact that the pilot had announced it was a sunny seventy degrees. She had stopped inside the terminal to make a phone call, then, at the gate, she had stepped aside to talk quietly to the airport security guard, who had nodded and made a call of her own. It wasn't until Kyra had, at the guard's nod at her displayed identification, walked around the back side of the X-ray machine and passed through to the boarding area that "he put it together. She was carrying her gun. It had brought home to him like nothing else how seriously she was taking this. All the alarms, the trip wires, all of it seemed like some kind of game somehow, there on the island. But here, in the big city, the knowledge that she had felt it necessary to be armed made him shiver. And he began to wonder If maybe he shouldn't begin to take this a little more seriously himself. When he got his first look at the house he'd grown up in, his conviction that all was well was shaken even farther. The arson investigator, who seemed to have expected them, was quick to reassure Cash as he showed them past the line of yellow police tape and into the house. "The damage isn't as bad as it looks, Mr. Riordan," he said, a touch of Texas in his voice. "Fire Department made it a bigger mess than it really is. Most of the damage Is in the back, the rest of the house is fine." Cash nodded numbly only vaguely aware of Kyra picking her way through the toppled furniture toward the charred, gaping hole where the back door had been. How many times had he ran up those steps after school, hollering to his mother? How many times had he sat out there with his father, shelling nuts for his mother's Incomparable fudge brownies? "What kind of accelerant?" Lost in his memories, Cash nearly Jumped at Kyra's quiet question, directed at the investigator. "What makes you think there was one?" The man was studying Kyra intently, and Cash could almost feel him sizing her up. Don't doubt it, he told the man silently. She's good. "Oh, I don't know," Kyra said with mock breeziness. "The flash pattern of the burn, maybe? Of course, until you get the distillation test results, I realize you can't be sure." The man's expression cleared. "Kerosene, we think, from the way It took off, although they didn't use enough to really do it right. We found some promising samples from the grooves in the floorboards, but we won't know positively until the lab tests are back."

He spoke as if he'd never questioned her, and, oddly, Kyra seemed to take no offense. Cash supposed


that being a woman in what was still largely a man's profession, she ran up against this kind of testing a lot. And only then did the import of the investigator's words strike home. Kerosene. Arson. This firehad been set. Fury flooded him. "Damn!" he swore, his voice harsh. He found himself looking around for something to hit, to kick, to throw. "Cash," Kyra began, and he whirled on her. "Those bastards" he exclaimed. "If my parents had been home, damn it… my mom doesn't move too fast anymore, and Dad's eyes aren't what they used to be. If they'd been asleep—" He broke off when Kyra gently touched his hand, wrapping her fingers around his, holding them in a tight clasp he knew was meant to comfort. And it was comforting, somehow. His anger ebbed a little. "I know," she said softly. "I know, Cash." She looked at the investigator. "Anything on suspects?" The man, looking harried, soot-stained and weary, merely shrugged. ''No suspects seen. No vehicles seen or heard, no strange noises, according to the neighbors. We estimate it started just after dark, but we don't know how long it had been burning before it was spotted." "Forced entry?" He shrugged again. "Front door's intact." He nodded toward the gaping hole where the back door had been. "We may never know if that was forced. Door's ashes. No marks on what's left of the lock, but it wasn't much of one, anyway." He gave Cash an apologetic glance. "Credit card could have done it. Neighbors said the door had a window, but no one heard any breakage." Kyra sighed; one look at her face told Cash she'd expected as much, but that she'd still been hoping. The investigator was looking at her, as well, intently, in a way Cash wasn't sure he liked, although he couldn't have said why not. The man studied her a moment longer, and Cash didn't miss the way his glance flicked to Kyra's hand holding his. Apparently neither did Kyra; with a final tightening of her fingers and no appearance of haste, she let go. "You tell Cole Bannister that Ed Markel said hello," he said at last. Kyra smiled. "I will." "And tell him he still owes me dinner the next time he's up this way." Kyra's face went suddenly solemn. "Cole doesn't…travel much anymore." The man's eyebrows lifted. "Cole? Hell, he was always on his way to some port halfway around the world. Had a girl in all of 'em, too." "I know," Kyra said softly, as if in pain. Cash's gaze sharpened. Who was this Cole, and what was he to Kyra that she could feel such anguish when speaking of him? And what was wrong with him himself, feeling so bereft simply because she'd let go of his hand, because she'd ceased a touch meant only as a gesture of comfort?


"If I had a nickel for every woman who went all soft-eyed at those shoulders or those blue eyes of his," Markel said wryly, "I'd retire." "Well, that hasn't changed," Kyra said, appearing to recover. "Except you forgot the boots." Markel grinned suddenly, white teeth appearing through the soot-stained skin. "Yeah. Women are such suckers for a good-lookin' dude in cowboy boots." "It's those Texas men," Kyra said solemnly, looking pointedly at Markel, then down at his own ash-stained boots. He burst out laughing. "I reckon you could give him a run for his money," he said. "He's out of my league," Kyra said with a laugh. "I wouldn't even begin to try." She and Investigator Markel began to move toward the blackened portion of the house, talking intently. Cash stayed where he was, unable to make himself move any closer to the destroyed portion of his childhood home. Besides, the two were talking in some sort of law enforcement shorthand that made him feel as though they were speaking a foreign language made up of familiar words whose meanings had been changed. Texas men. So this Cole Bannister was a big, handsome cowboy type. Broad shoulders and blue eyes. Made women go "soft-eyed." Including Kyra? he wondered. Why not? he answered himself. Why should she be any different? Yet she'd said he was out of her league. Because he was like her too-perfect ex-husband? He wondered just how persistent the big Texan was, and more importantly, washeafter Kyra? The way she'd looked when she spoke of him hinted at some kind of deep emotion. The kind only won by those perfect males? I'll bethe, Cash thought sourly about the man he'd never seen, would never get "the look"— "—out of here." Cash blinked, yanked out of his reverie. "What?" "We need to get out of here. There's nothing more to be learned here now." Cash tried to reel in his scattered thoughts. Why on earth had he been standing here speculating over the relationship between this woman and a man he'd never even laid eyes on when he should have been worrying about what had happened here? "I…uh, need to get this taken care of." He gestured at the damage. "Ed knows a good local company that handles fire salvage. He said he'll call them for you as soon as we leave. They'll come in, save what can be saved, then board it up." "But I can't let my parents come home to this—" "Ed gave me numbers for a couple of good local contractors, too, who can have it back like new by the time your folks get home. You can talk to them later, tell them what you want done."


"But—" "Cash, we've got to get out of here. I don't care where we go for the moment, but we've been here too long." "Here?" "In one place," Kyra amended. "We can handle all the arrangements by phone, so let's get moving. Besides," she added with a smile he knew was supposed to lighten his mood, "the cab meter's ticking. We're running up Dave's bill." Reluctantly he gave in. When they were back in the cab, Kyra looked at him questioningly. "Where to?" He looked at his watch. One brow shot upward. Had they really been here over two hours? He looked at Kyra. "I know that by the time we get back to the airport and get a flight it will be pretty late," he began, "but…" "You want to go home?" Kyra finished softly. All he could do was nod. "Okay, the airport it is." The cabdriver nodded at her words and pulled out onto the street. Relieved at her easy acceptance, Cash glanced back at the house that had once been his home. He felt guilty just leaving it like that, but the sight of the fire damage had shaken him. He was beginning to reassess all his assumptions about the threats against him, and he didn't like the way his thoughts were running. "I'm sorry about the house," Kyra said, "but it really looks worse than it is. Maybe you could torn it into a blessing in disguise for your parents. Remodel it while you're having it repaired. Give your mom a bigger kitchen or something." He looked at her thoughtfully, then smiled. "Maybe," he said. "She's always wanted one." His mouth twisted wryly. "I wanted them to move when I got to where I could afford to buy them a big, new house. They wouldn't do it." "Good memories are worth more than all the big and new and shiny in the world sometimes.' Cash's eyes widened. "That's what Mom said. That too many memories were in that house and she couldn't pack them and take them with her." Kyra smiled. "She knows what's important. They didn't lose anything of real value. Nothing that can't be replaced. The pictures, the books, the really important things are fine. It'll be all right, Cash. Don't worry." He let out a long breath. "Yeah, I guess it will." He glanced back once more, but the house, the neighborhood he'd grown up in, was long out of sight. Then he looked back at Kyra. "Thanks." She lifted one arched brow. "For what?" For being there, he thought. With me. For me. For knowing when I needed someone to hang on to. "For the idea about the house,'' was what he said. "And for getting those phone numbers."


"No problem. We can call when we get to the airport. And," she said, looking down at herself with a grimace, "change clothes." Cash smiled. She was streaked with ash from the knees down, and a smudge of soot marred one cheek. Instinctively he lifted one hand and brushed at the offending mark with the backs of his fingers. The movement was slower than he had intended; it was as if his fingers couldn't quite believe her skin was so soft and smooth, and had to go slowly to believe what they were feeling. "You're quite a woman, Kyra Austin." Just for an instant, it had seemed as if she were leaning into his caress, almost savoring it, and his heart began to slam in his chest. Then, the moment he spoke, she stiffened and drew back. "Just well trained. Bill makes us all take classes in helping people deal with crises." Her voice was tight. She couldn't have put more distance between them if she'd put both hands on his chest and shoved. "I see," Cash said. "Just part of the job, right?" The pause before she spoke, the breath she took, were both so tiny he would never have been sure of either had he mot been watching her so intently. "Of course. That is why I'm here." "Of course," he ground out, jaw tightening at yet another reminder. Misery might love company, Cash thought as the small plane neared the island, but it doesn't need it to survive. It seems to feed on itself just fine, he added sourly as he watched Kyra and Steve talk animatedly up front. She'd never been on a seaplane before today, so he'd surrendered his usual right seat to her on the way out and now back. And had spent both flights listening to his friend flirt outrageously. If he hadn't known Steve was madly, passionately in love with Rachel, he would have… Would have what? Told him to back off? Punched him?Hey, buddy, stay away from my... what? Employee? Bodyguard? Hell, Steve would laugh him out of the plane. And rightfully so; Steve knew that Cash knew he'd no more cheat on Rachel than he'd take off with no fuel. Still, it irritated him that Kyra seemed so at ease with Steve. She deflected his flirtation teasingly and asked questions about his beloved planes with an enthusiasm that utterly charmed the young pilot. And all I get, Cash thought acidly, are those constant reminders that I'm her job. "We've got an Otter Twin that was built as a seaplane," Steve was saying, "but most are just regular light planes, with the landing gear traded for pontoons, and three-bladed props instead of two." "Why three?" Kyra asked. You would have thought she'd been waiting all her life to learn about seaplanes, Cash thought sourly. "More power. Two-bladed props are for speed. But we need the power to take off in short distances." Steve grinned at Kyra. "We get into some pretty tight places." "Right," Cash muttered. He'd had enough of this mutual admiration society. "Tell her about the time you got left high and dry up in Alaska."


To Cash's annoyance, Steve merely chuckled. "Hey, that was years ago, and I was new to this stuff." He glanced at Cash before explaining to Kyra, "I was flying in this hunting party and forgot I was dealing with the ocean… and tides. I tied up to a downed log in a little cove…" Kyra was already grinning. "And the tide went out?" "Sure did. left me high and dry to face an angry hunting party who hadn't been able to find a deer willing to stand still for them. But it worked out great in the end. In the extra time we had to wait for the next tide change they made a successful hunt and forgot all about how mad they were." The two laughed together, Kyra in a relaxed, friendly way that grated on Cash's nerves; you'd think she'd known Steve for as long as he had. And the little jab of shame he felt at that thought didn't do much to lighten his frame of mind. When they had landed—Kyra smiling at the rooster tail of spray the pontoons sent up—Cash sat in the back seat, nursing his rather black mood as Kyra gracefully stepped from the pontoon to the dock. With, he noted sourly, a helping hand from Steve that hadn't been necessary at all; with her long legs she could have done it alone easily. Those damned long legs that carried her so easily, that could tempt a man to do something foolish, like want to bare them for his hands to trace their sculpted length… to bare them for his mouth to do the same. He nearly gasped at the sudden shaft of heat that lanced through him. He fought it down, grateful that he was, for the moment, alone in the plane. It was a moment before he had recovered himself enough to move. "Thanks for the lift," he said to Steve as he clambered out and stood on the narrow pontoon. "Anytime, partner." He glanced up the dock, where Kyra was already past the boathouse. "Especially if your company is as charming as this. I even forgive her for using us to trick her way out here." "I noticed your appreciation." Steve lifted a brow at his stiff tone. "What's with you?" "Nothing." Cash reached back into the plane and grabbed his small bag. Steve looked at him, glanced up the dock at Kyra, who was walking up the gangway onto the island, then looked back at Cash. "She's quite a woman, that Kyra. Not your usual type. Something going on here, buddy?" he asked softly. "Not a damned thing!" Cash grated out. Steve's brow went higher. "And maybe that's the problem, hmm?" "She's here to do a job, that's all. Just ask her." "So that's the way the clouds are drifting," Steve said, turning once more to watch Kyra as she paused to study something on the ground just past the gangway.


"And what," Cash snapped as he jumped to the dock, "Is that supposed to mean?" Steve shrugged. "Just that It looks like you wish she were here for more than a job. Not that I blame you, you understand," he ended with a grin. "If I was single—" "Fine. Go right ahead." Steve drew back, clearly startled. "Get real, man. You know better than that. I'd never do that to Rachel." Cash let out a long, compressed breath. He was chewing on an old friend, and he wasn't even sure why. "I know. I'm just not sure she—" he gestured at Kyra "—knows it. You two seemed to hit it right off." "So that's what's bugging you," Steve said, his face brightening with understanding. Then he chuckled, reaching out to give Cash a mock punch. "Well, old friend, did you ever stop to think that the reason we hit it off was because she knew she was safe?" Cash stared at him. "Safe?" "Sure. Women can tell, you know? Rach says they know a one-woman man when they-see one. That's why she doesn't worry. Kyra knew I was only kidding around. I made her laugh. You, on the other hand, make her nervous." "Nervous?" Cash looked back over his shoulder. Kyra was headed off to the south, clearly checking on her booby traps in the rapidly dwindling light. "That woman? Not a chance. She's as cool as the Arctic Express." "Oh, yeah? Look, I may have been married for five years, but I still know when a woman's zeroed in on me. And when she's not. If she keeps reminding you she's on a job, maybe you're not the one she's trying to convince." Cash opened his mouth to deny it, then stopped. Hehadcaught her looking at him a time or two during the flight, while she'd been talking to Steve, but he'd figured she was just wondering why he wasn't saying anything. The fact that anything he would have had to say would have smacked childishly of hurt feelings was what had kept him silent. He was still wrestling with it as he watched the green plane skim over the water of the sound—gray today, like the threatening sky—and lift off. Was it possible? Could Steve be right? There had been that moment, that little hesitation, that barely perceptible unsteadiness when it seemed she'd had to force herself to say the old, tired words to remind him of why she was with him. Maybe you're not the one she's trying to convince. He walked swiftly up the dock, slinging his bag over his shoulder. He looked around, wishing he'd watched in which direction she'd gone. He was three feet up from the dock when he suddenly remembered the trip wire. He stopped dead. His breath left him in a long sigh as he tried to reel in his rocketing emotions. The sight of that dusty cord strung almost invisibly across the path brought the realty of her presence crashing back in on him. He was building a house of cards on very shaky ground, was clinging to Steve's words and that one moment of uncertainty, that pause. He was clinging to it with a fierceness that frightened him now that he


realized what he was doing. He should be glad she was keeping that distance between them. He wanted it that way, didn't he? Strictly business, with the buffer of her job safely between them? He knew he'd be in trouble if that buffer ever failed, so why was he so damn pleased at every little sign that it was a struggle for her to maintain that professional distance? And how had he ever gotten to this point? What had happened to his cool, dispassionate reaction to the woman he'd first seen in his den? The woman who had seemed strikingly tall and willowy, but hardly spectacular. The woman he had looked at and dismissed—with his big mouth, he admitted ruefully— as "not his type." Why did those long legs, those changeable blue-gray eyes fascinate him so now? Why didshefascinate him so? With a sigh, he stepped over the trip wire and headed for the house.

He'd been wrong, Cash thought. She wasn't having any trouble at all maintaining that professional distance. "Anything else, Ms. Austin?" he bit out. "Is it all right if I put my shoes on by myself?" "Cash-" '"Can I go to the bathroom alone?" His mouth twisted in an angry parody of a smile. "Not that having you along for that doesn't sound interesting. You could hold my—" "Stop it," Kyra cut in sharply. "Hand," he finished flatly. Kyra blushed. He took some small amount of pleasure in that, although he wondered if the crudity she'd been expecting would have made her color no matter who it had come from. He strode across the room, standing somewhat defiantly in front of one of the huge windows. "I know this is hard for you to accept, but it's necessary." "Necessary? To act like I'm under attack in my own home? Stay away from the windows, don't go anywhere alone, don't stay in one place long enough for anyone to get a bead on me, don't go outside at night—" "I know it stinks, but it's for your own good." "So is liver, but I won't eat it." Kyra came up behind him.Close behind him. He could feel her warmth, could smell that exotic, tropical scent she wore. That touch of feminine vanity in this cool, competent woman tugged at something deep inside him. "Not eating liver," she said quietly, "won't kill you." Cash took in a long breath. He wished she'd move back a little; she was too close, and it was hard to breathe. He stared out the window at the water, inky dark in these minutes before moonrise. The only sound beside his own suddenly harsh breathing was the drone of the generator she'd made him show her how to start, the only disturbance of the darkness over the water was the distant sparkle of a small plane's lights, red and green against velvet black.


"If they did set the fire—" "If?" Kyra interrupted. "Okay, okay," he admitted reluctantly, "so they probably did. But maybe they've made their point now. Maybe now that they've… drawn blood, so to speak, they'll just…" "Fold their tents and go?" Kyta asked. "You've got to know better than that, Cash. If they've gone this far, they're not likely to quit now." She reached out then, laying one slender hand on his arm. He suppressed a shiver, not wanting her to see what that simple touch did to him. "You agreed to let me do my job, Cash." He whirled away from her, suddenly desperate to put distance between them himself, to get away from that touch that made him wish for things that were impossible. "I'm sick of hearing about your damn job," he grated as he walked away from the window. "I'm sick of this whole thing." "Denial's not going to get you anywhere except buried," Kyra said bluntly, sounding as if the prospect truly disturbed her. Because it would mean she failed at her job, Cash told himself harshly. He felt suddenly chilled and instinctively headed for the warmer part of the room. His muscles tensed as she followed him. He was cornered now, between Kyra and the stove, with its flames dancing behind the tempered glass. And he wasn't sure which would burn him the most. "Cash, please," she said softly, and the new gentleness in her voice sent a shiver up his spine despite the heat from the stove. "I wish I could tell you everything's going to be okay, that they've carried out their threat by destroying some property and it's all over. But I can't. I can't promise you're not in danger, that they'll leave you alone. You've got to deal with this. Pretending it doesn't exist won't make it go." He turned on her then, so suddenly that her breath caught. He reached out, gripping her shoulders in his hands, aware more than ever of the lithe, supple strength of her. Her eyes widened, and he saw her lips part for a quick little breath. He could see the pulse leap, then begin to race in the hollow of her throat. And in one reckless instant, he was gambling everything, things he'd never even thought about, on the chance Steve had been right. On the chance that he wasn't alone in this chaos he'd been mired in since she'd invaded his little paradise. "Oh?" he said, his voice low and harsh. "You've been pretending this doesn't exist, like yon think it will go away." Her eyes widened. "Pretending…what doesn't exist?" He stared at her, at eyes gone smoky gray, at the soft fullness of her lower lip, at the incredibly tempting way it trembled. He saw her swallow as she stared up at him, watched the delicate movement of her throat and thought that she was so tall, he would barely have to move to press his lips to that slender column. But her lips were an even more enticing lure, and he knew he was going to succumb.


"This," he whispered, and lowered his head. The first touch of his lips on hers was feather-light and brief. Far too light and quick to cause the jolt that shot through him. Only the tiny gasp she made, as if she'd felt it, too, made him believe it had truly happened. And that made him sure he had to come back for more. The jolt came again, sharp, electric, but this time he lingered, letting the fire start, letting the jolt spark the heat that rippled out as he deepened the kiss. He felt her initial stiffness, resistance, but then her hands were curling, into the front of his sweater, grasping the soft wool knit as if it were the only thing keeping her upright. Her mouth went soft, tamed willing under his, and that rippling heat burst into flame. His hands slid up to cup her head, to tilt it back slightly, thinking in some part of his dazed brain that it was nice that she fit him so well, that he barely had to move to kiss her. And a good thing, too, since he wasn't sure he could move. Not when his body was acting like he'd swum all the way back to the island, not when his heart was pounding in his chest. A pounding that was echoed in a much lower, hotter place that was responding to the feel of her with a swiftness that was making it very hard to breathe. He let his tongue slip lightly, tentatively over her lips, tasting yet not demanding. She made a tiny sound, and he drew back. Don't rash, he told himself. No matter how much you want to. And then he felt it, the tiny, hot little flick of her tongue over his lips as she returned the caress. He groaned, and with a sudden, convulsive movement, he broke the kiss and pulled her hard against him. The heat engulfed him as if he'd walked into a wall of flame. From where the soft, silken cap of her hair, tousled now by his fingers, brushed soft against his cheek, to the length of a taut, fit body softened by feminine curves, she seemed to flow over him, warm and yielding yet so clearly capable of searing him to the core. Dave had always mocked him about the lack of height— and brains—of his usual choice in women, but he'd never really thought about it until now. Had he truly never realized how wonderful, how perfect a woman like this would feel in his arms, pressed against him from toe to shoulder? How incredible it would be to kiss a woman who could nearly match him in stature, in strength, and no doubt pass him in courage and determination? And brains, he thought ruefully as he felt a little shiver ripple through her. She'd tried to avoid this, but he'd gone ahead and thrown open the lid on this box of troubles. And if the first rush had been of pleasure, that didn't mean the pain to come would be any less. So why, he wondered, did he want to kiss her again more than he wanted to take his nest breath? She shifted in his arms, and he groaned again as the gently flared curve of her hip rubbed against taut, ready male flesh. Involuntarily he moved, needing that caress again even though he knew it had been unintentional. Knew that if she had realized how aroused he was, she'd probably have pulled away long ago. But she didn't, as he expected, jerk away from him now. He heard her murmur something against his chest that sounded like, "Oh, Cash." Then she lifted her head to look up at him. Her lips parted, and he knew instinctively that it was to voice a protest, to tell him this could never happen again. "Not yet," he whispered, his voice low and urgent. "Just once more—" He claimed her mouth swiftly, before she could say the words that would stop him. He had to be sure, had to know if that extraordinary response had been real. The first instant he felt the softness of her lips


beneath his again, he knew it had been. And he knew he'd never felt anything like this in his life. Knew that this was what he'd spent most of that life running from. But he could no more run from her now than he could— The sudden, ear-spitting blast froze them both. Someone bad triggered a trip wire.

Chapter 6

Adrenaline flooded Kyra's system, sending the heat and pleasure of arousal skittering before it like leaves before a flash flood. The sound of an engine, pitch rising, sent fear tabbing through her. She whirled and ran for the door, scooping up the Glock from where she'd dropped it atop her jacket on the end of the sofa. She skidded to a halt when she realized Cash was right behind her. "Stay here," she ordered. "And stay down." "Kyra—" She cut him off as she reached for the door. "Especially stay away from the windows." "But-" "I don't have time to argue about it. Just—" "Then don't argue," Cash snapped. "Listen for once, damn it. That's a plane taking off, not landing. And it sounds like one of Steve's." Kyra stopped with her hand still on the doorknob after releasing the lock. She tilted her head, listening. She'd only heard the sound of a seaplane, engine racing, skating across the water on takeoff once before, but she thought he could be right. "I saw the lights way off earlier," he said, "but I didn't hear it come in." His gaze suddenly shifted to her mouth, and Kyra felt color creep up her face as she realized why neither of them had heard the plane approach or land. And she didn't have the excuse of being asleep, not this time. God, had she been that far-gone? She knew she'd never reacted to a kiss—or a man—like she had this one, but to miss something as conspicuous as a plane's approach? She couldn't believe it. But then, as just the memory of that kiss seat little tendrils of heat spiralling through her, she knew it was true. She'd been lost to the world, unaware of anything except the man whose mouth was on hers, the man who held her as if she were something precious, something cherished, not a tall, hard woman expected to be tough enough to take care of herself. She'd felt safe, protected, in a way she'd never known before. In a way she'd never expected to know, except through her own


efforts. She'd felt utterly, totally female and more, that it was right to feel that way. And the whole idea scared her to death. The sound of heavy, hurried steps on the porch spun her back around to the door. The knob twisted under her hand. She let go of it and lifted the Glock. The door swung open. "Cash? Where are you? What the hell's that woman, done around here? Has she got the whole place rigged—" Walt Carter's tirade came to an abrupt halt when, two feet inside the door, he realized that the woman he'd been speaking of was behind him. And Kyra saw him pale when he noticed the weapon she held, although she'd lowered it the moment she'd recognized Walt's voice. "Holy—" "Yes," Cash interrupted dryly. "I know the feeling." "What— Damn, that thing's loud. What is it, anyway?" "Ask Daniel Boone here." Cash gestured with one thumb at Kyra, and her color rose once more. She grasped for the tattered remains of her professional-poise. "It'll shut off in—" the clamor abruptly ceased "—a minute," she ended lamely. Walt looked from her to Cash. "What the hell's going on? I heard the news about the fire at your folks' place. I came back right away." "It's on the news?" Cash asked sharply. "Sure. National news. Headlines, man, along with a rehash of the original Scirocco threat.'' "Damn!" Walt cast a wary eye at Kyra, although she'd stepped aside and put the gun back into her tote bag. Then he tamed back to Cash. "Looks like they really mean business." "Looks like," Cash said grimly. Then he ran a hand over his tousled hair and let out a weary sounding sigh."What's the time difference between here and Australia?" Walt looked blank. "I don't know. Why?" "I'd better call Mom and Dad. I had enough trouble convincing them not to cancel the rest of their trip in the first place. When they hear about this, they'll be oh the first plane back, and I don't want them anywhere near here right now." Amazing, Kyra thought as she listened. Hell take his chances when it's just him, but he's determined to keep his parents halfway around the world, out of the danger he doesn't even want to admit exists. "What's that look for?"


Kyra blinked at his words. Usually she was more adept at keeping her thoughts hidden. Perhaps he was just more adept at reading them, she thought wryly. But she felt steadier now, back in control. And on the job. "I was just wishing that you'd worry that much about yourself," she said. "That's different." One dark, silky brow arched upward. "Oh? Why?" "It just is," he said stubbornly. Kyra just looked at him, and his mouth twisted ruefully, as if he realized how he'd sounded. Then he let out a short, exasperated breath. "What the hell am I supposed to do? Stay in hiding forever? I can't live like this, a prisoner—" "Hey," Walt said, in a light tone that sounded forced, "You always said you wished you could stay here forever." "By choice," Cash shot back, "not because I'm forced to by some group of loonies who think their way is the only way and murder is how to shove it down the world's throat!" "Hear, hear,'' Kyra murmured. Walt shrugged. "The way you were talking after we left South America, about quitting…" "I was tired." "Didn't sound like it," Walt said. "Sounded pretty good, in fact. Layin' back, like the old days. Least you wouldn't have to put up with this kind of crap. I mean, what if your folks'd been home?" Cash's jaw clenched, and Kyra knew Walt's words had struck home. She wished she had an answer for him, a solution. If only for her own sake, she thought later as, after a trek outside to reset the trip wire, she turned back the bright, lovingly stitched quilt on the guest room bed. She needed to get out of here. Working in such close quarters with him was causing problems she'd never anticipated. She couldn't have anticipated them, couldn't have guarded against them, because never in a million years would she have expected to have this kind of reaction to any man, let alone this man. She'd done some foolish things before. When she'd tried out for the pep squad in high school, despite the fact that she towered over even the boys, when she'd bought a teenage theft suspect's pitiful sob story and let him off only to find out he'd been lying through his teeth, when she'd believed Jack's honeyed lies. But all those together couldn't match the idiocy of falling for Cash Riordan, and she wasn't about to do it, no matter that his kiss made her feel as if she were soaring like his ospreys. It was unprofessional, and not only that, it was stupid. Just remember the bubbly little blondes, she told herself as she nestled down into the pillow. Remember the woman in the file. That's his style. The fact that it didn't fit with the man she'd come to know here on his island, didn't matter. Even if she had been his style, becoming the latest in a long and continuing line of


women parading in and out of his life was notherstyle. Not anymore. You're convenient, that's all, she insisted vehemently," trying to convince a mouth that remembered his all too well, a body that still seemed to tingle where it had pressed so tightly against his aroused one. You're here, and you're female and you're the only one around at the moment. That's all it is, and you'd better remember that. It was a long time before she slept, and despite her best efforts, she couldn't blame it all on the slow ebb of adrenaline. If he so much as heard the wordjobagain, Cash thought, he was going to grab his chain saw and ran berserk through the woods. Kyra had retreated behind a wall of businesslike demeanor, had retreated so fast and so far, he could find barely a trace of the woman who had so intrigued him, the woman who had understood why he wanted to build the way he did, the woman whose face had glowed when she'd seen the ospreys, the woman who seemed to instinctively know what this island meant to him and why. The real woman who shone through the unassuming exterior he had so hastily labeled as "not his type." The woman he'd kissed last night. He'd watched her make a circuit of the island's perimeter, concentrating on the task as intently as if she expected armed commandos to leap out at any moment. He watched her check each trip wire, even though she'd spent the morning showing Walt where they were so he wouldn't inadvertently send their blood pressure soaring again. At last he cornered her near the well house, where she was checking the generator's fuel level for the coming night. "Will you slow down a minute?" She glanced up at him. "I wasn't aware I was hurrying." Oh, no? he thought. You're running like hell, lady. But at least she was standing still now. For the moment. He took a deep breath and plunged in. "Look, Kyra, about last night…" he began. She turned away from him, fiddling with the lid on the generator's gas tank. "Can we just forget about that, please?" "Can we?" he asked softly. She lifted the cap off the tank with much more care than necessary. "We have to." "Why?" She reached for the one-gallon can, already filled from the large drum outside the well house. "Because I'm here for just one reason, to do a—" "I think it's only fair to warn you that if you say the wordjobone more time, I'm going to throw that generator and all your little toys into the sound.'' She winced slightly, whether at his words or the sharpness of his tone he didn't know. She set the can


down. And at last, she looked at him. "It's the truth," she said, her voice low. "What else do you want me to say?" Cash felt frustration well up inside him. "How about 'It was great. Let's try it again?'" He saw the color rise in her face and could see her remembering the flood of sensation that had almost swamped them both. "Kyra," he began, then stopped, astounded at the pleading note that had crept into his voice. He hadn't begged a woman for anything for a very long time. "No," she said, shaking her head slowly, as if in pain. "Even if I wasn't working… no. I've had enough of that." "Enough of… what?" She didn't answer. He stared at her for a long moment, at the slight upward tilt of her nose, the long sweep of her lashes. And the remembered pain in her eyes. It hit him then. She was tiny, cute, bubbly...everything I wasn't. Kyra's own words, describing the woman she'd found her cheating ex-husband with, came back to him with a sudden, slicing awareness of the pain behind the forced lightness. "Jack," he said under his breath. That was why she had backed away so sharply, he thought. She was remembering her snake of a husband, still hurting from the way he'd flaunted his string of women likeLike your string of women. The realization hit him sharply, painfully. That's what she was thinking. That he was just like Jack, needing a bevy of willing females to keep him happy. And why shouldn't she think it? Hadn't he been in the entertainment pages with a different woman every month for years, now? "Kyra," he began. She looked away, tilting the gas can to poor the fuel into the generator's tank. She filled it silently, replaced the cap, then closed the gas-can lid. She turned and set the can outside the well-house door, where any lingering fumes could dissipate safely. Cash reached out to grab her arm and keep her from walking out the door herself, but stopped when he saw her stiffen. "I'm not Jack." It came out sounding a little fierce. She stopped then, looking at him. "Oh?" It was all she said, and his jaw tightened. "Damn it, don't tar me with that brash. I didn't get married and then jump into bed with the cheerleader next door." "No. You didn't get married." Her emphasis—and omission—didn't escape him. And the confirmation of his guess was startlingly painful. "Kyra, listen to me. I know I…I haven't exactly been… Oh, hell," he muttered, running a hand over his hair as he let out a short, compressed breath.


Kyra watched him for a moment, then tamed and walked out of the well house. Cash stood frozen, and he had the feeling that if he didn't go after her, something important—he wasn't sure what—would be lost to him forever. He caught up with her near the woodpile. "Kyra, wait." She looked at him again, still silently, waiting, and he knew It was up to him. "All those women," he began haltingly, "they didn't mean anything." "I'm sure they'll be happy to know that." Kyra's voice was cool, flat. "Damn it, I'm not Jack!" It burst from him in a rush. "You said he was perfect, remember? Every woman's dream come true. Well, I'm not perfect now and I never was. In school I was a skinny little nobody, and women like that never looked at me twice, unless it was to laugh." He laughed himself, harshly. "Or pick my brain, because I got good grades. They never cared a damn about me. They never even knew me. They never saw anything but that awkward, scrawny kid, who happened to have something they could use." Kyra was looking at him steadily, understanding dawning in her eyes. "They never looked past the surface," she said softly, "so now, neither do you." Cash flushed; he hadn't meant to let all that out, at least not In such an emotional outburst. And he hadn't expected her to understand, not so thoroughly anyway. He should, he told himself ruefully, have known better by now. "What is it, Cash? Some kind of revenge for all those years? You dump them instead of the other way around?" He let out a long breath and looked away. "Or is it just self-protection?" His head snapped back and he looked at her sharply as she went on. "You pick women who remind you of the ones who always rejected you, ones you know you'll never let yourself feel anything for." "Let's just say I play it safe," he muttered. It was a moment before Kyra spoke again, and when she did, it was to say the last thing Cash expected. "You really did understand about Jack, didn't you? You've been there." "Used, you mean?" He shrugged, as if it meant nothing. "Yes. Every day." At her doubtful look, his mouth quirked wryly. "Believe me, those women have their own reasons for…wanting to be with me. Or to be seen with me. And caring doesn't have a thing to do with it." Kyra stared at him. "You really believe that?" "All they want is the job they think I can get them or the screen test or the contacts." He knew his voice sounded flat, bleak, and he tried to inject an offhand note. "It's okay. As long as everybody knows the


rules. They don't mean anything to me, and I don't mean anything to them." Kyra sank down to sit on the chopping block. Her eyes were dark, troubled as she looked up at him. "You really think that none of them care at all, don't you?" she asked softly. Cash laughed, a short, humorless chuckle. "I may be bigger, Kyra, but I'm no different than I was before. It's only the film image that's different. 'The look' proves that." '"The look?'" "Yeah. That expression people—especially women—get when they meet me for the first time. That disappointed look that says, 'You can't be Cash Riordan, he's better looking, sexier, flashier.'" "But—" "They want what the camera sees. What they see on the screen. Not the reality. Not me." God, he sounded pitiful, he thought as he saw her expression soften. He wished he could take it all back; he wasn't sure what he wanted from her, but he knew it wasn't pity. "Not that skinny kid you still see in the mirror?" she asked, her voice gentle, but not, as he had feared, with pity, but with understanding. As if she'd read his thoughts, she added, "Of course I understand. I spent most of my school years being the misfit, too. Not only was I…plain, I was five foot eight at twelve. I towered over most of the girls my age, and most of the boys, too. And nothing seemed to work right. Clumsy was my middle name. That was when they weren't calling me Bucky, for my buckteeth." Cash winced. "God, kids can be rotten." "Yes, they can. And cruel." Cash let out a harsh breath. "I was the perennial ninety-eight-pound weakling, the geek, the scrawny wimp. And those were the nice names." His mouth twisted wryly. "I always figured if I went to hell when I died, it would be a junior high school boys' locker room." Kyra looked puzzled, then understanding dawned across her face. "You mean where some of the boys are… mature already?" Cash hesitated, a little sorry he'd brought that subject up. She was too damned easy to talk to, he thought. At last, he nodded. "Yeah. And some aren't. If I hadn't met Walt about then…" "How did you meet him?" "Wasn't that in your file?" The words had an edge, and he wasn't sure where it—or the question—had come from. He'd known Sanders Protection was meticulous, and it was no surprise that she'd been thoroughly briefed. But that didn't mean he had to like it. He smothered a sigh. Maybe he had brought the file up just because she hadn't mentioned her blessed job for at least five minutes. But he should be glad of that, since It irritated him so much. So why had he gone and done It, dragged her work back into It? Did he suddenly want that distance between them,


even as It irritated him? Hell, he didn't know anymore. Maybe it was just because her question had sounded a-bit too much like those of rabid reporters. "I know when and where you met," Kyra was saying, her voice neutral, pointedly not responding to the dig in his tone, "but not how." "Sorry," he muttered, feeling a bit chagrined. "Guess that sounded a little too much like one of those interview questions." "What's your favorite color, who's your best friend?" Kyra asked with a smile. Then she held up her empty hands. "No camera, no tape recorder. I promise." No, Cash agreed silently. Just a pair of big eyes and a soft little smile to encourage the spilling of emotional guts. And before he could stop himself, he was doing just that. "I'd had a run in with some of the school…bullies, I guess you'd call them. The oldest ones. They loved watching the little guys—like me—squirm. And run, which I did when they surrounded me." A wry smile lifted one comer of his mouth. "One advantage of being small was that I was quick and short enough to dodge under their arms. I ran and hid in the library." "And Walt was there?" He nodded. "I was trying to be quiet. I was scared to death they'd come after me. So scared I was shaking." And crying, be thought, remembering huddling in a dark comer, wiping at his eyes, furious with himself for his tears when they hadn't even touched him. He wasn't about to tell Kyra that, but she was looking at him as if she'd already guessed. "Anyway," he said hastily, "Walt was there. He was a year older than I. Not much bigger, but he'd had a year more experience at dealing with those guys. He found me, picked me up, brushed me off and told me to tell them to go to hell." "Easier said than done," Kyra murmured, and in that moment an image of her as she must have looked then flashed into Cash's mind. Tall, with the gawkiness of a young body that hadn't grown into itself yet, bearing the pain of standing out so blatantly when all you wanted to do was be part of the crowd. "Much easier," he agreed. Kyra smiled at him again, with a warmth of heart and spirit that nearly took his bieatb away. Plain, she'd called herself, he thought with a pang of guilt. Just as he'd so carelessly dismissed her on that first meeting. And, in truth, when compared to the carefully fabricated beauties that populated his world, he supposed she was. Until you realized that her eyes, those wide, softly lashed, changeable blue-gray eyes were so incredible, that her smile could light this whole island and that her legs were the longest, most perfect— "So where does Dave come in?" "Huh?" Cash blinked, grateful she hadn't read the direction his thoughts had taken in that particular lapse. "Oh, Dave. He just sort of started tagging along with us. Walt wasn't happy at first, but I figured Dave getting teased about being heavy wasn't much different than me getting it for being skinny. Walt came


around after a while, and then it was the three of us. And Carol, now and then.'' "Carol? Dave's wife, Carol?" That, obviously, was in the file, Cash thought. "Yeah. She was in my biology class. Real quiet, always off reading in a corner somewhere. Then one day we had to dissect a dead cat, and she freaked out about it.So I did it for her, and she started hanging around after that." "Hanging around you?" "Yeah." Cash sat down on the largest of the logs waiting to be chopped. He picked at the bark on it, embarrassed at the memories. "I think," he began, then paused before going on awkwardly, "she had sort of a… a crush on me or something. She told me so later," he said quickly. He knew the thought of anyone having a crush on the kind of kid he'd been would sound absurd. "I would have had one, too," Kyra said with a grimace, "on someone who saved me from having to dissect a dead cat. What about you? Did you like her, too?" "Oh, I liked her," Cash said, his voice full of equal parts ruefulness and self-reproach, "but Carol was just…Carol. Solid, dependable. Always there. And I—" the self-reproach took over "—was too busy trying to be what I wasn't to pay any attention to her. Trying to force myself into that 'in' crowd that was always out of my reach. And when one of them whistled," he said with a sour smile, "I went running." "Anyone in particular?" Kyra asked, as if she already knew the answer. And maybe she did; that file was assuming mythical proportions in his mind. "Yeah," he admitted, his tone reluctant. "The campus queen. Alison Miller." He thought Kyra winced, but it was gone too swiftly for him to be sure. "Deep down," he said, "I think I knew even then she only wanted, to pick my brain to get her through a couple of classes she was about to flunk, but… I didn't care. Any attention was better than none." He heard his own words and laughed harshly. "Pretty pitiful, huh?" After a moment she said, "No more pitiful than I was when I got laughed out of the gym at the pep-squad try-outs." Her words, wryly self-deprecating, eased his embarrassment. "Anyway," he went on, "Carol eventually married Dave—he'd always been crazy about her, anyway. They're very happy." Now, he amended silently. Kyra looked at him as if she'd heard the unspoken word. "You care a lot about them, don't you?" "Yes." "When you talk about them, you sound so… You've been through so much together." Cash stared at her, telling himself there was no way she could know, not that. Not even that damned file could hold that little piece of information. Only three people in the world knew it. Loyalty and love kept two mouths shut, money kept the third quiet. No, she couldn't know. But he was going to change the subject, anyway.


"It was Walt and Dave who got me through, back then," he said quickly. "Walt told me to ignore all the put-downs, all the name-calling. He told me I didn't need those jerks, I had my own friends. Real friends. He and Dave." Kyra smiled, a little wistfully. "I could have used a Walt. Or Dave." Cash studied her for a moment. "I never would have guessed it. You seem so… self-possessed, I guess. Like you've always been so composed. No doubts." Kyra laughed. "Who says the only actors are on the screen?". "Not me." Cash echoed her laugh. "I know some of the best ones have never set foot in front of a camera." "Maybe the best actors are the ones who have never quite left behind the memory of the misfit kids they used to be." Their laughter set the tone for the rest of the day: a pleasant, lighthearted few hours in which they buried, for the moment, the knowledge of lurking danger that dogged them. Walt was holed up in the library, feeling, apparently, uncommunicative for the moment. Or still angry that Kyra's alarm had startled him so. She was glad he was back, instead of out drawing attention, and only hoped he hadn't inadvertently led anyone back to the island. But as the day passed uneventfully, Kyra felt the easing of tension and let herself relax slightly. She'd taken all the precautions she could; there was nothing more she could do until and unless something happened. It was later, as she and Cash pooled their limited culinary skills in an effort to come up with something edible for dinner, that she asked him about his production company. "I wanted more control over what I did," he explained. "I wanted to be able to find stories and adapt them for the screen, or read a book I thought would make a great film and do something about it. I got tired of people taking a great story and butchering it to fit some idea they have of what will make a successful movie. Throwing in a car chase or a fight, just for the sake of having one." Kyra studied the pile of canned mushrooms she'd drained and sliced. "So you formed your own company to do it?" Cash nodded as he dumped a package of half-thawed ground beef into a hot skillet. "It was Dave's idea, really. Walt didn't like it at first. He wanted me to cut back, not take on more." He rolled his eyes expressively. "Walt… fusses sometimes. You'd think I was still that kid he found cowering in a corner." "He's your friend." And probably, she added silently, one of the only people you really believe gives a damn. "I know," he said simply, as if he'd heard her thoughts as well as her words. "And once he realized how much I wanted to do it, he came around. And it's paid off for him, since he's a partner, and we've done pretty well." Kyra reached for the wooden spoon to once more stir the makeshift spaghetti sauce they'd put together out of canned tomato paste and whatever else was handy and seemed Italian enough. Cash lifted the lid off the large pot on the stove to see if the water was boiling.


"Few minutes yet," he said. Kyra nodded, dumped the sliced mushrooms into the sauce, then looked up at him. "Okay, I have to ask. Why ZIP?" Cash grinned at her. She supposed everyone sooner or later asked about the name of the company. The explanation behind it was one of the few things the Sanders file hadn't included. Cash stirred the cooking meat before he began what was obviously a familiar story. "When I was first starting out, I used to get pi—I used to get mad about the kind of things some people did. I couldn't believe it. It seemed like nothing was against the rules. Then I realized there were no rules. And that the only thing complaining got me was out of work." "I'll bet," Kyra said. Sanders Protection had enough contact with the industry that she wasn't surprised by his words. "So what did you do?" "I shut up. Anytime I said anything I always got the same answer anyway. But I swore someday I'd throw it back in their faces." Just like you threw back the names, the insults, the belittlement, she thought. "And what answer was that?" she asked after a moment of stirring the sauce again. He grinned again. "Learn to live with it, kid, because you can't do zip about it." Kyra stopped her stirring. She stared at him. And then she burst out laughing. "Zip," she repeated when she could talk again. "ZIP Productions. I love it." Cash's grin widened at her laughter. "They used…er, other words more often, but it's hard to get those registered as a business name." His green eyes were sparkling, and Kyra was filled with an overwhelming sensation of closeness to this man, a closeness that in some odd, undefinable way was even more intimate than that heated—and interrupted—kiss had been. Their laughter continued and survived even Walt's morose interruption to find out what was so blasted funny. Feeling a bit guilty about intruding on their friendship, Kyra asked him to join them at the table. He refused, but accepted a plate of their makeshift spaghetti dinner politely enough, and then retreated back to the library. The sound of the radio he'd apparently been listening to was cut off as he closed the door. "I'm afraid I've put him out of sorts by being here," she said with genuine concern. "Don't feel bad," Cash told her. "He gets like that now and then. It takes him a while to warm up to people." He smiled ruefully. "Some old habits die hard." When they had downed the surprisingly tasty meal, they took the last glasses of the red wine Cash had opened and moved into the living room. Kyra lifted a brow at him when he started to kindle a fire in the big fireplace. The wood stove was already hot. "I know," he said with an embarrassed shrug. "The stove does a good job of heating, but it's just not the same."


No, Kyra agreed as she watched the flames catch, it isn't. Closed behind the door of the stove, the fire was more efficient, but not as pleasant. Not as close. Not as cozy. Not as warming to the heart and spirit. Not as romantic. Her heart began to accelerate in the instant before she told herself scornfully not to be ridiculous. The man just wanted an open fire, that's all. He probably liked the scent of burning wood, wanted to get a little more personal enjoyment out of the wood that he'd spent so much time and effort splitting. And, you, she reminded herself sternly, had best get your imagination under control. Think about something else, she ordered herself. Like what Cole had said this afternoon when he'd called to tell her that, belatedly, Scirocco had called to take credit for the attack on the Denver house, and to restate their determination that Cash was to die. "Weird, though," Cole had said. "They didn't call until well after the reports had hit in Europe, and when they did call, they claimed responsibility for the bomb." "Bomb?" Kyra had asked puzzled. "Not arson? Or just fire?" "Yeah. I don't know, maybe the press got it wrong—not that they ever do," Cole had ended wryly. No doubt he was right, Kyra thought, and the radio station that had been called had just assumed it had been a bomb, the terrorist's usual weapon of choice. By the time Cash walked over and sat beside her on the couch, she had a firm grip on the calm she'd fought for last night. And Cash seemed to be content to just relax, leaning back against the cushions, watching the fire as they sipped the wine. They talked occasionally, about inconsequential things, but more often they just sat in companionable silence, watching the fire. At last Cash took the empty glasses and set them down on the end table, then leaned back and let his head loll back on the sofa cushions. "Mmm," he murmured. Kyra shifted so that she could look at him. "What?" "I feel so…comfortable, I guess. No demands, no pressure." Kyra smiled. She knew what he meant. She'd never felt like this with a man before—so relaxed, so contented. "At least you know I'm not after a part in your next movie." He made an odd sound, half sigh, half chuckle. "No, you're not, are you?" "Hardly. I told you, I could never, ever live like that, on display. I don't know how you stand it." He shrugged. "It comes with the territory." They lapsed into another agreeable silence. Kyra pulled her feet up under her; the fire was beginning to toast her toes. She leaned back against the arm of the sofa, smothering a yawn. Cash smiled. "I know. Me, too. But I'm feeling too lazy to move."


Kyra was feeling so complacent that she didn't even tease when he shifted to stretch out on the sofa and wound up lying beside her. The fire was warm, the occasional snap as a spot of resin boiled and popped seemed cozy somehow, and the flickering light as the flames danced was fascinating. When she could keep her eyes open,that is. "This is nice" Cash mumbled, sounding as sleepy as she felt. "Mmm-hmm." "For now." Kyra's eyelids snapped up. She stared at him, but he was just sprawled there, half leaning against her, eyes closed, his lashes dark shadows against his cheeks. Memories of that kiss, of the heat, of the unexpected jolt of pleasure she'd felt the moment his lips had claimed hers, spiralled through her, making the heat from the fire seem insignificant. Yet he made no move, never opened his eyes, even though she knew he had to be aware of the sadden tension of her body. After a moment, she relaxed again. Evidently he meant what he'd said. This was nice—and enough—for now. And later? She'd deal with that, she thought hazily as drowsiness overcame her, when the time came. In the meantime, she would allow herself to enjoy this. And she was enjoying it, this unaccustomed feeling of gentle comfort, of Cash's arms around but not holding her, of the warmth of his lean body, the steady, even sound of his breathing. Enjoying it so much that she managed to put out of her mind the fact that she might be taking a big step down a road she didn't want to be on. Kyra awoke with a start at the shrill sound, and it took her a moment to realize it was the phone. It took her longer to realize that the reason she couldn't move was that she was pinned by Cash's weight, and they were caught in a tangle of arms and legs as they lay entwined on the sofa. Color flooded her face as she realized she had spent the night here, wrapped in the embrace of the man she'd sworn to get no closer to. No more wine for you, Austin, she muttered under her breath as she struggled to sit up. Oddly, the phone hadn't rung again.Or maybe she'd dreamed it; it seemed entirely possible. Actually, it was probably just as well that she'd fallen asleep out here, since she'd never gotten around to setting the alarms. Her movements had awakened Cash, and he lifted his head to look sleepily at her. Lord, those green eyes were sexy at half-mast, she thought. They didn't need a camera to make them heart-stopping. Or starting, she amended, as her own began to race. "Hi," he said. Kyra suppressed a sigh. He sounded like those eyes looked—sleepy, husky and too seductive for comfort. He made her think of rumpled sheets, heated kisses and waking up after an exhausted, sated sleep. Or at least, how she imagined it would be; imagination was all she had to draw on for that kind of scene. "It's morning," she said hastily, and somewhat unnecessarily. The gray light of dawn filled the room.


"Yes." He kept looking at her, and she was glad the light was still faint enough that he probably couldn't see the color in her face. "Thank you." Kyra blinked. "For pointing out that it's morning?" "No. For…this." He nodded at the pillows they'd tossed from the couch in their sleep, and then at the close proximity of their bodies. "I'm used to…being alone, but I think I needed this. A night where somebody was just… there." Somebody to hang on to, Kyra thought, hearing what he wasn't saying. He was under the gun, literally, his life threatened by a very ugly group of twisted minds, and he must be feeling it. And that he'd said he was used to being alone told her worlds about the kind of relationship he'd had with whatever women he'd been with. Even then, he'd felt alone. Still that spurned and rejected little boy, she thought, never able to let himself believe that a woman really cared. Something went soft and warm inside her, and she barely managed to speak. "You're welcome,'' she said softly. "Next time, though," he said as he sat up, rubbing his neck, "could we try a bed?" Kyra stifled a tiny gasp, whether at the thought of sharing a bed with him, or at the casual way he assumed there would be a next time, she wasn't sure. Cash ran a hand over his tousled hair before he met her startled gaze. "There will be a next time, Kyra," he said softly. "And it won't be… platonic. We're not ready yet, but—" "No." Her voice was breathless, taking much of the decisiveness out of her protest. "There can't be. I'm here to do a—" "Job," he finished for her. "Yeah. I know." "Cash." They both jumped, startled by the short, strained sound of Walt's voice. He was in the doorway of the library, looking at them with an expression Kyra couldn't quite fathom. At first she thought he was angry, his long, thin face drawn taut with it, but then she saw that he was chewing nervously on his lower lip as he stared at them. "Have you been in there all night?" Cash asked, eyeing Walt's clothes, the same ones he'd had on yesterday. "I was reading." Walt's gaze fastened on Cash intently, as if his life depended, on his friend's reaction, "listen, that was Dave On the phone.'' So she hadn't dreamed it. Nor was she dreaming Walt's tension. Apprehension began to coil inside her. "What happened, Walt?" she asked. He never looked at her, just continued to watch Cash. "Walt?" Cash prodded, sounding uneasy now. When Walt didn't speak, Cash rose slowly to his feet. "What is it?"


"I…" Walt hesitated, then plunged ahead. "It's the Malibu house, Cash. They bombed it last night."

Chapter 7

"You're not going to L.A." Cash tamed his head to look at Kyra. "I didn't say I was." Shaken by the news of the bombing, he had been tautly silent as he paced the living room, aware that both Kyra and Walt were watching him warily. At last he had gone outside to sit on the front steps of the house and stare out at the serene, island-studded waters of the sound. A few early fishing boats putted in the distance, leaving no trace of their passing except the spreading V of their wakes. There was an occasional splash as a fish came up to feed on an unwary insect, and from somewhere off in the thick trees came a rustle as some small forest creature hunted up breakfast. Kyra had given him a while before she had come out to sit beside him and make her pronouncement, sounding nearly as shaken as he felt. "You can't go." "So you said." "You don't have to be there. You know Dave will take care of everything.' "I know." "All you'd do is draw more attention to—" "Kyra, stop." Lord, he thought, she's more upset than I am. "I never said I was going to L.A. I may be stubborn, but I'm not stupid." Kyra blinked. "Well, going to Denver wasn't brilliant, either. I had to be sure." Cash sighed wearily. "You win, all right? I believe it. They mean business." "Yes. They do." He glanced at her. "No 'I told you so'?" "No." He let out a short breath. "Thanks for that, I guess."


"Your home being bombed is hardly reason to gloat. I'm sorry, Cash." He shrugged. "This is home. That was just a place to live while I had to be close to L.A." ""But all your awards—" "The important stuff is here." She studied him for a moment. "Yes, I suppose it is, isn't it? Like that letter from Ray Hawthorne's widow, thanking you for making sure he wasn't forgotten. And the picture of that little girl, the one you paid the hospital bill for, when she walked again for the first time. Or the banner signed by all those kids from the school you donated the computer lab to. And the—" "Stop, Kyra," he said again, embarrassed, "I'm not some kind of saint. I just try to… help out here and there.'' "You're a good man, Cash Riordan," Kyra said. Cash looked at her for a moment. There had been an odd note in her voice, one almost of puzzlement. Then she went on, quickly, as if changing the subject. "I called the office. Cole's already out at the house. He's got a good lead on the bomb squad. He'll get a thorough report. It'll be here tomorrow." Of course he will. That Texan again, Cash thought. He stared down the channel, watching the sky brighten and the light begin to dance on the water as the sun cleared the trees. Wasn't it enough that he had to believe that somebody was trying to kill him? Did he also have to have the resident hunk of Sanders Protection thrown in his face every time he turned around? "Fine,'' he said shortly. "Bill also seat a man to Westwood." Cash stiffened. His head swung around sharply. "What?" "Just in case." His jaw tightened. "He's your son, Cash. And they're getting closer." Your son. Cash let out a long, compressed breath. He'd realized she probably knew, but he'd been thankful she had never brought it up. Andnowthat she had, he didn't know what to say. And because of it, when he did speak at last, his voice was cool. "There's no reason for them to go after him. I have no contact with him." "I know." Was her tone a little sharp? "I pay— Hell, you already know how much I pay his charming mother, don't you? You know everything else." "I know you're supporting them. More than comfortably. Very decent of you."


He stared at her.This, then, was what had caused the note of doubt, of puzzlement when she'd called him a good man. She couldn't reconcile that with a man who had nothing to do with his own son, outside of contributing a goodly sum of money every month. He saw the confusion in her eyes, and he had to look away. "What was I supposed to do? Marry her? All she wanted was money and a connection to get her into all the A-list parties. She figured she could build a career out of meeting the right people, that she—" He broke off. He was only making things worse, and the one way he could make them better was a way he couldn't— wouldn't—use. "At least you're taking responsibility," she said after a moment. And again, there was an undertone he didn't quite understand. He glanced at her, and once again was surprised at that look of pain in her eyes, that look of sadness that he had learned bore the name of her ex-husband. The ache he felt at what he knew she was thinking of him faded at the sight of that pain. "Jack again?" he asked softly. She sat sharply upright on the step, jerking her head around to stare down the sound, just as he had when the probing hurt too much. "Yes," she said, long after he'd decided she wasn't going to answer at all. "Twice." He stared at her. "Twice?" "Two of his girlfriends showed up at the station one day. In front of the whole watch. My watch. Both obviously pregnant. It seems they had just found out about each other and had decided between them that it was time I found out about Jack's… extracurricular activities. They made sure everyone within earshot heard it, too.'' Cash winced at the raw humiliation in her voice. "Jack denied it, of course." She went on doggedly, as if now that she'd started, she couldn't stop. "He said neither baby was his, they were trying to trap him, to get him to leave me, but he wouldn't, noble soul that he was." She laughed, a rough, pained sound. "I almost believed it. Until I came home that day, and found him…" "Kyra, stop. I'm sorry, I—" "He made it a joke around the station. About me catching him at last. Like it was something to brag about, that he had fooled me for so long. I was… a celebrity of sorts for months afterward. People pointed, whispered. They laughed behind my back and stopped talking when I came into a room. I swore then that I would never let my private life become a public spectacle again." God, no wonder she hated his kind of life, he thought as his stomach knotted at the sight of her pain. He watched her as she stood up abruptly, shakily. Then she looked down at him. "So you can rest assured, I meant what I said. Even if I had the looks for it, I'd never ask you for a part in your next movie. I couldn't live in that kind of fishbowl. Ever." She left him there, hurting for her, hurting for himself and knowing there wasn't a damn thing he could do


about either.

Kyra was lying awake, wondering what on earth had possessed her to pour her heart out like that, to share her public humiliation with a man who, used to a world in which such things were commonplace, must find her painful past quite boring, when the infrared alarm blared its warning. In a smooth, instinctive motion that took less than three seconds, she rolled out of bed, swept the Glock up from the bedside table and was out the door at a run. And stopped dead in the hall at the sight of a naked Cash in the doorway of his room. He froze when he saw her, his eyes fastened on the weapon in her hand. She heard Walt's voice, cursing loudly over the din of the alarm. She heard him collide with something and swear again. She didn't mean to stare, told herself she should look away, but she couldn't seem to do it. She drank in the lean, muscled lines of Cash's body like a woman long starved for the sight of male beauty, savored the breadth of his shoulders, the flatness of his belly, the taut curve of his buttocks. Her fingers tingled at the way the sleek smoothness of his chest gave way to the narrow trail of hair that began at his navel and seemed to compel her gaze to continue downward. A light flicked on in the living room, and a moment later the noise of the alarm stopped. The sudden silence seemed to galvanize Cash into a realization of his state of undress. He half turned, one arm reaching into the bathroom beside him to grab a towel and wrap it around him. And Kyra looked away swiftly, knowing that he knew she'd been staring at him. And that he probably had seen the longing in her eyes, a longing that had startled her with its suddenness and fierceness. "Damn it," Walt's voice came echoing back to them. "Can't even get a drink around here without setting some damn thing off.'' This complaint was followed by the sound of the kitchen door opening and closing, and Kyra let out a breath of relief. She didn't know what Walt would have thought if he'd encountered them in the hallway together in this state. The light in the hall came on, and she risked another glance at Cash. His hand still on the switch, he was looking at her as intently as she had been looking at him. Suddenly the lace-trimmed T-shirt, which would have provided more than adequate coverage for a woman of average height, seemed much too thin and much too short on her. She resisted the urge to tug at the hem of the shirt, but Cash's mouth curved into a lopsided smile as if he knew. "I'd say you owe me at least a look at those legs," he drawled. "You got a hell of a lot more." Kyra blushed furiously. "I… I didn't… mean to stare." "As long as you aren't comparing me to the perfect male," he said wryly, shrugging. "The… what?" "Jack." "Oh. No. God, no!" Her color deepened, but the words tumbled out anyway. "He wasn'tthatperfect. I just didn't realize it… until now."


It was Cash's tarn to gape at her. "That was… quite a compliment. I think." Kyra wondered if she would ever stop blushing around this man. She was famed for her poise with men. It was a facade she'd carefully developed to hide her own uncertainties, and tougher men than Cash Riordan had tried— and failed—to shake it. Yet he seemed able to do it with ease, without even trying. She had never— "Hey, sorry, guys." Walt strolled into the hallway, a glass half full of some amber liquid in his hand. He glanced at Cash, then gave Kyra a longer look that made her once more aware that her legs were bare from hip to toe, and looked barer because of the high cut of the simple cotton panties she wore beneath the soft shirt. "I didn't mean to wake everybody," Walt went on after the pause. "I forgot about the stupid alarms." "In view of what's happened so far," Kyra said a little stiffly, but glad of the interruption, "I don't think they're stupid at all." "Nobody's going to—" Walt stopped, as if he'd just thought of something. He seemed to mull it over for a moment, then spoke again. "No, you're right. They're not stupid. I should be glad you're so careful, right? For Cash, sure, but for my sake, too, I mean, who's to say these guys wouldn't take a notion to strike at him through his friends, you know? You're right, you can't be too careful." Kyra saw Cash draw in a sharp breath. She knew it had to have occurred to him that Wall or Dave might get hurt if Scirocco came after him, but she doubted he had thought of the possibility that they might intentionally hurt or kill one of his friends as a strike at him. " 'Night," Walt said, and went into his room, obviously unaware of the stunning blow he'd just delivered to his best friend. As the door shut behind him, Cash seemed to sway slightly, and he lifted one arm to brace himself against the wall. His body sagged, head and shoulders slumping wearily, and Kyra knew Walt had opened the door on a whole new kind of hell for him. "Damn you, Walt," she murmured under her breath as she quickly covered the ten feet between them. Why couldn't he have thought before he opened his mouth? Didn't Cash have enough to think about without worrying about this, too? Didn't Walt realize Cash would take a threat to his friends even more seriously than a threat to himself, just because of the kind of man he was? She came to a halt before him and reached out tentatively to put a hand on his arm. "Cash, don't. Don't take this on, too.'' His head came up sharply the instant her fingers touched his skin. "Don't," he muttered. She drew back, startled. He sucked in a short, quick breath. "I told you there'll be a next time, Kyra. Unless you want it to be right now, don't touch me. I'm on the edge as it is." Color tinging her cheeks once more, Kyra lowered her eyes. But when she found a pair of strongly


muscled legs, bare below the edge of a soft blue towel, filling her field of vision, she realized averting her eyes had done no good. Especially when all she could think of was what that towel was hiding, and how his naked body had looked limned with the moonlight that had spilled into the hallway. "Cash, I…" Her voice trailed off. She didn't know what she'd been going to say, anyway. Didn't know what to say. "Sorry," he muttered, his head lowering to rest on the strong curve of the bicep of the arm that braced him. "I just… I'm so damned tired of this. I could use some good news, and right now, you standing there in that shirt is the only possibility I see." Her eyes widened, and she involuntarily took a step back. His head came up again at her movement. Then his mouth twisted ruefully at one corner. "Good night, Kyra." He walked into his room and shut the door. Kyra felt an odd tightness in her chest. He couldn't have made it any clearer, she thought numbly.You standing there in that shirt is the only possibility I see. He wanted her, he'd said it plainly enough, but now she was sure why. She'd told herself before it was just because she was here and convenient, but she hadn't wanted to really believe it. Now she knew she had to face the truth. Right now he was looking for some kind of release for the tension building inside him, and for the moment, she was the only possibility around. Cash wanted nothing more from a woman than a casual affair and the understanding that he set the rules. And, Kyra realized, the knowledge that she wasn't used to playing by those rules was probably the only thing stopping him from taking advantage of the weakness that seemed to overtake her around him. Any woman who got involved with Cash Riordan had to know that when the time came, he would be the one doing the rejecting. That misfit kid was still running the show. She should be grateful, she thought as she somewhat dazedly went about resetting the alarm. Knowing he would reject her in the end would help her do what she seemed to be having so much trouble doing—keeping distance between them. She'd never faced this before, had never had a problem maintaining her professional detachment, but it was obvious that Cash Riordan was a different story. She would take any help she could get. It was just that it was so hard to remember why she had to keep that distance when she lay in bed remembering the things she'd learned of him, the way he'd so truly understood how it had been for the child she had been as well, the way empathy had shone in his. eyes when she'd poured out the story of her humiliation at Jack's hands. The way he'd made her laugh, and the way she'd felt so utterly safe and comfortable in his arms. It was so hard to remember when she thought of how he had looked, naked and awash in the moonlight. "Are youtryingto get yourself killed?'' Cash let out a sigh and closed his eyes. He should have known she'd track him down sooner or later. No, in the case of Kyra Austin, it would always be sooner. As she came to a stop beside him, he braced himself for what was sure to be the rest of a tirade, and one he wasn't entirely sure he didn't deserve. "I told you not to go wandering off by yourself—"


"I reset the alarms after I left," he pointed out hopefully. He still didn't look at her, but sensed her dropping down to sit beside him. "Lot of good that does when you're out here, wide open to anything." He let his head loll back against the twisted trunk of the madrona tree. "To what? Snipers? Gunships? Maybe they'll just torpedo the whole island till it sinks." She didn't answer, which surprised him. No quick comeback, no urgent demand that he acknowledge his danger and do as he was told. He looked at her then. Her eyes widened, and he knew what she was seeing; his own eyes felt like someone had sprinkled ground glass in them, and he guessed they looked it, too. Not, he added silently as he saw the redness that rimmed the gray-blue, that hers looked much better. "Look," he said at last, "I know I'm in trouble. You were right, Dave was right, everybody was right. Hell, maybe Walt's even right. Maybe I should just quit and walk away." "You don't mean that. You're just tired." "That," he said wryly, "is an understatement." "I'm sorry about the noise last night. I showed Walt how to get to the kitchen by only shutting off one of the infrareds, and how to turn it back on." "The noise had nothing to do with my lack of sleep." He saw her take in a quick little breath, as if at some memory of her own sleepless night. A memory flooded him in rum, and with an almost eerie certainty he knew it was the same as hers. With vivid clarity he recalled the moment in the hallway when he'd realized she'd switched from the trained professional reacting to his sudden appearance, to a woman staring at a naked man. Hungrily. It had startled him, that unexpected hunger, and it had been all he could do to beat down his body's reaction to it. It had been the fear he would fail more than embarrassment at standing before her so exposed that had driven him to grab for a towel to cover himself with. One part of his weary mind had been rejoicing; shedidwant him. The other had been reminding him, somewhat bitterly, that she had no intention of doing anything about it. Not as long as her damned job stood between them. And it certainly stood between them this morning. She was thoroughly angry at him. "I'm sorry," he said. "I just… had to get out. Just for a while. And it was worth it," he added, giving her a tentative smile as he pointed upward. Automatically her gaze followed his direction, and he saw her focus almost immediately on the platform high up in the big Douglas fir. She leaned forward, and he saw her lips part, then curve into a smile when she saw what he had spotted just after dawn—the ospreys were nesting. "It worked," she whispered. "Yes," he agreed, looking, not at the growing nest he'd been watching the two birds build all morning, but at Kyra. Ithadworked, he thought. She wasn't angry anymore.


"I was afraid they wouldn't," she said, still whispering, as if she feared scaring the regal birds away. "I mean, on a man-made perch like that." "They've been known to nest atop a boat's mast in the middle of a marina," Cash said, trying to ignore the tug he was feeling inside at her enthusiasm for the birds he loved. She turned back to him, eyes sparkling. "Isn't it wonderful?" "Yes," he said, his voice thick and husky. He moved abruptly and had her in his arms before she could pull away. His mouth came down on hers hungrily, fiercely, in a kiss fueled by memories of her long, bare legs and her eyes fastened hungrily on his naked body. She stiffened in those first seconds, and he almost let her go. But in the instant before he had to make the decision, she went soft and warm in his arms, and her lips quit fighting and began giving back, moving, tasting. Fire blasted through him in a rushing wave, hardening his already half-aroused body with a speed that matched an osprey's hunting plunge. He heard her murmur his name, low and deep in her throat, with a note of wonderment that seared him. He pressed her back against the pine-needled forest floor, needing the feel of her beneath him more than he could ever remember needing anything. His hands tangled in the thick silk of her hair, tilting her head back so that he could deepen the kiss, could explore the startling surprise of her sweetness. He shifted himself over her, strangling a groan as rigid, Inflamed male flesh pressed against the softness of her belly. She pulled her mouth away. "Cash," she moaned. He drew in a ragged breath. "Was that 'Cash, yes,' or 'Cash, stop'?" "I… Oh, I don't know." That despairing tone of utter confusion gave him his answer. It was an answer he didn't like, but he pulled away nevertheless. Just as well, he told himself. In another minute he would have been out of control. He tried to ignore the achingly aroused body that was saying acidly,What makes you think you're not already out of control? Kyra sat up, brushed away some clinging pine needles, straightened her shirt, checked the laces on her boots, did everything and anything except look at him. "I suppose we're just going to forget this, too?" Cash grated out, unable to help his tone. His body was still screaming at him, and he wasn't sure anything short of a jump into the sound was going to shut it up. ''We have to," Kyra whispered. They sat for a long-time in silence, the heat slowly ebbing as they watched the birds work on their nest. Cash was surprised when Kyra spoke at last; but then he was surprised she'd stayed at all and hadn't taken off running. "Will they keep coming back? Each year, I mean?" "They usually do."


"So…you'll have them for a long time." "Unless something happens to drive them away.'' And there it was again, he thought as her expression changed as surely as if the shadow of the threat had just passed over the morning sun. If she'd been having any of the problems he'd been having with the effects of that kiss, this reminder had certainly solved them. "Cash…" she began. "I know, I know. I shouldn't go out without my… bodyguard." Even if all I can do is think of how much I want her to do something other than guard my body, he thought. Even if every time I look at her, I remember how she looked last night in that damned short T-shirt, her legs bare and a mile long, making me imagine what It would feel like to have them wrapped around me, pulling me to her… He nearly groaned aloud at the need that slashed through him again like a heated blade. And for a moment he thought he had, until he realized what he'd heard was the distant sound of an engine. Kyra had already heard it; her head was turned, her eyes searching the horizon. "Sounds like Steve," he said, scrambling to his feet, trying to ignore the discomfort of jeans that had recently become chronically too tight. "He'll have the report on the house," Kyra said, and immediately started off toward the dock at a fast pace. Back on duty, Cash thought as he followed her. And his pleasure in the sharing of the ospreys was shattered. "Simple and effective,'' Kyra murmured as she looked at the papers spread out over the desk. Cash's mouth twisted ironically at her absently engrossed tone. He'd taken one look at the photos that Kyra had spread out on the desk, one look at the wreckage of his house, the blackened walls, the gaping holes where windows had once been, and been unable to even think about reading the report that had accompanied them. He heard someone cough, and looked up to meet Dave Kowalski's sympathetic gaze. They had been surprised when he'd gotten off the green seaplane, hand carrying the envelope from Sanders Protection, but he'd told them another pair of eyes here couldn't hurt and that he would somehow survive the separation from his bank of phones and his fax machine. "It's pretty awful, Cash. I'm sorry," Dave said quietly. "Good thing we weren't there," Walt put in, looking over Kyra's shoulder. "Could've blown us all to bits." Cash winced at the grim words. "Yeah." "I opened the envelope on the way over," Dave said. "I couldn't even look at the rest of the pictures after the first few."


"Me, either," Cash said. But not looking, he thought, wasn't going to make it go away. He couldn't hide from it anymore. Not with the harsh, undeniable truth before him. With an effort, he forced himself to ask the questions he didn't want to ask. "Simple?" he asked, repeating her word. "Yes," Kyra said, not looking up from the desk. "No plastique, or anything exotic. Plain and simple dynamite,construction grade. Enough to gut the inside, but not to take down the structure itself, although the fire nearly did." Cash didn't think he made a sound, but her head came up quickly. Remorse fitted over her face, as if she'd only now remembered she was talking to the owner of this pile of rubble that had once been a stylish home. "I'm sorry, Cash. It was…a beautiful house, and all your things, I—" "It's all right. Go on." She hesitated, then pointed to a photograph that showed an odd-looking scorched line on what had been the custom tile floor. The mark looked sinister against the pristine white, as if some malevolent serpentine creature had snaked out of the explosion's crater. "He was pretty clever with the fuse, though. Used a trailer that went—" "A what?" Cash interrupted. "A trailer. Cole says in the report that it was a gasoline-saturated rope. Cotton, so it would soak up a lot." Dave's brow furrowed. "And he just lit it? Wouldn't that be dangerous? What if he—or they—didn't get out in time?" Kyra's mouth twisted wryly. "I'm not sure that matters to some of these fanatics. But in this case he—or they—were more inventive. They used the water heater." Cash blinked. "The what?" "The water heater. Maybe it was spur of the moment, or they knew or guessed yours would be natural gas." "I don't get it," Dave said. "It's simple, really. They attached the trailer—the rope soaked in gasoline, gasoline because it has a low flash point—to the primer cord fuse for the detonators on the dynamite. Eighty-percent sticks, it looks like." "Eighty-percent sticks?" Cash didn't know what bothered him more, that he knew so little about this kind of craziness, or that she knew so much. "Dynamite comes in percentages, like twenty, forty and so on, based on the amount of actual blasting


powder. Eighty percenters are the big guns." "Oh." "Anyway, they fastened the rope to the blasting cap fuses and then took the other end to the water heater. They lowered the thermostat, set the rope in the path of the heater's flame, but not too close to the pilot light, andvoila." "They're long gone, the water heater comes on and…boom!" Cash murmured, staring at the blackened line in the photograph once more. "Exactly. It's an old trick, but it works. As long as the weatherman's somewhere close to right." "The weatherman?" Dave asked. "If it gets too cold too soon," Cash guessed, looking at Kyra, "the water heater comes on early and your whole game plan is shot to hell." She nodded. His brow furrowed. "Then this could have been set up any time." "Yes and no. Too long, and there's the risk that the fumes from the gasoline will be ignited some other way or that the rope will dry out altogether and just smolder, not burn well enough to get to the fuse. Cole's guess is that it was set up within twelve hours before detonation, probably less." "Well, that must be right then," Cash said, knowing he-sounded sarcastic and not, at the moment, caring. Kyra looked at him a little sharply, and he averted his gaze to the photos and papers spread out on the desk. He didn't ever want to meet Cole Bannister. Somehow he knew he'd be right back in that boys' locker room again… Kyra had sensed his sudden irritation and wondered at it. But when he said no more, she went on. "We don't know much more, except that it was an open explosion and that there was probably no forced entry." "An open explosion?" "Unless it's covered to direct it, dynamite explodes in a 360-degree circle. Like this," she said, gesturing at an overview shot that showed the circular crater in the center of the interior rubble. "No forced entry?" Dave asked. Kyra shook her head, "No. The windows were all blown out, of course, and the doors were bent but pretty intact. No activation of the alarm system, either, except for a trouble signal when the explosion severed the lines." "Real pros," Walt said, the first thing he'd said in several minutes. "Proficient, at least," Kyra agreed. Walt's head came up from studying the photos. He gave Kyra a sideways glance, looked as if he were about to say something, then shifted his gaze to Dave instead. "Come on, Dave. I'll help you with your stuff. You always bring enough bags for three people."


"Work, my friend. The outside world goes on, you know, even while you're holed up here on the backside of beyond." Smiling at Dave's words, Kyra looked up as the two started toward the door. Walt walked on out of the room, muttering something inaudible, but Dave paused in the doorway and looked back at Cash. "Carol sends her love," he said quietly. "And she said to tell you to please be careful.'' Kyra's gaze darted to Cash in time to see his expression soften, his green eyes warm as he smiled. The two men looked at each other for a long moment, and once again Kyra sensed the bond of years between them. It was as strong as the bond between Cash and Walt, yet it was different somehow, as if it were more intimate, more private. Cash, she thought suddenly. He was the center, the focal point everything revolved around, the reason for the existence of this trio of loyal friends. And instinctively she knew that it had always been that way. Walt may have been the initiator, but Cash was the one who held them all together. And it was Cash who needed their help now. He needed his friends close by, Kyra realized, and where she had at first been wary of Dave's presence, as one more person to worry about, she was now glad he was here. If Cash was to come out of this with any kind of sanity left, he needed to know the entire world hadn't gone crazy on him. Assuming, of course, she did her job and he came out of it at all.

Chapter 8

"I don't get it," Kyra muttered as she hung up the phone. "Get what?" She spun around, startled. The last time she had seen Cash, he'd been restlessly pacing the living room. She hadn't heard him come into the library. She'd only come in herself a few minutes ago to make a call to the office. Dave had been behind the desk, amid a sea of papers, but had declined her offer to take the phone somewhere else for her call. "I'm just sorting," he'd said with a wry grin. "Then comes the big job, tying Cash down long enough to look at some of this staff. Not," he added," sighing, "that we can do anything until this ugly mess is over with. Except," he added with a crooked smile, "watch the receipts forTen Dayspile up. All this has been… quite a boon." Kyra had stared at him. She knew what he said was probably true, but she still couldn't quite adjust to that way of looking at things. How could he even think about money when his closest friend was in danger? Because he's a businessman, she reminded herself. And a Hollywood businessman to boot.


That's how. So she had managed to keep her mouth shut, merely nodding as she went to make her call. And had hung up no more enlightened than she had been before. Now Kyra's glance skated from Cash to Dave, then back. She leaned against the table behind her that held the cellular phone, pondering. "You don't get what?" Cash repeated, coming over to sit on the edge of the desk. "Something new?" Dave asked. "Yes and no." Dave blinked. "Pardon?" Cash chuckled at Dave's expression. "You'll get used to it," he said. Then he looked at her. "Yes and no?" "Cole says Scirocco took credit for the bombing about an hour ago, and renewed their threat on Cash." "But we expected that, didn't we?" Dave still looked puzzled. "Yes. But it was nearly a full day afterward. And there was no gloating, not even any details." "Which means?" Cash was watching her intently. When she didn't answer immediately, he prodded a little. "Come on, that mind of yours never stops working. What is it?'' The compliment pleased her inordinately," which worried her, and it was a moment before she could answer. "It's not… typical. Groups like this feed on media coverage like sharks. It's not like them to wait so long. They love going into exact detail about their attacks, trumpeting how clever they are, striking fear into the victim by letting him see they know every little detail of his life. The attention they get gives them a sort of status, almost like a street gang kind of thing." Dave snorted. "Figures. That's what they are. Thugs. Brutalizing innocent people." "Literally," Kyra agreed. "Four-fifths of the four million people killed by terrorists in the eighties were civilians." "And all for a few headlines," Cash said in disgust. "It's what they live on. Somebody once said that the media is the oxygen terrorists need to stay alive." Her brow furrowed. "That's why this Is so strange. I mean, I know Scirocco's on the run, and Cole said a few of the members have been bagged in the last few weeks, but the leaders are still loose. It doesn't make sense that they're so slow about blasting their success to the heavens, complete with all the gory details." "As long as they don't blast me to the heavens," Cash said dryly, "I'll be happy." Kyra hesitated, but she knew she couldn't pass up the opening he'd given her; she'd been wondering how to bring this up. She also knew how he would react, and that no time would be right to bring it up,


but now seemed as good as any. "We could be a lot surer of that if you'd go to a safe house." Cash's eyes widened. He backed up a step, away from her, as if she'd threatened to drag him off right now. "No. Oh, no you don't." "Cash-" "I'm not going to be locked up twenty-four hours a day in some house with guards all over the place and bars on- the windows or something." "It wouldn't be that bad. Cole knows a place—'' "No, damn it!" Dave cast a sideways glance at Kyra, then said soothingly, "Cash, maybe you should think about it." "I have. And I'm not going anywhere. I'm as safe here as I would be anywhere, probably safer." Cash whirled on Kyra. "You said that yourself." Kyra sighed. "I did, didn't I?" She couldn't blame him. And he was right, she thought, she could keep him as safe here, in this relatively small, controlled environment, as she could anywhere else. And If she was honest with herself, half the reason she'd suggested it at all was because if he went to a safe house under the auspices of Sanders Protection, she would no longer be alone on this case. No longer be alone with him. Then she gave a rueful, inward laugh. She wasn't alone with him now; Dave and Walt were here, and it hadn't made one bit of difference. You're In big trouble, Austin, she told herself, and having the entire Seattle PD here wouldn't change that. Besides, she wasn't sure she herself wanted to leave. She'd grown quite fond of this little piece of Eden. Maybe living Cash's kind of life wouldn't be so bad, if you had a place like this to run to. As long, she amended wryly, as nobody's trying to kill you. "—not going. Kyra?" The sharpness of Cash's tone jolted her' out of her contemplation. "What?" "I said I'm not going," Cash repeated, his arms crossed over his chest, radiating little-boy stubbornness. "All right." He blinked. "Huh?" "I said all right." "Oh." He seemed deflated, as if he'd been geared up for a fight that had failed to materialize. "But you follow the rules, Cash. You stay away from doors and windows. You don't go out by yourself, no matter what. You don't go out at all until I've made a check of the grounds every day. And if I give you an order, you follow it, no questions asked. You head for cover, you stay put, you hit the deck, no


argument." "Were you a drill instructor in another life?" Cash groused, but Kyra noticed he didn't argue with her about the necessity for the rules. Seeing the ruin of his house had been the spur needed to convince him he was truly in danger, she decided. "I don't give orders for fun," she said: "But if I give one, you'd better listen. Your life could depend on it. Or someone else's." She glanced at Dave, who was gaping at her. "That goes for you, too, and Walt." "Yes, ma'am," Dave said so fervently, Kyra blushed. Cash laughed, and her gaze shot to his face. But there was nothing of sarcasm or derision in his face, only good-natured teasing. This was the Cash she had laughed with in the kitchen, the Cash who had opened up a bit of his soul to her just as she had to him, the Cash who had held her and held on to her through a long, weary night. And she was going to do everything in her power to make sure that that Cash stayed safe. And alive.

Cash lifted the ax once more and brought it down hard, splitting the six-inch log cleanly. He bent to reach- for the halves, wincing slightly when his shoulders protested. He'd been at this for hours now. He had enough wood chopped to see him through three winters. Except for an occasional breeze gusting in from-the sound it was overly warm here in the direct sun, making sweat pour from his bare back and chest and down his arms into the heavy gloves, but nothing else seemed to distract him. He'd started out this morning with the careful work of measuring and cutting and planning for the office addition. It occupied his mind, but his body seemed to have the twitches, needing something far more physical as an outlet. He set up one of the halves and split it in one smooth stroke. "That won't make it go away, you know.'' He whirled around at the sound of Kyra's soft voice. She was leaning against the top of the old woodpile, her long legs extended and crossed at the ankle, as if she'd been there watching him for some time, although he knew she'd been making one of- what seemed like innumerable circuits around the island, checking her security systems. Her long, slender yet taut arms were crossed casually, bare beneath the short sleeves, and Cash had the thought that, as tall as she was, she should look gangly or awkward, all legs and elbows, as she had said she always was. But she looked nothing of the kind at the moment. She looked like a lithe, supple woman, the long lines of her body only emphasizing the feminine curves. The way her arms were crossed drew the blue T-shirt she wore tight over her breasts. The jeans she wore clung to curved hips and legs that seemed even longer in the expanse of dark blue. And that image that had been haunting him flashed through his mind again, that vivid picture of her in the hallway, her legs bare to his gaze and the swell of her breasts swaying free and tempting beneath only a layer of thin cotton. He realized he was staring at her breasts now, at the way a tiny scalloped ridge in the cloth of her shirt hinted at lace on the bra she wore beneath it. He jerked his gaze away. He reached for the shirt he'd discarded earlier and wiped at the sweat on his face. "I know it won't go away," he muttered, and he wasn't talking about the threat.


"I wish…" Kyra began, and there was such an oddly wistful sound to her voice that he looked up at her again quickly. "You wish what?" "That this was over. That I could promise you nothing will happen. That it had never happened in the first place." "Wasn't it you who said 'denial's not going to get you anything but buried'?" She sighed. "Yes." "Well, I'm not denying it anymore. I thought you'd be… pleased." "I'm glad you're taking It seriously now. That doesn't mean I'm glad your life is…" He picked up the ax and drove it deep into the chopping stump as her words died away. "Over?" He let out a short, mirthless chuckle at her instinctive sound of protest. "I said I'm not denying it anymore. And one of the things I'm not denying is the very real possibility that my life, as I knew it, is over." "Cash…" His mouth twisted ironically. "I guess it proves you should be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it. I always used to say I'd like to stay here on the island all the time… Well, it looks like I might get my wish." He yanked off the leather work gloves. "Only it'll be an armed camp, not a… a sanctuary. And I'll be a prisoner here as sure as if they locked me up somewhere." ''Don't think like that." "What else am I supposed to do? My work is not exactly something you can do in hiding." He chuckled again, that same, humorless sound. "Maybe I should just go public again, give them a clear shot and get it over with." Kyra stood up suddenly with a sharp, jerky motion that telegraphed the force of her emotions. "You have the right to feel sorry for yourself, Cash. Anyone in your position would. But whining doesn't become you. You're too much man for that." Cash stared at her. Hehadbeen whining, although it was more out of frustration—of several kinds—than self-pity. He even knew, deep down, that he had been doing it to provoke her, hoping that a battle with her sharp wit would stir him out of this odd mood. But instead she had acknowledged his right to his dejection, and then blasted it to bits with a few simple words.You're too much man for that. God, how could a man who could wring that kind of praise from Kyra Austin feel sorry for himself? "Kyra,'' he said, his voice suddenly thick as he took a step forward. The sound of an engine firing stopped him. They both turned and took the few steps to the comer of the house and looked toward the dock. Moments later, Cash's sleek but unpretentious thirty-five foot cabin cruiser pulled out of the boathouse, with Dave at the wheel. "Something wrong?" Kyra asked, and Cash knew his concern must have shown in his face.


"No, not really. I just hope he's careful. He knows about boats, but the currents around here are nothing to fool with. The water moves faster than some rivers between some of the islands, and Dave's not all that familiar with them." Cash's words proved prophetic; Dave was back in-less than two hours, saying he'd stick to being an occasional Southern California boater. He took Walt's teasing with a grace and good humor that made Kyra like him al the more. Then Cash started in on Walt, reminding him of the first time he'd tried to handle the boat. Walt, laughing, turned it right around on Cash, who, it seemed, had managed to nearly drown them all when he'd been so excited about catching his first salmon that he'd nearly ran them onto the rocks. Kyra watched the three of them, so close, with the friendship of years between them, and felt a pang of envy. It had been so long since she'd felt that close to anyone. After finding that so many of the people she'd thought were her friends had known all along about Jack and had either laughed at or pitied her behind her back, she'd been very wary of trusting anyone, even those who didn't know about her dismal failure as a woman. They would find out, she thought, and it would start all over again. Cash laughed then at something Walt had said, and Kyra found herself once again watching him closely. As she had this morning, when he had been so intent on exhausting himself with that ax that she had been able to stand quietly and watch him for several minutes without him realizing she was there. It came back to her now, that heated rush of feeling that had flooded her as she had greedily drunk in the sight of him, of his hair glinting like copper-touched silk in the sun, of muscles flexing and stretching beneath the golden skin of his back, the sight of honest sweat trickling down over his ridged belly and disappearing below the low-slung waistband of his jeans. And she would never forget the moment when, as a cooling breath of salt-tinged wind had swept into the clearing and made his nipples taut with the sudden chill, she had felt a sudden, fierce wish to do the same with her mouth. If he had looked up at that moment, she was certain he would have seen that need written all over her foolish face. If something didn't break soon, she would, she thought despairingly, and it wouldn't matter anymore that she was here to do a job or that she would only be the latest in a long line or that he only wanted her because she was here. Smothering the tiny, dismal sound that threatened to break from her, she got up and slipped quietly—and unnoticed—out of the room where the three best friends sat laughing, held together by the unbreakable bonds of years of comradeship and the generous, loyal spirit of Cash Riordan.

The incredible quiet that was a big part of the reason Cash so loved this place had settled down on the island along with the darkness.. He had pled weariness and bowed out of the card game in the library after only a few hands; the occasional bad-hand groan from Dave or Walt was muted, distant. Here on the steps just outside the French doors to his room, there was peace. Or the appearance of it, anyway, he thought as he sat staring out at trees awash in the moonlight. He couldn't remember feeling more exhausted or less like sleeping. Even after the arduous schedule of the last film, he hadn't been this tired. He let his head fall forward to rest on his arms, crossed on his raised knees. His shoulders still ached slightly from his exertions at the chopping block. Sitting out here shirtless wasn't helping his stiff muscles, he thought, but the cool air felt good. He wondered if another hot


soak in the tub would be worth the effort. No, he answered himself almost immediately, he would just spend the time wondering what it would be like to use that tub for the purpose most people had assumed he'd had it installed for. Images of sharing it had too vividly crowded his mind this afternoon, and he— The creak of the step beneath his feet brought him sharply upright, his heart hammering. He recognized the tall, lithe shape in the instant before her voice came, soft and reassuring. His tension ebbed, and he had a second to wonder at his own edginess. "Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you." "I didn't hear you coming.'' She smiled. "I've learned my way around, so I'm quieter now. Besides, you looked like you were half-asleep." "I wish." She studied his face, and he wondered what she was seeing. Her own face was clear to him, although strangely ethereal in the silvery light. And he was sure it was a fluke of the odd light that made him think her eyes lingered on his naked chest. Not, he thought with a rueful inner smile, that that stopped his stomach from knotting up. "You look… tired,'' she said at last. "I am. Very." She hesitated a moment. Then, "I just talked to the office again. No new threats, but Bill's worried that this is part of a symbolic progression. First your parents' house, then yours. These groups are big on symbols." She waited, as if she expected him to say something, but he didn't have any words. His mind was still too full of the erotic imaginings he'd been plagued with since he'd seen her standing in the hall in only that damned T-shirt. "Anyway," she went on when it became apparent that he wasn't going to speak, "Bill said to really tighten things up. To stay close. To the house, I mean," she added quickly when he looked at her, as if she thought he'd read an invitation into her words. And wouldn't he like to. He wanted that invitation more than he could remember wanting anything. He didn't understand it, how the woman who had barely caused a ripple in his libido when he'd first seen her had now become the source of the most seething frustration he'd ever known. But. there it was, and now he had to deal with it. And deal with the fact that no matter what he said or did, her damned job was always there between them. "Great," he muttered. "House arrest." "No. Just caution." "Right."


"Do you…" She stopped, and when she spoke again, he knew it wasn't what she'd started to say. "Don't forget to arm the system when you go in." He realized then that she had interpreted his laconic answers as a rebuff, and was about to go. And suddenly he didn't want her to. As she turned away, the words came abruptly. "Kyra, wait." She turned back. "Sit down." Only after he'd said it did he realize how peremptory he'd sounded. "Please. If you're going to be up for a while, I… could use the company." She hesitated for a moment that seemed to stretch out forever. At last she crossed the two feet between them and sat down beside him on the step. He could smell her scent, now an intoxicating mix of the tropical sweetness she usually wore, and the brisk, open air of the island. His body tightened, as it had grown in the habit of doing whenever she was around, but tonight there was something more in his response, so many things mixed together that he couldn't begin to sort them out. Her courage, her spirit, the beauty one had to look beyond the exterior to truly see, all called to him in a way he'd never known before. She had told him she understood why he loved this place, and he believed she truly did. More than once he had come across her sitting in some quiet place, wearing an expression he knew mirrored his own when the island had begun its healing process. Perhaps she was doing some healing of her own here. But was it enough for her to trust him, even a little? "Tough night?" Her quiet question snapped him out of his reverie. "Sort of," he said. She didn't prod or pressure him for more; paradoxically it came easily. "Before I started acting, I used to think that pretending like something was wrong when it wasn't would be the hardest thing to do." He gave her a wry smile. "Now I know better. It's the other way around." "You mean all that cheerfulness was an act tonight? For Walt and Dave?" "They're worried enough already." "Hiding your own worry will drain you dry. You can't do it forever, Cash. You're in the most helpless of situations, where all you can do is hide and wait. That alone would be enough to drive a person crazy. Trying to pretend that everything's fine will do it for sure." "Walt and Dave…they kind of follow my lead." He sucked in a quick breath. "I can't let them see how…scared I am…" He laughed ruefully. "I don't think I even realized it until just now. My heroics are confined strictly to the movie screen." Her defense was immediate and heartening. "Don't, Cash. You're allowed to be scared. My God, they've set fire to your parents home, blown up one of yours… you'd be crazy not to be scared.'' "Yeah." He gave her a sideways look. "Sorry. Didn't mean to whine on your shoulder again."


"You weren't whining. You were worried about your friends. Whining is when you're looking for sympathy." She gave him a sideways glance of her own. "You weren't looking for sympathy this morning, either, were you?" "I wasn't?" "No. You were looking for a fight.'' He blinked,startled at the point-blank accuracy of her guess. Or maybe it wasn't a guess, maybe she had just come to know him that well. "That's why chopping wood wasn't working." Her smile was crooked, her face alight with the knowledge of someone who's been there. "Logs don't fight back." He let out a compressed breath, shaking his head. "You're really something, you know that?" "I know how it feels to want to fight back and not have any way to do it. I know what frustration feels like." "Do you?" Cash whispered, lifting his gaze to her face. "Do you, really?" Kyra's eyes widened, then her lips parted for a sudden breath, and Cash knew she'd read the true meaning in his words. "What can I say, Kyra? What can I tell you that will make you believe that I don't want you just because you're here?" She caught her breath audibly, and Cash knew he'd struck a nerve. Damn, he'd like to get his hands on Jack Lange for making her so uncertain of herself that the only reason she could conceive of for a man wanting her was that she was the only female available. Kyra looked at him, her eyes still wide and troubled. And smoky gray now. No wonder she hadn't answered Dave that first day when he'd asked about their color. Something knotted up in his gut at the sudden memory of that day in the bright, sunny house that was now rubble. Hadn't he done it, too? He had taken one look at the tall, steady woman and dismissed her as unable to even play the part of being his newest flame. How had he missed seeing elegance in her long, slender body, the beauty of those changeable eyes and the brave, generous spirit that shone there? How many others had done this to her, passed her over as not worth a second glance? And what had it done to her? Just what it does to you when somebody gives you "the look," he thought suddenly. It hurts. Even after all this time, it hurts. And for the first time in his life, he was with a woman who truly understood. She understood so much. And she had never once given him "the look." He'd long ago sworn he'd never again ask a woman for anything. But with Kyra, a lot of his rules didn't seem to work. And sometimes, he thought, you don't get an invitation unless you ask for one. "Kyra,'' he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. She drew back as if frightened. Automatically his hands shot out to grip her arms and hold her. "Don't go."


"Cash, this is—" "I know. You think it's wrong. It probably is crazy. But damn it, I…" He swallowed tightly. "Ineedyou. Not just… a woman. You." She stared at him, and he felt her quiver beneath his hands. "Do you know how long it's been since I've said that? And meant it? " Doubt shadowed her face, and Cash laughed harshly. "No, I don't blame you for not believing me. Well, here's something else for you to not believe. I haven't… It's been… a while for me.'' Kyra blinked, and her brows furrowed. "I know. All those women… I changed them like most people change shoes, right? Well, most of them were setup dates. Some newcomer the publicity department wanted seen around town. I didn't even… I mean, with most of them I just took them home. Their home. I barely touched them. A kiss good-night, maybe. Not that it stopped the gossip columns from blowing it up into the hot affair of the century." His mouth twisted sourly. "Or stopped them, for that matter." Kyra blinked. "You mean… they said… that you…" "Some did. Most just confirmed it by denying it. Nobody can deliver that 'We're just good friends' line more unconvincingly than an actress who wants you to believe she's covering up a steamy relationship." "But why?" "Kyra, they look at me like most people do money in the bank. Invest it the right way, and it'll pay off for you." "And that's the right way?" He shrugged. "They think so." He felt her shudder, and knew it was with distaste. "But how did you ever know if…" She trailed off, and Cash knew she was remembering what he'd told her, and how much trouble she'd had accepting that he truly believed none of those woman had really given a damn about him. "Exactly," he said softly. "Do you see now? Who I am, what I am, doesn't mean a thing to you, not that way. You're real, Kyra. And it's been so damned long since I've known a woman who was real." "Oh, Cash…" Slowly, ever so slowly, her hand raised to touch his cheek. As if her gentle fingers held some magical power, all the fear, all the anger, all the frustration drained away, leaving in its place only a spreading warmth that seemed to seek out the coldest, most hidden places in his soul and warm them. He tamed his head, meaning to kiss her palm, but somehow just resting his cheek against her soft hand was enough, for now. Stunned by the comfort he had drawn from that one, voluntary touch from her, he closed his eyes, half in pleasure and half in fear of what she might read in them. Her fingers flexed the tiniest bit, their tips pressing just slightly against the flesh below his ear, at the back of his jaw. That


comforting warmth billowed suddenly into a flare of heat, rippling through him in a consuming wave, and he sucked in a quick, harsh breath. Kyra froze, and Cash's eyes snapped open. She was looking at him, eyes wide, and he knew she had felt that sudden surge of arousal as surely as he had. Had felt it and responded to it. The glow of an answering need was clear in eyes that had gone dark and smoky. But there was something else there, as well—some hesitation, some guardedness that threatened to rise up and swamp the fledgling desire. And suddenly he knew what it was. "I'm scared, too, Kyra," he said softly. Again doubt shaped her expression. She drew her hand back. He wanted to grab it, bring it back to him, but he made himself stay still. He knew he could probably overcome her objections just by turning loose the full force of the passion they'd only flirted with until now. But for the first time in so very long, he cared about a woman's reasons. And he realized that the reason his rules didn't work with Kyra was that, with her, all the rules had changed. She didn't play by the ones he'd used for so long, the rules that had served him so well in the calculating world he was used to. She wouldn't know how. And he wasn't sure he knew how to play any other way anymore. "It's…different with you," he said tightly. "You're not… You don't… You're not just…out for what you can get." He broke off, shrugging helplessly as he fought to find the words. Then they came, half against his will. "I…Itrustyou." Her eyes widened, and he knew she understood the magnitude of those simple words. Knew she understood what it had taken for him to say it, to feel it. Knew that she knew, perhaps better than anyone, how hard it was for him to widen the small circle of his trust. He saw her lips part as she drew in a breath and nearly groaned when she caught her lower lip between her teeth in hesitation, and he thought of nibbling gently on that softness with his own teeth, and all the other soft, secret places on her body. And as he watched her struggle with her own, internal uncertainty, he realized what an incredible gift it would be if she were to quash those fears, that doubt, for him. And then she had done it. He saw it in her eyes in the instant before she gave him the words. "My head tells me this is a mistake for so many reasons I can't count them all," she said softly. "But I don't seem to care anymore." Slowly, afraid every second that the impossible dream would evaporate before his eyes into the craziness that had taken over his life, Cash stood up. He saw Kyra shiver slightly, and prayed that she wasn't changing her mind. He held out his hand, unable even to care that it was trembling. And after a moment that seemed to last a lifetime, she took it.

Chapter 9

Never before had he wanted so much, needed so much, so much that he literally shook with it. He


hadn't known, until Kyra stood beside his bed amid a tangle of discarded shoes and socks, how much he had used his own self-set rules to protect himself, to keep himself removed from any emotional involvement. And now this most unlikely woman had taken all his little rules and smashed them without even trying. He felt a moment of self-doubt. Did he really deserve the gift she was offering to him, holding out to him in her trembling hands? He reached out and clasped those hands, pulling them tight against his chest, wanting more but afraid to take it just yet, afraid of the trace of wariness that lingered in her eyes. She twisted one slender hand until she could press it flat against his chest. Cash swallowed tightly, knowing she couldn't help but feel the hammering of his heart. Her gaze rose to his face, and Cash's heart leapt when he saw that that last bit of fear, that last flag of caution in her eyes had vanished. "Kyra," he whispered, lifting his hands to cup her face. He meant the kiss to be_ sweet, tender, like the feelings she was rousing in him, feelings he hadn't let himself have for a woman in so very long. But the moment his lips came down on hers, his resolve was lost, no more than a puff of ash rising on the waves of heat that surged up to engulf them. He felt her hands on his bare shoulders, fingertips pressing into his flesh. She let her head fall back, and Cash drove forward, mouth fierce, tongue probing, demanding, a demand that was needless. She acquiesced without a protest. He tasted the depths of her, then shuddered when her tongue tentatively, testingly stroked his. A low groan rumbled up from deep in his chest, and he plunged his tongue forward again, searching, exploring, as he intended to search and explore every inch of her before he was through. He felt her quiver, heard a little sigh of sound rise from her. An answering shiver rippled through him, and at last he had to tear his mouth away for a gasping breath. Kyra was staring at him, her eyes wide with wonder. "I… I don't understand," she said, sounding utterly bewildered. "We were just… kissing.'' Joy flooded Cash. She couldn't have done anything that could have convinced him more that she was feeing what he was feeling, like one of his ospreys on the edge of its feathers, ready to fly. A slightly delirious grin spread across his face as he swept her up into his arms and toppled them both down onto the bed. Kyra gave a startled little gasp as her feet left the floor; a woman of her height was hardly used to being handled as if she were no more than a featherweight. Jack had always complained that she was too tall, too gangly, too awkward. But, as he had said, Cash was not Jack. Cash was looking at her as if she were some wondrous, precious prize he'd never expected to win. She saw the exhilarated grin on his face, felt the tautness of his body as he came down half atop her. "Kyra," he murmured. "Kyra, Kyra." He repeated it as if-just the sound of her name gave him pleasure. He kissed her again, and it was somehow hotter, heavier, here on his bed with the naked skin of his back beneath her fingers, and the weight of his lean body pressing her down. He shifted his hips, and she felt the rigid length of aroused male flesh behind the zipper of his-jeans. Involuntarily she moved, lifting herself so that that rigidness was caught in a sensual caress between their bodies. She thrilled to the low, guttural sound Cash made when she did it, and the way his every muscle


went tense. "Oh, Kyra. Do you have any idea what you're doing to me?" She looked up at him, saw the fierceness In his eyes, the need, the hunger. It awed her that she, Kyra Austin, was the cause of this. This was far out of her realm of experience. "No," she said slowly, "I don't think I do." Cash sucked in a breath. "Then I guess I'll have to show you." He rolled over onto his back, taking Kyra with him. She tried to lift herself off of him, aware that she was far too big a woman to pretend she could drape herself all over a man and have him enjoy it, but Cash stopped her. "No. Stay right there. On top of me. Just like—" he shifted himself and her so that he bore the full length and weight of her, so that her lower body was intimately pressed against his arousal "—that. Yes, just like that." He moved slightly, rubbing himself against her. Kyra felt the sliding motion of his body, of that swollen column of flesh, and fire shot through her. She heard a tiny sound, a hot, pleading little moan, and was startled to realize it had come from her. And more startled to realize she was echoing his movement, stroking her body over his as if she craved the feel of that solid, masculine flesh. "Kyra?" It came out on a groan as she moved. She stopped, looking down at him, her face flushed. What on earth was she doing? She didn't know anything about…about…whatever this was. She'd never known anything like the kind of heat he was building in her, had never known this kind of aching, this kind of needing. And that she didn't know was clear by the pained expression on Cash's face. She'd obviously done something wrong, hurt him somehow in her usual awkwardness. "I'm sorry," she said hastily, and tried to scramble off of. him. "No!" His arm came around her waist and held her fast. "Don't… it's just…" He sucked in a deep breath, as if he were having trouble getting enough air. "Damn it, Kyra, I don't… have anything. Not here.'' Her brows furrowed. "Have anything?" "To protect you," he said raggedly. "Me?" His mouth twisted. "Yes, you, little innocent. A condom, to put it bluntly." "Oh." Kyra felt her face flood with color, thankful that only she knew it was more at being called a "little" anything than at his blunt reference to protection. "I… it's all right." He shook his head. "I'm not much on taking chances on it being the 'wrong time,' Kyra. The last thing you or I need right now is for you to wind up pregnant."


Pregnant. With Cash's child. Why did the idea give her such a little thrill of pleasure? She'd never felt anything like it before. She'd thought herself utterly lacking in maternal instinct. But a green-eyed, wiry little boy with his father's smile? She quashed her meanderings; they were absurd, anyway. Cash had already proved he cared little more than Jack for children. Alison Miller could attest to that. Besides, she wasn't here because of that. She was here because this man had awakened feelings in her she'd thought long dead, feelings she'd never had before. She'd already accepted that there was no future for them beyond this moment. And by being here, she'd tacitly agreed to play by his rules, hadn't she? "It really is all right," she said, too aware of her high color. "Bill—my boss—he worries about…some of the things we have to do…the women who work for him, I mean. About some of the people we have to deal with. He's always afraid something…I mean, he worries…" She didn't think she could possibly turn any redder. She finished in a rush. "So I'm on the Pill…just in case." Cash let out a long, relieved sigh as she finished her stumbling explanation. "I'm glad," he said with heartfelt intensity. "Whew, am I glad." Then he gave her a quizzical look as he lifted one hand to brush her cheek gently with the backs of his fingers. "Why was that so hard to tell me?" She lowered her eyes. "Because I…I've never had to tell anyone before." She heard Cash's breath catch. "Never?" She. shook her head mutely. She'd lowered her gaze to avoid his eyes, but she'd found herself staring at the hollow of his throat and the pulse that beat so strong and steady there, and it was nearly as disconcerting as his steady green gaze. It was a moment before she could speak. "I was…already on them with Jack." Her mouth twisted bitterly. "On his orders." . Cash lifted a brow. "Orders?" An old, painful memory shot to the surface. Kyra tried to deny its power with a shrug-as she said, "He told me I wasn't…womanly enough to be a mother, at least to his children." She gave a tiny, ghastly little laugh, "And in the end, I wasn't woman enough to hold him, either.'' Cash swore, low and harsh. His arm tightened around her, as if he'd seen too clearly the depth of that long ago pain, and was trying to brace her against it in the only way he could. And a sudden fear gripped her. Was this the reason she was here with him, like this? Did he feel sorry for her? See her as some wounded soul he wanted to help? Instinctively she squirmed against his grasp, trying to pull away. She might not have much pride left when it came to men, but she hadn't quite sunk down to being a charity case. "Kyra, stop," Cash said hoarsely. "He was a fool. A damned, blind fool. He used you. Is that what you wanted? Are you really sorry you didn't—" he almost spat it out "—hold on to him?'" Kyra stopped, staring down at him. Her emotions were roiling, tumbling over each other, spinning so swiftly she felt as if she were spinning with them, dizzily, chaotically. "No," she said, her voice a little breathless. "But—" "No, Kyra. No buts. He was a fool if he didn't know what he had. The problem was his, not yours."


Hope flared in her, bright and golden. "Cash…" "I'm honored, Kyra. To be the…only one you've had to tell that to." It was Cash who lowered his eyes then, almost shyly. "If you haven't…changed your mind, that is. If you still want…" Kyra's mouth parted for an amazed little breath. She stared at him and the dark semicircles of thick lashes, at the sensuous softness of the mouth that had kissed her as she'd never been kissed before. He would stop, she thought in shock. She was lying here in bed with him, sprawled atop him wantonly; he was half naked, completely aroused, and yet he would stop if she changed her mind and said no. She was as certain of that as she was of the jewel-green color of his eyes. What she wasn't certain of was who she was anymore, except a woman who needed this man more than her next breath. "I think," she said slowly, "that I'm only starting to learn what wanting means." She meant it, she realized suddenly. She had thought she had wanted before, but she saw now that what she had felt for Jack had been a pale shadow of the real thing. Cash groaned at her words, then reached up to thread his fingers through her hair, curl them around the back of her head and draw her mouth down to his. Knowing now what his kiss could do, Kyra felt her heart begin to pound and her blood begin to heat even before their lips met. It was an urgent, compelling kiss, the kiss of a man who knows that this time he's not going to be denied, that this time all the stops have been pulled. His hands slipped down to her waist, and she felt the pressure of them against the small of her back. At the same moment, she felt his lips shift, lift, felt the hardened length of him pushing against her belly. Then his hands were tugging at her shirt, feeing it from her jeans. At the first touch of his fingers on the bare skin of her back, Kyra felt a surging ripple of wild heat. A tiny gasp of pleasure escaped her. Cash made that low, guttural sound again as he deepened the kiss, his mouth plundering hers with the thoroughness of a man determined to enjoy every bit of the treasure he'd found. She felt his fingers at the back clasp of her bra, felt them flex, then felt the band release. His hands stroked up and down her back, as if all he'd wanted was unimpeded access to all the skin he could reach. But Kyra wanted more. She wanted those caressing hands everywhere, touching, stroking, sending those crazy, hot little darts of need racing over her skin. Her body twisted, seeking. She lifted her head, looking down at him in a sort of dazed wonder. "Cash," she breathed, "please…" "What? Tell me, Kyra. Tel me what you want." Kyra's breath caught. What she'd wanted had never been much of an issue between her and Jack. Even when she'd touched him, he had accepted her ingenuous caresses with that mockingly benevolent smile, as if her hands were merely making the requisite acknowledgment of his beauty. And never had he sounded like Cash just had, his voice thready and ragged with hunger. "Damn it, Kyra, don't do that," Cash growled. "Don't bring that bastard between us, not now, not here." Caught, she flushed deeply. She lowered her eyes once more to that fascinating pulse at his throat. "What's happening here…it's good, Kyra. Don't ruin it." He gave a tight little laugh. "Don't make me spend the whole time worrying about whether I measure up to the perfect Jack."


Kyra's head shot up on a tiny gasp. "No! Oh, no, don't think that. I wasn't— He wasn't—'' She broke off, the near-violent denial clogged in the sudden tightness of her throat. "No," she said again, shaking her head. "I…I never meant… It's just… What I wanted… never mattered much." With a swift motion, Cash trapped her head between his hands, cupping her face. "It matters now." His voice was thick, urgent. "In fact, right now it's damn near the only thing that matters.'' He meant it. Kyra stared down into his face, seeing the set of his jaw, the sheen of moisture from their kisses on his mouth, the intensity glowing in his eyes, and she had to believe he meant it. "I want," she began slowly, forcing herself to dare it, to risk her fragile confidence, "you to touch me. Everywhere." And because it was true, she buried the inner warning that told her to hold back and added, "And I want to… touch you." She heard his quick intake of breath. "Anywhere," he said thickly. "Any way." And then his hands were pulling at her shirt, tugging if over her head, sweeping her unfastened bra away in the same motion. She lifted herself to free the material, then froze, feeling a moment of fear as she felt Cash's gaze on her nakedness. Jack had always said that if she'd had breasts proportional to her height, she'd have been a passably attractive woman. But there was nothing of disappointment in Cash's eyes, nothing but heat and want as he slowly slid his hands down her body. He cupped the soft fullness in his hands, and Kyra felt a soaring little jolt of pleasure as her breasts nestled against his palms. The fear flickered again for an instant when Cash lowered his lashes—did he not want to look, at her? But then a long, low sigh escaped him as his fingers moved, as if savoring the weight of that feminine flesh that was just enough to fill his hands, as if he wanted to fully concentrate on the feel of her, or as if feeling and looking together were too much. "Sweet," he murmured. "Warm… Ah, Kyra, you feel so good… so soft…" His thumbs moved abruptly, rising to rub over her nipples in a sudden, brushing caress that made her cry out at the burst of sensation that rippled down her nerves. "Except there," he said, looking at her now, obviously pleased with her reaction. "You're getting hard. And I can't wait to taste you there." Blushing furiously, Kyra couldn't meet that gently teasing gaze. "Don't be embarrassed," Cash said, his voice turning rueful. "I've been hard for days.'' Her gaze shot back to his face. What she saw there, in the steadiness of his gaze, in the heat burning in his eyes, gave her a courage she'd never thought to have in such an intimate situation. "And if I said I couldn't wait to taste you there?" His eyes widened in surprise, then narrowed in the same instant she felt his body clenching, rippling with tension beneath her. He choked back a groan, and his hands slipped to her shoulders as if he suddenly needed something to hang on to. All at the idea of her… tasting him? Kyra thought in astonishment. Her? And then he pulled her down, crashing her to him in a fierce embrace. Her naked breasts were pressed against his chest, and she nearly cried out again at the feel of that sleek, hot skin against her tingling nipples. "Ah, Kyra, I wanted this to be…special for you, I wanted to go slow and easy, to savor every


second… but you make me so damned hot, I can't even think." Astonishment rippled through her again at the idea of having that kind of effect on any man, let alone Cash Riordan. Yet he was here, holding her as if afraid to let her go, and she couldn't deny the way he was moving, rubbing himself against her, couldn't deny the pressure of aroused male flesh against her body. Tentatively she lowered her head and pressed her mouth to that fascinating spot in the hollow of his throat. She felt his pulse leap beneath her lips, then start to race. Her astonishment fled, replaced by joy at this undeniable proof that it was true, that his response was real, and for her. More certain now, she let her mouth move downward, trailing soft little kisses over skin that felt like hot satin stretched taut over hard, living muscle. She shifted her body to reach farther, then hesitated. But the memory of that leaping pulse fired her, and she pressed her lips to the flat, brown disc of his nipple. She felt that shudder ripple through him again, heard a low sound break from his throat. An echoing shiver skated down her spine, an odd combination of cold and heat that caused a clenching of muscles someplace low and deep inside her, a place she'd never been aware of before. When he lifted one hand to the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair as he pressed her head gently to his body, that low, deep place knotted again, sending out rippling waves of heat and sensation that seemed to careen back and condense into a heavy swelling, a growing feeling of heat and damp need. Instinctively, needing to do it, her tongue crept out to flick at the flat nub of flesh beneath her lips. Cash felt the darting, wet heat of that caress, felt the lancing stab of sensation that seemed to rip straight from her mouth to his rigid flesh, and knew he had no chance left of making this the slow, leisurely loving he'd envisioned. With a short, harsh groan he moved, shifted her to his side, thinking her legs longer than ever as he tried to get them free of interfering jeans and panties. His own jeans and briefs followed. He would rather have had her do it, but he couldn't wait, and he knew he'd better do it now, before he was shaking too badly to manage it. Kyra seemed startled by his sudden rush of motion, and when her gaze slid down to his achingly aroused flesh, her eyes widened and a tiny sound escaped her. He tried to control his urgency, afraid of frightening her, but just the way she was looking at him drove him nearly to the edge. "Kyra, please," he gasped out, "I know I'm rushing, but I need...You feel so good, I can't go slow. I just can't, not this time. I need you too much.'' Joy lit her face, and he knew that somewhere in his gulping words he'd said what she needed to hear. She opened her arms to him, and he lowered himself to her with a heartfelt groan. His raging body demanded that he drive himself into the waiting heat he could feel the moment his engorged shaft brushed over the top of her thighs, but at the same time the feel of her silken skin against the ultrasensitive tip made the need to touch, to feel every inch of her paramount. And he tried. His hands roved over her, stroking, caressing, seeking out the places that made her gasp, lingering at the places that made her moan. And then his mouth followed the path set by his hands, his lips eager, his tongue desperate for the feel of her, the taste of her. Savoring her gasps of pleasure, he teased her hardened, nipples, first with his lips and tongue, then by drawing her into his mouth and suckling until her back arched, thrusting her breasts upward to him for


more. His hands slipped down her long, slender body, his fingers parting the dark curls at the top of her thighs. His own body cramped with furious need when he found her already wet and slick and ready for him. He fought it down;, he wanted to see her response to his touch, and knew if he gave in to that need and buried himself in the waiting haven of her body, he would be lost to anything but his own newly sizzling senses. He probed gently, searching, trying not to think about how it was going to feel to let himself sink into this tight, yet giving flesh. He found that tiny knot of nerve endings, and when Kyra voiced a startled little cry, began a gently circling caress. He reveled in her visible wonder, at her amazement at her own response, almost as much as he reveled in the response itself. It could have been made no clearer to him that this was new to her, that he was making her feel things she had never felt before. It was a gift he'd never been given, not by the woman he'd thought to marry, and certainly not by all the jaded women who had little more to learn about the fleeting pleasures of casual sex. "Cash!" Her urgent gasp of his name sent shudders through him, wave after wave of sensation that cascaded through him and flooded downward to drive his already hardened body to the point of pain. But he kept on until she was quivering, her body moving in an unconsciously sensual rhythm, her hips lifting to his hand. He lowered his head to her breasts once more, taking first one, then the other nipple and catching it gently between his teeth for the flicking caress of his tongue. Then the tight little crests proved too tempting, and he took them into his mouth and suckled deeply. "Cash…oh, Cash." He felt the sudden leap of her pulse, the momentary stillness of her body as it gathered itself for flight. He moved then, swiftly, knowing he wanted to be inside her when it happened more than he'd ever wanted anything. He parted her legs almost roughly in his haste, but it didn't seem to matter; she opened even farther for him with an eagerness that brought him so close to the edge he wondered for an instant if he was going to last long enough. He reached down to guide himself, his jaw clenched as the hot pulsing began to build. He probed into her, smothering a groan as her slick, hot flesh yielded to him. He was almost mindless with the effort to hold back, his voice little more than a hoarse growl as he sank into her. "Oh…Kyra…you're so hot…tight… I can't…" An oath, short and pungent, ripped from him as he lost the battle to go slow. He drove forward in one fierce thrust, burying himself to the hilt, his cry of triumph blending with Kyra's sharp exclamation of pleasure. She clung to him, quivering, whispering his name over and over, her body sheathing him as if made for him, welcoming him as if he were some long-lost part of her, returned at last. For an instant he couldn't move at all. It was as if her heat had shorted out every nerve in his body except for those inches of flesh buried deep inside her. His breath was coming in quick, shallow pants as he fought down the rising tide. In some tiny, functioning part of his mind he was reeling at the intensity of what he was feeling. "Cash?"


He heard the tiny hint of doubt in her voice, felt the sudden tightness of her fingers as they dug into his back. His body clenched, winding tighter. "Just…give me a second…I can't…ahhh…if you'move I'll…" He had to move, he thought. She was too close, and he wouldn't, couldn't leave her here on the edge of that soaring flight. He slid his hand down between them, vaguely aware that sweat was breaking out on his body, making them both slick. But it was nothing compared to the slickness his fingers found where they were joined, nothing compared to Kyra's wet heat. The moment he touched her, she cried out his name again, and her hips began to buck beneath him, taking more of him than he'd thought he had to give. He let out a choking groan when her hands slid down to grasp his hips, to pull him closer; why had he never realized how good it felt to be touched there? He pushed forward, harder, his fear of hurting her fading before her eagerness as she took him, all of him. The pressure was exquisite, building, grinding, the sweet friction overpowering. In the moment he heard her throaty moan, in the moment when he felt the deep muscles clasping him begin to clench, when he knew she was with him, he let his hands go to her shoulders, bracing her as he began to thrust long and hard and deep, convulsively, urgently. Her body gripped him in rippling waves, setting up answering waves within him that surged outward until he thought he'd lost the boundaries of himself and become more, somehow. Her cries of delight were the lit fuse to an eruption that rocked him to the core of his being, and at the peak Cash shuddered and moaned his pleasure with an ardor that would have shocked him if he'd been aware of it. Kyra heard his deep-throated exclamation, and the sweet sound of his surrender set up an echo of her own explosion of pleasure, another wave of wrenching sensation that made her body tighten anew around his. She felt him jerk involuntarily in response, and another little thrill raced through her. He was out of control. She couldn't doubt it, not when she felt the way he moved so fiercely, not when she saw the way his body bowed as he drove into her, his head thrown back so sharply that the cords of his neck stood out, not when she saw his face drawn tight with passion, not when she heard his gasping, guttural shout of pleasure. And she had given him this, she, too tall, gangly, decidedly average-looking Kyra Austin. A new, amazing feeling welled up in her at the realization, a feeling of joy that stemmed not just from the satisfaction of her body, but the discovery of some new sense of femininity, of a quiet knowledge that she had the capacity to do this, to make a man like Cash Riordan want so badly, he shook with it. It was heady stuff, new and strange to her, and as she held him, she wondered if he would ever know how much he'd given her this night. She'd never been so aware of another person, and made so aware of herself. But most of all she was aware of the connection between them. Little aftershocks gripped her, and with each one, his body clenched in reaction to the caress of those inner muscles. His breath was coming in harsh gulps, caught in his throat whenever one of those tremors of sensation hit them. When she'd seen him, naked and reaching for her, all her old fears had risen to the surface—what made her think she was woman enough to please a man like Cash? But he had soothed her fears with his words of need and hunger, and then shown her that if she hadn't been woman enough before, it was because she hadn't known what it meant. She hadn't known what it felt like to be simply, genuinely wanted. But she knew now, had known from the moment he had slid inside her, the moment he had filled that empty, aching place, easing a pain she'd carried for years without even realizing it.


She felt him try to move, to lift his weight off of her. She started to protest, loving the pressure of his body, the feel of him still inside her, but stopped the words when he gave up the effort and slumped back over her. After a moment he tried again. And again, as if his muscles had been turned to liquid, he fell back. He mumbled sometMng she couldn't hear. "What?" she whispered. "Sorry." It was muffled against her neck as his head sagged against her. "Can't… move." "Don't move," she urged, needing this closeness. His hands tightened, fingers gripping her shoulders, as if that were all the answer he had the energy to give. She hugged him back, and held him as his breathing gradually slowed. She was aware of the moment he slipped into sleep, felt the relaxing of muscle, the slackening as his body slid to one side. She regretted the loss of contact, but contented herself with the fact that his leg was still thrown over her hips, and his arms still around her. It didn't bother her that he'd fallen asleep; he'd needed it so desperately. And it gave her a quiet moment to adjust to all the discoveries she'd made tonight, discoveries about her own femininity and the unexpected generosity a man—a man like Cash—was capable of. No wonder, she thought with a tiny sigh, all those women claimed to have been his lover. That was a sort of wishful thinking she could understand. Now. She'd thought, when she'd first come to the island, that this was indeed a sanctuary that could cure many afflictions. But her beliefs had undergone a transformation in the heated, passionate minutes of this joining. This man, she thought, even more than this island, was a haven a woman could ran to, a place to regain her strength, to shore up the courage needed to go out and face it all again. The moment the words formed in her brain, she cut them off, smothering a little cry of shocked dismay. What was she thinking? My God, Austin, she lectured herself, you've slipped into never-never land. The man just made love to you—albeit more sweetly than you ever thought possible, much too sweet to be called simply sex—that's all. He was Cash Riordan, not some guy she'd met back home on the beach or something. He'd merely needed her, she told herself. Just as she, if she was honest, had needed him. So they had satisfied a mutual need—Lord, how they had satisfied it—nothing more. He had spoken of nothing but want and need, and she'd be a bigger fool than she'd ever been to imagine otherwise, despite the incredible tenderness he'd shown her. Shaken by her silly thoughts, she slipped out of the sleeping Cash's arms. Stifling her own amazement that she still had a functioning, fantasizing lobe in the practical brain she had been sure was cured of such hyperbole, she tried to focus on the one thing she was sure of. Now, more than ever, she was determined to keep Cash safe. Where the intensity of their joining had enervated Cash, Kyra found herself filled with a restless energy, induced by a renewed need to protect and defend. While part of her yearned to prolong the fantasy, to just cuddle up beside him while she could, pretending there was more to this than there was, her strong, professional instincts were taking over. She looked at Cash as she sat up, looked at the tousled mane of his hair, the lowered semicircles of thick, dark lashes as he got that much-needed sleep. She looked at the strong, muscled lines of his back and shoulders, tapering down to narrow hips. Her fingers tingled as she remembered the flexing of his


taut buttocks beneath her hands. She would not, she vowed fiercely, let anything happen to him. She just wouldn't. She slid out of his bed, reaching for her clothes. She would check the security systems once more, she thought. Just to be sure. And then, when she was sure, she would come back and steal what fantasy there was left for her.

Chapter 10

Fighting down a blush as she untangled the clothes Cash had pulled from her so urgently, Kyra tried to turn her mind to business. The bothersome puzzle of Scirocco's unexpected low—and somewhat confused—profile after two strikes that had been successful publicity-wise if not at achieving their stated goal of Cash's death, nagged at her. It didn't fit, and that made her nervous. She didn't dare look back at Cash as she slipped quietly out of the room, for fear she would weaken and run back to him. She needed to do this, to ensure he was safe, as if coming back to him were something she had to earn. She had always thought one paid for one's pleasures in one way or another. She was amazed at how much she was willing to pay for this particular one. She'd risked her pride, her fledgling confidence in her womanhood, and was very much afraid that, unintentionally, unknowingly, she had risked her heart. And afraid that she wouldn't know until it was too late and she'd lost it. After leaning against the hallway wall to pull on and lace-up her boots, she walked quietly into the living room and saw a light still on in the library. The world had all but faded away in Cash's arms, and she was startled to find that for others, it had kept right on spinning. She paused in the doorway, her mind already working on mentally cataloging everyone's whereabouts. Dave sat in one of the comfortable leather chairs, reading. He glanced up at her, a smile forming on his face. Then the smile faded and his eyes narrowed as he looked at her more closely. Abruptly, Kyra realized what she must look like, her hair in a tangle from Cash's hands, her lips feeling still swollen from his kisses. She must look, she thought as color crept up into her face, like what she was—a woman who has been thoroughly and totally loved. She could read in Dave's face what he was thinking. And that he wasn't at all happy about it. She could understand, she thought. From his viewpoint, she could see what it must look like, a woman infatuated with the star, taking advantage of the situation that threw them together. She opened her mouth to tell him it wasn't like that, that it was the island Cash, as far removed from the Hollywood image as he could get, that so attracted her. That she wished they could stay here and never go back to his crazy world... She choked off the fanciful thoughts. Again. And gave up the idea of explaining to Dave, doubtless he wouldn't believe her anyway. Without a word she turned away. She shut off one of the alarms to let herself past the infrared beam, then turned it back on and scurried outside. She was checking the trip wire on the path into the woods when a sound made her whirl. She dropped into a crouch, braced, then relaxed when she recognized Walt. Everyone, it seemed, was restless tonight. Except, she thought with a rush of remembered heat, Cash, now.


"You're up late," she commented. Walt shrugged. "I heard something down by the boat-house." Kyra's brow furrowed; she'd heard nothing. "When?" "Fifteen, twenty minutes ago. I've been down there looking around." "Oh." She pretended to look down once more at the trip wire, but didn't really see it; she was busy remembering exactly what she'd been doing twenty minutes ago and why she hadn't heard whatever Walt had heard. "You're up late, too." Kyra's eyes lifted swiftly to Walt's face. He wore a rather strange expression, but there was no trace of knowledge in his eyes. "I wanted to recheck everything." "You're very… dedicated.'' "I suppose I am," she answered, feeling uncomfortable for a reason she couldn't quite pin down at first. When she realized she was wishing she'd taken the time to put her bra back on before she'd left Cash's room, she told herself she was being silly. "Don't you ever take time out?'' Her discomfort increased when Walt's gaze flickered over her breasts. She was being idiotic, she thought. She was just too aware of the nakedness of her breasts beneath her shirt. She was just too aware of her entire body, after Cash's tender loving, she lectured herself silently. She had to con-ceatrate to remember what Walt had said. "Time out?" she asked. "You know. For fun." Was he hinting at something, that he, too, knew what had transpired tonight between her and Cash? Here in the shadows of the trees, he couldn't have seen enough to guess, as Dave had. Yet why else was he talking like this? "Sometimes," she said slowly. "How about now?" God, she felt like a kid who'd gotten caught stealing some sweets from a candy rack. "What do you mean?" "You and me." He smiled, crookedly. "I'm not like most other guys. I think tall women are… you know, sexy." Kyra stared at him, startled by the realization that Walt, quiet, studious Walt, was making a pass at her. So she hadn't been imagining that he was studying her breasts, she thought in amazement, an amazement


partially made up of wonder that his look could leave her cold, could make her so uncomfortable, while when Cash looked at her… Boarding that train of thought will get you nowhere but into trouble, she muttered inwardly. She tried to compose herself. "Thank you, Walt. That's… nice of you to say." His mouth twisted, and he gave a small nod of his head, as if her response was what he'd expected. "But you're not interested." Oh, Lord, Kyra thought. Feast or famine. You haven't had a real date since Jack, and now you get two offers in one Bight. And the fact that you accepted—no, welcomed—one of them only made this one more difficult to decline gracefully. "I just don't think it would be wise, Walt." "Because of your job?" "Partly," she said honestly. "But I'm flattered. Please don't take it personally." He just stared at her for a long moment, and Kyra had the oddest feeling she was being assessed, scored somehow on a tally sheet only Walt knew about. And when he gave her a short nod and a shorter "Good night" before walking away, she couldn't help wondering if she'd passed or failed whatever test it had been. Suddenly she was filed with an urgent need to see Cash again, to touch him,to know that she hadn't dreamed the joy he'd given her, and that, miracle of miracles, she seemed to have given him. But remembering what Walt had said about a noise, she made herself first go down to the boathouse. She'd been there to look at the modest powerboat before, feeling a little surprised that it wasn't one of the flashy racing boats so prevalent in Hollywood these days. But then she had realized she shouldn't have been surprised; this boat fit the island Cash, not the celebrity, and if she'd thought about it more carefully, she would have known that the other kind of boat wouldn't suit him—not here. She flipped on the lights inside the wooden building that housed the boat, a near necessity here in this land of frequent rain. The closest light, the one over the stern of the boat, was burnt out, she noticed, leaving everything cast in shadow. The other two bulbs were working, however, and as she made a quick search of the interior of the building, everything appeared as before. She checked the boat as best she could in the dim light, but it was difficult to see. Promising herself she would make a thorough search at first light, she closed up the boathouse and made her way back up to the house. She couldn't tell from outside if the light was still on in the library. But she didn't feel up to running the gauntlet of Dave's disapproving gaze again, so she walked around the outside of the house, glancing at the darkened windows as she made her way to the French doors that led into Cash's room. She reached for the knob, then stopped. Quickly she bent to pull off her boots and socks so she wouldn't wake him with the sound of the hard rubber soles on the wood floor. Boots In hand, she opened the door, slipped inside, and quietly pulled it closed behind her. And nearly dropped the boots when his voice came softly from practically beside her. "I'm sorry."


"What?" she asked, trying to slow her racing heart. She could see the shape of him in the shadows of the room, dark and solid. And naked. She gave up the effort to slow her pulse, suddenly feeling very tentative. She had no experience in situations like this, and she wasn't sure what to do. "I said I'm sorry. I didn't mean to fall asleep like that." Kyra nearly gaped at him. Jack had made a habit of falling asleep immediately afterward and had never even thought there was anything to apologize for. And he had never had as good a reason for it as Cash had. Or maybe he had, she thought wryly. He'd had a lot of women to keep happy. A jolt of surprise shot through her. She'd never been able to think of Jack and his peccadillos so lightly before. She felt as if a great pressure had been eased, and she owed it to Cash. "Kyra?" He stepped toward her, out of the shadows and into the flood of moonlight that streamed in through the windows of the French doors. The silver light poured over him, over the muscled planes of his chest, the ridged flatness of his belly, the taut swell of his buttocks. It gilded the narrow trail of hair that arrowed downward from his navel to expand into the thicket of curls that surrounded half-aroused male flesh. Her breath caught in her throat at the sight of him, and the thought that that arousal was for her left her mute with wonder. "You are upset, aren't you." The weary words weren't really a question. "I don't blame you." Kyra found her voice at last. "No! Don't apologize. It's all right. You were exhausted." He lifted his hands then and put them gently on her shoulders. "Thank you. But that's no excuse. It was our first time together, and you deserve better than that."" Kyra felt the sudden sting of moisture behind her eyelids. "I don't think it gets much better," she whispered. Cash smiled, but said wryly, "I'll settle for better than… what's his name." Kyra smiled at his refusal to even use Jack's name. And again wondered at the lack of pain. Conscious of the small-miracle Cash had wrought, she lifted a hand to touch his lips with one finger as she spoke "Whatwashis name, anyway?" Cash went very still. Then he laughed, loud and long and joyous. He pulled Kyra into his arms and hugged her tightly, raining nibbling little kisses on her forehead, her nose, her cheeks. Kyra heard an odd, happy little sound, and realized in shock that she had giggled. She hadn't giggled in years, ever since she'd overheard mean-spirited schoolmate saying a girl her size should never giggle, it looked ridiculous, "Mmm, I like that sound," Cash murmured against her ear. The warmth of his breath sent a shiver down her spine. And the feel of his skin beneath her hands sent a sudden awareness of his nudity racing along her nerves. Heat burst in her as in her mind a clear image formed of how they must look—her in Cash's arms, fully clothed except for bare feet, him naked and awash in the moonlight. "And I like whatever you just thought that made you all hot and bothered all of a sudden."


Kyra flushed, then gasped as his tongue slipped into her ear, caressing the small curves with a touch so delicate it made her shiver. And she was surprised when she felt Cash shiver in turn. "Oh, Kyra, you respond to me like no one I've ever known. And it makes me crazy." With a blissful sigh, she leaned into him, burying her face in the muscled curve of neck to shoulder. He let his head drop until his cheek rested on her hair. "I never realized," he said after a moment, "how good it would feel to hold a woman who… fits me. How good it would be to feel you against me nearly head-to-toe." Kyra bit back a tiny sob as his words soothed so many long-ago hurts. "There is one problem, though," he added. Kyra tilted her head back to look at him, her brow furrowed with misgiving. "What?" "You're overdressed. I want bare skin head-to-toe. If you don't mind." Mind? Kyra nearly laughed. Her joy gave her the courage to tease him a little. "Oh?" Her hands slid down over his bare skin. Her fingers pressed against the small of his back, then curled as she moved to cup the tight curve of his buttocks. "I don't know, I think I like it like this." He groaned, a low, husky sound she felt rumbling up in his chest before she heard it. When her fingers flexed, pressing into his flesh as they had when he'd been driving deep into her body, the sound broke off in a choking gasp. "I think I like it, too," he ground out through clenched teeth. "So much that I'm about to explode right here." "But we'd better stop," Kyra said, removing her hands, amazed' that she was daring to banter with him like this. "You are awfully tired, after all." "Tired?" The word was a tight, edged sound. He reached for her hand, dragging it down his body and clasping her fingers around his erect flesh. "Tired? Lady, I think I could be dead and still want you. Especially now that I know—" His words broke off and an exclamation burst from him as she moved her fingers in a tentative, stroking caress. From tip to base and back again she explored him, her gaze shifting from his face as his head lolled back and his lashes lowered in pleasure, to the satin-over-steel part of him that was expanding even more under her touch. "Especially now that you know what?" she asked. "That—" he sucked in a quick, deep breath as her hand moved lower, gently searching "—with you it's—" his breath caught sharply as she reached her goal and cupped rounded male flesh in her palm "—it's so much more…ah, yes, Kyra, like that!" He was beautiful, Kyra thought as he shifted his body to give her better access, beautiful in a way Jack had never been, despite his picture-perfect looks. Cash was beautiful to her because of the realness of


him and the genuineness of his need. A genuineness that was brought home to her when, with a strangled groan, he pulled her hand away. "You've got to stop, Kyra, or it's going to be right here on the floor." Kyra glanced downward instinctively. There was a deep green throw rug atop the polished wood floor beneath their feet. It looked soft, almost inviting in the glow of the moonlight. She tested its thickness with a tentative toe. At her movement Cash groaned again, and her gaze shot back to his face questioningly. "You did that like you were ready to lie down and let me-take you like that." Her forehead creased. "Is that… Would that be wrong?" Cash stared at her, his lips parted for breath as if the air around them had grown suddenly deficient in oxygen. "No," he said thickly. "It would be perfect." Wondering where this boldness had come from, Kyra backed up a step from him, reached for the hem of her shirt and tugged it over her head. His eyes, heat burgeoning in the green depths, followed her movement. When he saw her breasts were bare, his gaze lifted to her face. What she saw there made her blood begin to pulse in hot, heavy beats and her nipples draw up into tight, distended peaks. Such a difference it made, she thought again, when it's the right man… She nearly gasped when Cash moved suddenly, his arm locking around her waist. Then she did gasp as her breasts were crashed against the hot, sleek wall of his chest. And she gasped again as he lifted her, seemingly easily. All that chopping wood, she thought a little dazedly, did wonders for a man's strength. Captivated by the novelty of being held as if she were one of the petite little creatures she had always so envied, Kyra was caught off guard when Cash's free hand pulled at the button on her jeans, released it and tugged down the zipper. It was a jerky, uneven movement, made awkward by his holding her. The moment she realized his intentions she moved to help him, yanking at the heavy denim and then kicking it free of her legs. She barely had time to rid herself of the high-cut panties before Cash had lodged his free arm behind her knees, cradled her in his arms and gone down to the floor in one controlled motion. It was a motion fraught with care, making certain that he went down first, cushioning her from even the slightest impact with the floor. And when they were there, he rolled to his back, never releasing his hold on her, so that she was once again draped over his body. He shifted, using his legs to straighten hers so that the full length of her body was pressed to his, at ankle, calf, thigh, torso, and then with a quick movement of his head, her mouth. The connection complete, his sigh of satisfaction tickled her lips. I never realized how good it would feel to hold a woman-who…fits me. How good it would be to feel you against me nearly head-to-toe. His words echoed in her mind, and a matching satisfaction rippled through her. She'd never thought to be glad of her height in such an intimate situation, but Cash was changing that, as well, as he had begun to change so many of her perceptions, her assumptions. She only hoped that she was changing some of his, as well. Because she wasn't like those women who had left him so cynical. Shedidcare about him. Cared about him more than was comfortable. More than was safe, for her, because deep down she knew this unbelievable sweetness was temporary. There was no place in his world for someone like her, even if he


were to want her there. And then the feel of his tongue probing past the ridge of her teeth brought all rational thought to a swift halt, and she let her own tongue flick forward, eager to taste him again,eager to hear his groans of pleasure, to feel his body respond so fiercely, eager for it even more than she was for her own soaring flight. But Cash seemed to have his own plans. His hands slipped up and down her body, in each place stopping for an instant to press her tighter against him. First her shoulders, and she felt the exquisite increase in the pressure of his chest against her breasts. Then her waist, until she thought she could feel each ridge of muscle in his belly. He skimmed downward to the backs of her thighs, and she could feel the rough texture of the hair on his legs, the long, strong muscles there. By the time his hands crept back up to the curve of her buttocks, she was twisting in his embrace, rubbing herself against him, feeling, uncharacteristically, as lithe as a cat and incredibly sensuous. Then he cupped her there, gently kneading the taut curves as he again pulled her tight to him. And Kyra's breath and her movement both stopped as she felt the hot, rigid length of him caught between them.. On a throttled groan, Cash went suddenly still. She felt the tension of his body, felt the quiver in his hands as they gently clasped her. Then he moved sharply, his hips thrusting upwards convulsively, driving his hardness against her stomach. "Cash," she breathed, startled by the sudden ache she felt low and deep inside her. That it was in response to the obvious proof that he was ready to ease that ache, to fill that hollowness as it had never been filled before him, Kyra knew. What she didn't know was where this woman had come from, this wanton and wanting creature she'd become. Cash went still again. She lifted her head to look at his face. He met her gaze steadily, making no effort to hide the growing heat of desire in his eyes. "Tell me what you want, Kyra," he said softly: "I want…" A tiny moan escaped her. "I feel so empty. I think I've always felt empty, I just didn't know what it was until you filled me and made it go away." "Is that what you want?" His voice had gone thick and husky. "You want me to… fill you?" "Yes," she said, knowing it was true and that she wanted it more fiercely than she had thought herself capable of wanting anything. "I want you… inside me. Deep inside." Cash's hands went to her shoulders, and she felt a tremor go through him as he tightened his grip just enough to lift her away from him. She looked at him, puzzled, as he gently pushed her nearly upright. "Then put me there,'' he whispered. A small sound escaped her, a sound of need and excitement tinged with hesitation. But Cash didn't move, although his hands tightened slightly on her shoulders when he heard that little murmur. Then he released her, and to keep from falling forward she had to quickly move her legs up for balance. She wound up on her knees straddling his hips, and her heart leapt at the sudden, blatant intimacy. She could feel her own heat, could feel the slick moisture of her body as it prepared for him, and when she realized he must feel it, too, her color rose fiercely. Yet when she looked at him, she saw only a need that


mirrored her own, and a jaw set tight as if it were taking all his will to keep from moving: After a moment she realized that he wasn't going to move at all. That it was up to her. That he was giving this to her, this complete control. That he wanted her to take it. And again it was driven home to her that this man was not Jack, nor anything like him. Her movements made slow by uncertainty, she lifted her body. Hesitantly she slid one hand down over his belly, stopping when she felt the sudden ripple of muscle beneath her hand. Her gaze shot to his face. "Can't help it," he said, his voice muffled as his jaw clenched. That helpless admission fired her. With a new sureness she moved again, her hand slowing for a stroking caiess that made him gasp before she guided him to her and began to lower herself. She moved slowly, savoring every hard inch of him as she impaled herself. "Kyra!" It came out as a burst of sound. "Oh… you're killing me." She stopped, her eyes lifting to his face once more. His head was thrown back, the cords of his neck straining, his pulse pounding in the hollow of his throat. "Don't stop," he grated. "Please, don't stop." "I won't," she promised huskily. "I can't. You feel too good." Cash swore, low, harsh and incredibly tender. "Just hurry. Please. I can't— Ahh…" Kyra leveled in the way his voice shattered into a groan of pure pleasure as she moved suddenly, taking in the rest of him with fierce quickness. His hands shot to her hips, to hold her there, pressing her downward as if he feared she was going to leave him. His hips rocked her, moved his hardness inside her, and she couldn't stop a tiny moan. She mimicked the movement herself, and Cash groaned in satisfaction. When his hands left her hips, Kyra thought it was because she had learned the motion. But then she felt them on her breasts, cupping, gently squeezing, lifting. She arched her back, thrusting herself against his palms, wanting more. And when he gave it to her, when his fingers first circled, then caught and plucked her nipples, fire shot through her body from those two aroused peaks until she was convinced there was some mysterious direct connection between them and the flesh that he had so sweetly invaded. She didn't realize that she'd begun to move faster until she heard Cash's fervent encouragement and felt his hips once more begin to buck beneath her. Again and again he lifted her, driving his body even higher into hers, and again and again she rode him down, taking, savoring the thick penetration. His hands slid down over the gentle curve of her stomach, probed the dark curls and slipped forward to the joining of their bodies. When she rocked forward, she could feel the exquisite extra pressure on that swollen bud of flesh, and when he moved his fingers, she cried out. "Cash!" Involuntarily she arched backward, heedless of the wanton picture her body, legs open for his invasion, hips and breasts thrust forward, presented to him. "Yes," he hissed out from behind clenched teeth as he moved that probing finger in a thorough, compelling caress. "Yes, now. Right now. I can't wait—"


If he said anything more, Kyra didn't hear it. Her body was bursting, exploding past its limits in a rush of sensation too fierce to be contained. She vaguely heard, amid the spinning, a throaty feminine moan and a guttural, almost wild masculine cry, blending together into a sensual chorus of pleasure. She felt hands that were strong, yet trembling, at her hips, holding her solidly impaled on the flesh that was flooding her with such heat and light and life that she could barely breathe. She felt the rhythmic throbbing of her own flesh, clenching, milking, drawing out the last ounce of voluptuous wetness, and felt the shudders rippling through Cash's body in the same cadence; It seemed to go on and on before, at last, the tide began to ebb and the world slowly shifted back into place. Her body feeling utterly boneless, Kyra collapsed atop him. Her breath was coming in quick little pants—or was it his? His arms came up around her, lightly caressing her back, as if he wanted to keep touching her but had only the energy for that feathery pressure. It was a long time before either of them had the strength for anything more. "I guess this means I'm forgiven?" Cash asked at last. Kyra stirred, lifting her head to look at him, giving him a smile that she knew had to look like a very contented version of the Cheshire Cat. It was exactly how she felt right now. "There was nothing to forgive." "Then why did you leave?" His lashes lowered, masking his eyes. "I didn't think you were coming back. I was about to go look for you, to try and explain—'' She touched a finger to his lips, stopping his words. "Explain what? That you've been under an incredible strain, that you've been working like a day laborer, that your world's been turned on its ear and that you can't sleep? I know that." "I still shouldn't have-" "Hush.Forget.it." "You really weren't mad?" "No." Her smile became a grin. "But if I had been, you sure have an incredible way of making up.'' The concerned look on his face faded, to be replaced with an answering grin that made Kyra feel a soft warmth spreading inside her, different than the heat he kindled when he touched her—more comforting somehow, but no less strong. "You did it," he said, his grin going delightfully lopsided. "And let me tell you, if that's making up, it would be worth having a fight for. We'll have to try it sometime." Kyra felt a little shiver of premonition skate up her spine. He was talking as if there were a future for them, as if he expected her to be around to fight with. Yet she couldn't see it, couldn't project herself into the world she knew he lived in. Their time would end when they left the island. But she was loath to destroy the luxurious peace that had descended upon them, so she said nothing. And when he at last got up and insisted on carrying her to his bed, she didn't argue. She merely snuggled into his arms, hugging the feeling to her as would a person certain this was all they would ever have of this particular treasure. Just as she held on to the feeling of his arms around her, pulling her into the curve of


his body and adjusting the pillows so that they shared his. And when he woke her twice more in the darkness, she treasured that, as well, blinking back tears when he gently asked if she was too sore and glorying in the sight of him rising above her and the feel of him driving deep into her after she told him any soreness was far outweighed by wanting. And she slipped into sleep with his hot, sexy promise in her ear: in the morning he was going to start at her toes and kiss his way north. And when his voice dropped to a husky little whisper as he told her where and how he was going to kiss her after that, Kyra found herself wishing, despite her sated exhaustion, that morning would hurry. It was a wish she wanted to recall when, in the sleepy moments just before dawn, they were awakened by a deafening explosion, the sound of shattering glass and the shrieking of every alarm in the house.

Chapter 11

Kyra jerked upright in Cash's bed. He was already sitting up beside her, and the look they exchanged was one of dread. They rolled out of bed, scrambling for their clothes. "Shoes," Kyra said sharply when she saw Cash heading for the door in only his jeans. "That was glass breaking." He hesitated, but then tamed and went for his boots. As she donned her own, Kyra wondered why she wasn't trying to stop him, then realized she knew him well enough now to know she wouldn't be able to, not when his sanctuary had been breached, not when his two dearest friends were in harm's way. She heard an ominous, distant, whooshing sound. "I don't think it was the house,'' she said as she hastily tugged her shirt over her head. "It didn't feel that close." Cash didn't answer, just concentrated on swiftly tying the last lace on his boots. Then he was headed for the outer doors at a run. Kyra shoved her arms through her sleeves and was hot on his heels. The first thing Kyra saw when Cash yanked open the doors was Walt, just coming out of his own room. He, too, was only in jeans, his thin, wiry upper body looking pale in the gray light of a misty dawn. He turned as they came out onto the steps and despite the urgency of the moment, Kyra was suddenly very aware of her own sleepily tousled looks, of Cash's half-nude state and of the fact that Walt had obviously seen them both coming out of Cash's room. Walt stared at them for an instant, then looked away quickly, but not before Kyra saw anger flicker across his narrow face. She felt a twinge of conscience, knowing too well how Walt must feel, finding her with Cash so soon after she had, in essence, rejected him. She supposed telling the truth last night would have been kinder, but she hadn't realized that then; she'd never been in such a position before. "Are you all right?" Cash's words were anxious as he looked at his friend for any sign of injury, in his concern apparently missing Walt's displeasure.


"Great," Walt snapped. "And so," he added with the barest trace of sarcasm, "are you, obviously." Cash didn't miss it that time. Kyra saw his eyes narrow as he looked at Walt. But he didn't waste time on it now. "Where's Dave?" "We came out together, but I don't know—" "Right here." Dave's voice came from the comer of the house, and Kyra felt Cash let out a breath of relief. "You'd better get out here, Cash. But be careful. There's a lot of broken glass." Cash glanced at her, as if remembering her warning, then looked at Walt's narrow, bare feet. "Get some shoes," he said briefly as he went down the steps. Kyra saw the moment they rounded the corner where Dave was standing that his words had been an understatement. The ground looked as though it had been scattered with tiny crystals, winking in the moonlight. Odd, if the explosion had been outside, she thought, but then remembered the double-paned thermal windows and realized the reason why so much glass had fallen outside instead of just being blown inward. Then they were in front of the house, and Kyra knew that a few broken windows were the least of the damage. She stared down the slope at the dock and at the dancing, leaping flames that explained the odd, whooshing noise she'd heard earlier. The boathouse was engulfed, the fire already creeping toward the roof. She broke into a run. She nearly slipped in the morning-damp grass on the slope and barely remembered to jump the trip wire—God knew, they didn't need any more noise—before she made it down the hill. She had just set foot on the dock when strong hands yanked her back. She nearly yelped. She'd known Cash was behind her, but hadn't expected him to grab her like that. "It's too late, Kyra. You can't do anything." "I know that." She tried to pull free, but he held her firmly. "I just need to see if I can tell where it started—" She broke off at his laugh, a grim, sharp sound. "Does it matter? Knowing isn't going to change anything." "But if-" "No." "Cash—" "Damn it, Kyra, you could get hurt." As if he'd heard the urgency in his own voice, he stopped, swallowed, then went on more calmly, "There were nearly three hundred gallons of fuel on that boat. It's going to burn to the waterline. We're too far out to send for help. There's nothing we can do."


"Except watch it burn," Dave said, coming to a halt beside them, his eyes fastened on the inferno. "And be glad none of us were on it," Walt, now wearing a shirt and tennis shoes, put in from behind them. "Yes." Cash's voice was flat, dead-sounding. Kyra glanced at him, worried. He just stared at the fire, the flames reflecting like gold sparks in his green eyes and sliding in sheets over his naked chest. She hurt for him. And what made it worse was the knowledge that this was her fault, that if she'd done her job last night and thoroughly inspected the boathouse the way she should have, this might not have happened. She looked over her shoulder at Walt—any trace of animosity was missing now as he, too, stared at the conflagration. She wished he hadn't thrown that in Cash's face. But hadn't she been desperate to do the same thing, to make Cash admit the reality of his own danger? Maybe now he would see reason, to protect his friends if not himself. She knew there was little likelihood that anyone was still around, but she would have to take a look around anyway. She stopped on the verge of ordering the three friends to stay where they were. Dave and Cash looked too much in shock to move, Walt was watching Cash like a worried parent and she doubted he would leave Cash's side. After a quick trip to the house to get the Clock, just in case, she made a circuit of the island and found what she'd expected—nothing. No obvious sign that anyone had been here, no disturbance of the ground in the few small coves where a landing would be feasible. Nor was there any sign of passage in the woods. Of course, despite Cash's teasing, she was no Daniel Boone, but she'd come to know this little piece of ground fairly well, and for someone to have missed all her trip wires, they would have had to leave some sign. When she returned, the three men still standing where she had left them, staring at what was left of the boathouse and at the smoking, half-floating hulk that had been the boat. She doubted if they even realized she'd been gone. For ail its ferocity, the fire hadn't lasted long. All that was left was a wisp of grayish smoke that seemed to disappear into the morning fog. "Are we going to have the Coast Guard or somebody out here?" Dave asked at last. Kyra glanced up at the hovering gray mist, then at Cash. Belatedly, he seemed to realize they were looking to him for the answer. "I don't think so. Even if a Forest Service lookout had spotted it, which I doubt with this fog, I don't think they would have had time to triangulate and get a fig on it. And we're on the other side from the most-populated area." "Let's just hope what neighbors there are on this side were all asleep," Kyra said. "The last thing we need is a fleet of curiosity seekers finding out you're here." Cash, who had turned his gaze back to the wreckage, didn't respond. "You'd better get up to the house and out of sight just in case," she told him. "Dave, could you stay here for a bit and head off any curiosity seekers?"


"And make sure the whole island doesn't catch?" he said wryly, tugging at his beard. "Sure. I'll wet down the dock a bit, too. Maybe I can save it." "Thanks." She turned to Walt, hesitated a moment as the memory of that angry look intruded, but necessity won out. "Walt, would you come back to the house, too? I'd like to talk to you again about what you heard last night." Cash looked at Walt. "Last night?" Something flickered in Walt's eyes, but it was gone too quickly for Kyra to know if it was pique again. "Yeah," he drawled. "And I already told her everything. I heard a noise and went outside to look around. That's all. I ran into our security expert on her midnight rounds." Cash's glance flicked to Kyra. "Midnight?" She couldn't help the color that tinged her cheeks at the sudden knowledge in his eyes. She hadn't told him why she'd left last night, but he obviously knew now. "I never realized that she was quitethatdedicated," Walt said, a mocking undertone to his voice that even Cash, in his state of shock over the explosion and the invasion of his home, didn't miss. Not knowing about Walt's awkward pass, Cash had no way of knowing what was behind the sarcasm, but Kyra knew, too well. Before Walt could say anything else, Kyra was urging Cash up the path to the house. She would talk to Walt alone, later. His face expressionless, Cash picked his way through the shards of glass to the front door. Kyra followed, hoping vehemently that her surface assessment was right and that other than the shattered windows, there wasn't much damage. When they got inside, she breathed a sigh of relief. Except for some things knocked over and the mess of broken glass, the interior seemed relatively intact. "It's not too bad," she said tentatively. He glanced at her, but said nothing as he continued to go from window to window, as if he had to see for himself that all had been destroyed. He loved this place so much, Kyra thought, and it must be killing him to know they'd gotten so close. "There doesn't seem to be any structural damage. It can be fixed, Cash." When he looked at her this time, Kyra felt herself cringe. He was retreating rapidly, behind a wall of shock and pain that was almost visible. Remorse flooded her anew. "Cash, I'm sorry. This is my fault, I should have—" "Leave it. Just leave it. Please.'' Kyra bit her lip at the harshness of his tone. When measured against the sweetness of last night, it stung. But, with guilt riding her hard, she couldn't blame him. Realizing there was nothing she could do for him when he was shutting her out like this, she quietly left the house and made her way back down to the dock. Cash heard her go, heard her quiet, careful footsteps, but he didn't turn to look. Dazedly, prodded by a mind that was trying to torn chaos into normalcy, he bent to pick up a large shard of glass, as if by


cleaning up the debris he could erase what had happened. He stopped, the wicked arc of glass in his hand, suddenly realizing the absurdity of it, seeing a picture in his mind of him on his hands and knees, picking up each of the billion slivers one by one. He-dropped the fragment, noting distantly that it split into two with a sharp crack. A billion and one, he thought numbly. Only when he saw a long, thin line of red welling up on his thumb did he realize he'd cut himself. He knew that it wasn't so much the damage that was getting to him. The logical, functioning part of his brain told him Kyra was right, this could be fixed. It was the cold reality that had sent him reeling as if he'd been in the path of the explosion. His sanctuary was no longer safe. His haven had been violated, and it would never be the same. It was as if he could feel his world crumbling and falling away. Not only was his sanctuary no sanctuary, but this time they'd come too close. Not only to him, but to his friends. Any one of them could have been hurt, if the timing had been but a little different, if Walt or Dave had decided to brave the currents of the sound again for an early fishing trip, or Kyra had made one more of her innumerable rounds at just the wrong moment. Kyra. The front line of his defenses. And the most likely to fall if those defenses were breached. He shuddered involuntarily. He'd known it before, that her job was to come between him and this hovering danger, but he hadn't reallyfeltit, not until now. His head came up, and he stared through the gaping holes where the sheets of glass had once let him feast on the panorama of the place he so loved. Now all he could focus on was the charred wreckage, not of his boat, but of his bastion against the craziness of his world. And now the craziness of another world had risen up to destroy his. He tried to quash the tiny voice that wanted to rage inside him, to shout that it wasn't fair, he hadn't done anything to deserve this. Hadn't he learned long ago that life wasn't fair? His mouth quirked. Maybe he'd been too long without a reminder, and this was fate's way of tapping him on the shoulder and saying "Hey, geek, don't forget where you came from." God, he was getting absurd, he thought. Suddenly needing to get away from this, he walked across the room, stopping to automatically reach out and right a picture frame that had fallen over. He stared at it, for an instant startled that there was an intact piece of glass anywhere in the house. Then the photograph leapt into focus; it was of himself standing between Walt and Dave on the day they had broken ground for this house. The image gave way to other, mental pictures. Walt and Dave on the day Cash made his first effort to stand up to the school bully, helping him stanch his bloody nose so his folks wouldn't find out. Walt and Dave helping him nurse his wounded pride when, after the biology final he'd helped her pass, Alison Miler had laughed him out of her life in front of her fashionable friends. Walt and Dave, the only ones who hadn't laughed at him when he'd found his niche in the drama class, where he found he could pretend to be everything he wasn't and do it well. Where he wanted it so badly he didn't care about anything except the surprised look on the drama coach's face as she said, "What was your name again? Riordan?" and wrote it down on the "accepted" roster of the drama club. Abruptly he set the picture down, spun on his heel and strode out of the damaged room. He'd intended to go into his room only to get a short, but found himself stopping dead just inside the doorway, staring at his bed. The covers were strewn in a mutely evocative tangle, all the-pillows but one, indented from two heads, tossed aside. The musky scent of a night of lovemaking lingered faintly in the room, and there, on


the floor at the foot of the bed, lay Kyra's discarded bra, a piece of simple white nylon trimmed with the merest touch of delicate lace. Simplicity and delicacy, he thought. It was only the surface of this woman who had taught him things he'd never known before last night, who had taken him to heights he'd never even dreamed about, because he hadn't even known they were possible. As he leaned over and picked up the intimate garment, he remembered the provocative lingerie favored by most of the women of his acquaintance. And he remembered the unadorned, practical cotton panties he'd practically torn from Kyra's body last night, their only hint of sexiness in the high cut that made impossibly long legs seem even longer. Don't judge a book by its cover. The old cliche rose up in his mind, taunting him with the realization that the reason it had become a cliche was because of its truth. The few women in that long string of fabled—and mostly fictitious—affairs that he had actually been intimate with had wrapped the package as carefully as a studio publicity department prepared a major ad campaign. And about as truthfully. The package had looked hot, tempting, and promised unheard of pleasures, but the reality had been cold and unmoving. But Kyra…Kyra had been the staff of dreams, the quiet, composed woman who turned to a fiery, sensual creature in bed. The woman who hid her promises behind simple, unpretentious wrappings and then delivered on them beyond imagining. God, how had he ever thought her plain? She was beautiful, he thought, ignoring the tiny jolt of unease that shot through him at the realization. In her own unique way, Kyra was as beautiful as any woman he'd ever seen. Kyra, with her painful memories and a self-image shaped by men as thoughtless as he had been, did nothing to gild the lily, nothing to advance a cause she obviously had decided was hopeless. Yet, against all odds, she had risked her fragile confidence for him. He didn't understand why she'd done it, why she had set aside her precious professionalism, why she had decided, at least temporarily, to overlook her oft-stated aversion to the kind of world he lived in, but after a night that had given him a pleasure he wouldn't have believed in even if she had promised it, he could do nothing but be thankful. He didn't know how long he'd been standing there, lost in his thoughts, but the sound of voices from the living room roused him out of his reverie. He drew in a deep breath, nearly lost it when he caught a hint of that rich, tropical scent—an unexpectedly lush touch for the retiring Kyra— then went and pulled a faded chambray shirt from his closet and yanked it on.. The blood still welling from his thumb stained the front band of the shirt, but he barely reacted except to look at the cut to make sure the bleeding was slowing. He made a brief stop in the bathroom to rinse his thumb, decided against a bandage, then buttoned his shirt and stuffed the tails into his jeans. Making himself avoid looking back at the tossed bed, he walked out of the room. He was surprised to find all three of them in the living room. He'd obviously been out of it for longer than he'd realized. Walt was gingerly picking the remaining shards out of the window frames while Dave and Kyra were picking up the larger pieces of glass and putting them in one of the boxes Steve delivered groceries in.. "—told you, Dave, I can't be sure what caused it," Kyra was saying. "Except that if it was an accident, I'll glue these windows back together myself.'' Her actions mirrored the disgusted sound of her voice. She threw a large fragment into the box with such force, the glass shattered. She reached for another fragment. Both Walt and Dave looked at her a little nervously.


"But can youprovethe boat was sabotaged?" Dave asked. Kyra let out a compressed breath, looking at Dave as if he'd asked that question once too often. "There's not enough left of anything for me to tell. It would take an expert with a lab full of equipment to determine the exact cause. But is there any doubt? Do you really think it wasn't?" "No," Dave said with a sigh. "I was just…hoping, I guess." "Quit hoping," Cash said from the doorway. "It's for real." Their heads snapped around, Dave and Walt registering surprise. Kyra, alone of the three, looked at him as if she'd heard the surrender in his voice. And he had, he supposed, surrendered. Surrendered to the reality, to the inevitability of what would come next. He walked into the room and stopped when he saw Kyra's quick eyes dart to the bloodstain on his shirt. Before she could speak, he held up his thumb. "It's okay. Just a cut." Then he glanced around the room, his gaze flickering over Walt and Dave's faces, then going back to Kyra. "Now what?" he asked, his voice devoid of anything other than resignation. Kyra dropped the piece of glass she was holding into the box. Cash saw her square her shoulders as if she were about to faceafiring squad. "Cash," she said softly, "you can't stay here." He drew in a deep breath. He'd expected this, knew that this explosion had blasted not only his boat but his options al to hell. But somehow hearing it still made him feel as though he'd taken a shard of that glass deep to the gut. "You have to get out of here, Casher," Dave agreed quietly. "This was too close for comfort." Cash stood for a moment in silence, then glanced at Walt. "Hey," his friend said, "I'm with you, whatever you decide. Always have been, you know that. If you want to quit and walk away from all this crap, go back to living a real life, I'll be right behind you.'" Cash glanced at Dave, who looked decidedly worried that Cash might decide to do just that—dump it all and walk. away. "Don't worry, Dave," he said wryly. "I'm not going to chuck it all. Especially not now-" Dave breathed a sigh of relief, while Walt's brow furrowed into a frown. "That's crazy, Cash," Walt said. "Risking your life—and ours—like this, for what? So the whole world can think it owns you? So you don't have a real life anymore?" "I'll be damned if I'll let them win," Cash said, his jaw set. "Not like this." He looked at Kyra, but she was studying Walt as if something in his words had bothered her. Cash watched her for a moment, memories of last night, memories of her gloriously sweet and naked in his arms flooding him, and he suddenly wondered if he did what Walt had said, if he went back to a "real


life," would it make a difference to her? Would it remove that barrier his world put between them that seemed, to her at least, insurmountable?! She turned to look at him then. "Cash—" He held up a hand to stop her. Her voice, soft with concern, was more than he could bear right now, as it had been when she'd tried to talk to him before amid the chaos of this room, "I know." He let out a long breath. "Believe me, I know. If they'd hit the house instead, we could be dead. Or if—." he glanced at Dave "—you'd decided to try the boat out again, or if Walt had been tinkering down there again…" He had to force himself not to. look at Kyra. He had a feeling she wouldn't welcome the dread that welled up inside him at the thought of her danger, a danger she was in because of him. No matter that it was her job or that she was well trained to deal with it. All the training in the world couldn't stop a bomb. "It's obvious none of you are safe around me." Cash turned his head to stare out the gaping hole where the large, center window had been. He didn't want to say it, didn't want to sound like he knew he was going to sound—lost, pitiful, but he had no choice. "So where do I go?" "I'll call the office about the safe house and have them make arrangements for transportation," Kyra said briskly, as if she'd sensed that the tiniest sound of pity or sympathy would have sent him over the edge. "But call Steve first. Find out how soon he can get here.'' Without a protest—what else was there to say? he thought grimly—he went to do as she said. When he told her Steve couldn't get out until early morning, Kyra's face tightened into a frown. "It's the best he can do. It'll take the twin engine to get us all out of here, and it's out on a charter and won't be back until late. It'd take all night for Steve to gas it up again, get here, get us loaded and get back. Or to make two trips in one of the smaller planes.'' "I don't care how late it is," Kyra protested. "I do. Rach is due any day now. Steve doesn't want to leave her alone at night, and I won't ask him to." "Oh." Kyra had the grace to look chagrined. "I didn't think of that." "We could call somebody else," Dave suggested. "And have them tell the world about their passengers?" Cash asked. "We can wait for Steve. He'll be here at dawn." ''I don't like it,'' Kyra said. "We don't have much choice. In case you hadn't noticed, we no longer have a boat.'' Cash saw the flicker in her eyes and wished he could call the words back. He hadn't meant his words as cuttingly as they had come out, but he couldn't seem to help the edge in his voice. "I'll need some time to board up the house, anyway" he said, making an effort to soften his tone. "I can't just leave it… open like this."


"And pack," Dave said. "I've got a lot of papers here that I can't risk leaving behind." Kyra looked at Cash, obviously still not happy with the plan. "I'm going, Kyra," Cash said, his voice low. "Isn't that enough?" She capitulated suddenly. "All right. Go pack whatever you have to take, but keep it to the essentials. Whatever you couldn't bear to lose." He didn't think his expression had changed, but she looked at him as if she knew she'd dug the knife in deeper with her hint that he could still lose everything. Her voice came again, softer. "Cash—" The sound of negation he made stopped her. He opened his mouth to speak, then decided he didn't trust, his voice. He turned and walked toward his bedroom without a word.

"Yes, we should make it by then. You'll have the armored limo there?" Leaning over the desk Dave had cleared before going to his room to pack, Kyra made some quick notes as she listened to Cole explain his plan to get them to the safe house. It was going to be a long trip, she thought wearily, but Cole was right—the intricate journey, partly by plane, partly by helicopter, partly by various ground transports, would be the most difficult to tail, and the safest. "Got it," she said when he was done. "See you soon, Cole." "You just be careful, darlin' Cole's deep, lazy drawl was comforting despite his words. "It's gettin' ugly out there, and we don't want anything happening to you." It already has, she thought with a touch of despair. I've paid a visit to paradise, and the fact that I jumped in with my eyes open doesn't make knowing it's only a visit any easier. With an effort she managed a laugh. "You aren't going to get rid of me that easily, sweetie," she teased. "Not like all your other women." "Promises, promises," Cole said in a theatrical tone. "Bill'll be here later if you need anything else." The short-lived smile Cole had brought to her face faded as she hung up. She would go help Cash, she thought; her own packing wouldn't take long. Then she would— Her thoughts broke off abruptly as she turned and came face-to-face with Walt. She'd heard his steps but thought it was Dave coming back for the briefcase he'd left on the floor beside the desk. The thin, wiry man just stood there, staring at her. That steady gaze from muddy brown eyes disconcerted her. All she could remember was the moment this morning when Walt had seen her and Cash coming out of Cash's room together, their tousled, sated appearance fairly screaming what they'd spent the night doing. "So," Walt said after a moment of uncomfortable silence, "you do spread it around." She drew back startled. She'd known he was upset, but she hadn't expected him to attack, not mild,


quiet Walt. "Walt-" "Does your boyfriend there—" he gestured toward the phone "—know? Or maybe he doesn't care? You said he had a lot of other women." "Stop it, Walt. We were just kidding around—" "Sure. And I'm sure Cash'll think it's real funny that all this time you've been playing Miss Professional, you were already cozied up with the boss. Guess you know how to play the game after all. Your boss tell you to keep the big, important client happy?'' "That's enough," Kyra snapped. After the guilt she was already feeling, Walt's harsh words were too much. Walt just looked at her a moment, his eyes hard and angry. Then he turned on his heel and left the library. Kyra felt a sudden jolt of panic. What if he went to Cash with his assumptions? Would Cash really believe that what had been only innocent teasing meant that she was involved with Cole? Cash already seemed touchy enough on the subject of the big Texan, despite never having met him. And Walt was his friend, and Kyra already knew how deep Cash's loyalty ran. She left the library in a tarry, heading for Cash's room. She stopped in the hallway when she heard Walt's voice. "—city woman. This place is too isolated, too rustic. She's only here now because it's her job and you're a big client. She'd never want to live in a place like this." Walt's voice sounded perfectly calm, even ingratiatingly sympathetic, as if his anger of seconds ago had never been. She waited for Cash to say something that would tell her if Walt had already spilled his tale. A long, slant moment stretched out before he spoke: "You're right. It was a silly question, anyway. Kyra would never want to live in such an isolated place.'' Kyra's jaw dropped. Cash had been asking Walt if he thought she would want to live here? On his island, his precious island? With him? "Besides—" Cash's voice came again, bitter sounding this time "—this place may be blown off the planet before this is over." Walt's nest words were chillingly clear. "Just watch yourself, Cash. You're a big plum for that agency of hers. She's probably been told to keep you happy. Who knows how far she'd go to get the job done?" Kyra bit her lip. Only the knowledge that the last thing Cash needed right now was an angry confrontation kept her from running into the room and denying Walt's thinly veiled accusation. Cash said something she couldn't hear, then Walt's voice came again, conciliatory. "Hey, I'm just your old buddy, remember? I'm trying to look out for you, like always, and you're not


seeing real clear right now. And it's no wonder. Come on, let's get this stuff packed." Kyra heard nothing more but footsteps and the sound of drawers being opened. She should be grateful that Walt had left it at that, she thought. Still stunned by what Cash had apparently asked, she turned tail and scuttled into her room. She tried to force the incredible words out of her mind as she gathered up her few belongings. Think of something else, she ordered herself. Anything else. Like why Scirocco was acting so strangely. There was a profile for groups like this, and they weren't fitting it. Cole, too, was bothered by the oddities in their delayed and too-sparse announcements, but even with his incredible personal resources, he'd been unable to come up with an explanation. He had told her that his government contacts said the heat was still on, especially through the FBI, since the attacks on Cash's property had apparently proven that the group was active within the United States. But the difficulty of finding them was compounded since the group was so small. "The FBI is not happy," Cole had told her. "With Riordan involved, this is giving them headlines, and they're the kind they don't like. They've rounded up a few more of these guys, but they want to take them down like they took down the UFP in the eighties, with every last one of them in the slammer." Smashing the United Freedom Front had been the FBI's biggest domestic success, but Kyra knew dealing with an international group was much trickier, involving agencies from every country affected. Too tricky for you, she thought grimly as she stuffed a T-shirt into her tote bag. It just flat doesn't make sense, and that's the end of it. Let the feds do their job; yours is just to keep Cash alive. The moment his name formed in her mind, she knew she was better off struggling with the unsolvable than thinking of what she had overheard moments ago. Okay, she told herself, so struggle with it. Figure out how a small, splinter group based half a world away, with limited resources usually used up in battles much closer to home, a group already on the ran, had found the island so soon. The Denver and Malibu houses wouldn't have been that difficult, she thought, but even Cole, who had experts in the field of unraveling paper trails that he'd told to keep going "for the practice," had taken until now to trace the ownership of the island to the dummy corporation Dave had set up solely to. claim ownership of the island, which was listed simply as "investment property." There was no way Scirocco could have found it so quickly. Unless, of course, they had somebody on the inside. Kyra stopped midmotion, a pair of socks dangling-from suddenly still fingertips. Inside? Not in Sanders—she couldn't believe that, not with the intensive background checks Bill put people through. But someone on this side? Someone Cash trusted? An image formed in her mind of Dave asking again and again if there was any proof the explosion hadn't been accidental. She had thought at the time that he had just been-reacting to the fact that the boat he had taken out so cheerfully just twenty-four hours ago had been blown to bits, but could he have just been worried that there might have beea something traceable left? Traceable to him? Another memory leapt to life: Dave, on that day that seemed an aeon ago now, joking about how the threats against Cash had been great publicity forTen Days. And mentioning it again, after arriving on the island. Dave, who ran the production company that stood to make the most profit from the film's success.


She sat down on the edge of the bed. But Dave had hired Sanders Protection, she told herself. As a cover? She knew she hadn't been mistaken about his disapproval last night in the library; she had felt it as strongly as if it had been a physical thing in the room between them. But could she have been mistaken about the cause? Did he not like the idea she and Cash had become intimate because he didn't want the protection he'd hired to bethatclose to—and able to protect—Cash? Not that she'd done such a great job, she amended sourly. Another thought tumbled after that one, and it took her breath away. Bill had told her Dave had been amenable, even eager to use her, specifically, of all the agents Sanders had. Had it been because he thought a female would be so taken with Cash Riordan, movie star, that she would—as she had, for a while—lose track of why she was here? The wave of mixed guilt and alarm that swept her made her shake. You're being ridiculous, she told herself. Dave is closer to Cash than a brother. You might as well suspect Walt just because he's angry with you, as to suspect Dave. Walt. Walt, whose unexpectedly nasty attack had so startled her. Walt, who had by his own admission been down at the boathouse last night—not that he'd had much choice about admitting it, since she'd seen him on the dock path. Walt who kept saying Cash should quit, who kept saying Cash would probably be better off if he did. Did he want him to quit badly enough to try and scare him into it? That didn't make any sense at all. What would Walt have to gain? If Cash quit, his job was as good as gone. God, she was losing her mind even thinking like this. Had her night with Cash so distorted her perspective that she was seeing threats to him behind every face, even those dearest-to him? But both Dave and Walt had had access to the boat. Both Dave and Walt had keys to all of Cash's houses. Both Dave and Walt knew Cash's private phone numbers. Both Walt and Dave had not been on the island when the Denver house had been hit. Dave had already been in L. A. when the Malibu house had been bombed, and according to what the bomb squad's report said, Walt would have had plenty of time to get back before the makeshift time bomb had been exploded. She had to be wrong. She just had to be. It would tear Cash apart if Walt or Dave had anything to do with this. And it might kill him if she was right and didn't do anything about it. She'd already courted disaster once by not doing her job thoroughly. She wasn't about to risk it again. Quickly she stuffed everything she wouldn't need tonight into the tote bag, zipped it, then tucked it under the bed, leaving it protruding just enough to set the Glock within reach atop it. Then she headed for the library and the phone. After Walt had gone to gather his own things, Cash set his packed nylon duffel bag on the dresser, leaving an outside pocket open for the last-minute addition of his shaving gear and toothbrush in the morning. He went back to the closet and picked up a matching but slightly larger bag, already mentally cataloging what he wanted to take from the rest of the house. The letter from Ray Hawthorne's widow, he thought. And little Heather's picture. All the things Kyra had guessed were most important to him. He smiled.There was still, it seemed, one bright spot in his skewed life. Carrying the empty bag, he started down the hallway. He was almost past the open door to the guest room when he- remembered the photograph of himself and his parents that sat on the nightstand there.


A glance into the room showed him it was empty, and he walked quickly over to the nightstand, his gaze fastened on the picture in its simple wooden frame. Another memory jogger? he thought wryly as he picked it up and looked at the short, skinny kid he'd been. This is where you came from, Riordan, and you'd better not forget it. Underneath it all, you're still this little twerp. As he turned to go, his toe nudged something beside the bed. He glanced down, saw the edge of Kyra's bag…and the gun. Involuntarily he stiffened, his jaw tightening as he looked at the sleek, dark gray weapon, another deadly reminder of the fact that if Scirocco got to him, it would be through Kyra. But she wouldn't let that happen, he thought, smiling as he remembered that first day when she'd told him that him getting killed wouldn't look good on her resume. Just watch yourself, Cash.She's probably been told to keep you happy. Who knows how far she'd go to get the job done? His smile faded as Walt's words echoed in his mind. She had been joking, hadn't she? An unease he vaguely remembered feeling before recently gripped him. He tried to quash it. Even if she hadn't been joking then, surely things were different now. After last night. She wouldn't have come to him if he hadn't become more to her than a job, wouldn't have given herself to him so passionately, so fully. Would she? Riordan, you're losing it, he muttered to himself, looking down at the boy he'd been. You're letting this little twerp take over again. Butt out, he ordered the image. Kyra knows all about you, you misfit kid, and she came to you anyway. He hastily put the framed photograph in the bag and walked out of the room. He paused in the doorway to the library when he heard Kyra's voice. She was on the phone again, although he'd thought she'd finished her calls. At the moment she was standing with her back to him, looking up at the wall behind the desk, at the items he'd come to retrieve and pack. He stood still, wanting to watch her for a moment, his eyes trailing up and down the long, lithe lines of her body, lingering over the soft curve of her hips and the way her jeans clung to her taut, eminently cuppable derriere. His body responded instantly, hotly, and he nearly laughed aloud at the idea that he had once thought her unattractive. She had her own kind of beauty. He'd just been a little slow in seeing it. That niggling feeling of unease rose in him again, and suddenly he realized what it was. He didn't like thinking of Kyra as beautiful. That was the category for all the other women he dealt with, something to be treated warily, with no real involvement and then rejected before they rejected him. "—know I always listen to your orders, Bill. I'm doing just what you said." The sound of her voice shook him out of the bothersome thoughts. But what she said next went far beyond bothersome. On the heels of Walt's warning and his own troubling thoughts, her words sliced into that deep, hidden place where the skinny, timid child he had been still lived. "Yes, Bill. I'm staying…close. As you so quaintly put it, I'm 'on him like red on a stop sign.'" Cash's stomach knotted suddenly, violently.I always listen to your orders? I'm doing just what you said? For a second time Walt's words spun out of his memory to taunt him.She's probably been told to keep you happy. Who knows how far she'd go to get the job done? And then this morning, when he'd seen them coming out of his room together,I never realized that she was quitethatdedicated.


God, was Walt right? Was this the explanation for her sudden change of heart, not that her job no longer was enough to stand between them, but that her boss had made ita partof her job? No, he protested silently, instinctively. She wouldn't. Not Kyra. It had been too real, too honest…but she had lied before, smoothly, when she'd used Rachel to find the island, hadn't she? But this… There was no way in hell she'd go to bed with him on her boss's orders. I'm on him like red on a stop sign. His stomach knotted tighter and he felt an odd weakness in the rest of his body, as if his solar plexus had just taken a brutal blow and all his blood was gathering there. No, he thought again, but it wasn't as certain this time. Especially when he remembered what she'd said last night.Beforethey'd gone into his room. Bill said to really tighten things up. To stay close. Forcing himself, he took a step into the library. And stopped dead when her next words came. "Enough, Bill. I need that info ASAP. Oh, and check Dave's personal finances, will you? If he's in a bind, it could be a factor." She pushed back an errant strand of hair with long, slender fingers. Cash stood staring in shock, only able to think of how that hair had felt sliding over his hands and how those fingers had felt on his body, stroking, caressing, in that shy way that had convinced him every touch, every kiss was real in a way he'd never known. "No, I haven't got a motive for Walt, although he does seem to want Cash to quit. I don't know why. Just check on his movements while he was gone from here. And Dave's, for the last week or so. Right. The sooner the better. Thanks." She turned and lowered the phone to the desk. Cash waited, unable to move. And then, as if she'd sensed his presence, she looked up. When she saw him, she paled visibly. And Cash saw, in the instant before she recovered, an unmistakable flash of guilt in her eyes. And he knew that the explosion that had threatened his Eden had blown up his fool's paradise, as well..

Chapter 12

"Cash, wait," Kyra began, her voice shaken. "So you can explain?" He was surprised he could speak; he knew he couldn't move. And just as well. He didn't know what he would do if she was within reach. "I've already heard enough, thank you. More than enough." "Cash, no, I just—"


"You just nothing, lady," he said harshly. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" "My job." The flat, too-often heard words were the spark, and Cash's paralysis vanished. He strode across the room. Kyra watched him, a little warily, but she never gave ground. "Your job?" Cash spat out as he came to a halt in front of the desk."To hell with your damned job!I've had a bellyful of it." "Cash, please, just listen—" "Listen? To what? Some ridiculous idea you've come up with that Walt and Dave are…are what? Trying to kill me?". "It's just that some things aren't fitting right. I have to check any and all possible suspects." "Suspects?" Cash's seething emotions peaked as. he stared at her, furious. "These are the two people I'm closest to in the world. I've known them for over twenty years.And now I'm supposed to consider them 'suspects' because you say so?" "No," Kyra. said, her voice oddly quiet after his rage. "Because it's a possibility." Cash swore, short, sharp and vicious. "I know how you feel—" "The hell you do!" "You're too close to it, Cask Your loyalty is getting in the way." "Now that," he snapped, "I believe. Because I believe in loyalty. The kind you get from friends like Walt and Dave." "I know it's hard to accept—" "Accept? You think I'm going to accept this damn theory of yours?" Kyra's voice tamed pleading. "Listen to me. I'm not saying it's true, just possible. They know the numbers the calls came in on. They have access. They knew you were here. They weren't oh the island when—" "Shut up, damn it. You're going to stop this craziness right now." 'I can't, Cask It's my job to—" He swore again, and this time it was ugly with bitterness. "It all comes back to that, doesn't it? You're just…what, following orders?" He laughed, and it felt as harsh as it sounded. "On me like red on a stop sign, right? Well, you sure wereon melast night, weren't you? My God, you really do take your job seriously, don't you? Whatever you're told to do? If I'd realized you were ordered to sleep with me, I


could have called your boss earlier and saved myself a lot of waiting." Kyra went white at the accusation, and he read in her face that she hadn't realized he'd heard that part of the conversation. "Oh, I heard, all right." He gave a disgusted shake of his head. "You know, you really had me convinced. And you think I'm an actor? All that stuff about not getting involved because I was your job…until your boss decided that going to bed with me was part of that job, of course. Did he think I'd send you a few more clients if you kept me happy? Or was it just your way of—what was it? Staying close?" He let out a short, compressed breath. "Well, you couldn't get much closer, could you?" "Cash, no," she whispered, her voice thready. "No? Sleeping with me to get a job, or to get a job done… what's the difference?" He laughed again, hating the bitter sound of it. "Never mind, I know the difference. But at least I knew why the others were there. And it's my own fault for thinking you weren't just like them." My own fault for making the mistake of thinking you were plain. And safe. That's what that little warning feeling was, he thought sourly. I should have known what was coming the moment I realized you weren't really plain at all. "It wasn't like that, Cash, I—" "But you are just like them, aren't you?" he said, as if she hadn't spoken. "You just have a different agenda, that's all. And a much better approach, all that protesting—" "Cash, you can't believe—" "And I was stupid enough to fall for it. God, that dumb kid is alive and well and still looking for the miracle. Damn it, Itrustedyou!" Kyra didn't try to answer this time. She merely stood there, white-faced. Cash couldn't meet her eyes. The pain there was too tempting to believe in, and the guilt he'd seen there too damning to ignore. After a long, painfully silent moment, he saw her draw herself up, squaring her shoulders. It didn't surprise him; he'd never doubted her courage. "If you can truly believe that," she said in a tight little voice that was barely recognizable as hers, "after what we…after last night…then there's nothing more I can say. But listen to this, Cash Riordan. Your life could depend on my doing my job. I failed once because my mind was on…something else. Something that was, for the first time in my life, more important to me than my work, whether you believe that or not. I won't fail again.I'm going to keep you alive, and if I have to do it in spite of you, then I will." She came out from behind the desk, turning sideways to avoid touching him as she went past. Cash backed up a step, drawing back as if she'd slapped him. And only when she was gone, when he was alone in the silent room, did he realize how badly he was shaking.

Kyra wasn't sure when she noticed that the hammering had stopped. She was crouched down on the rocky bit of shoreline where the boathouse had once been, staring at the remains, looking at the gloomy outline of what had once been a shipshape boat, floating not as the tidy craft it had once been, but as a


half-submerged, sodden log floated, barely visible and somehow menacing. The steady hammering as Cash boarded up his beloved home had been a counterpoint to the staccato of her thoughts as she tried to piece together what had happened. Now, without the hammering to strike out a rhythm, she gave up what she had known was hopeless from the beginning. She wasn't an arson investigator, despite her sprinkling of knowledge on the subject, nor was she a bomb expert—at least not after the fact. If it even had been a bomb, she amended, knowing there were many ways to blow up a boat that involved nothing more than the boat itself. She straightened up, the protest of her legs telling her how long she had been crouched there, even if the rapid fading of the day's light hadn't registered until now. She'd spent what seemed like hours cleaning up the broken glass from the front of the house while Cash had been cutting boards out back to nail up over the gaping holes. Her braised heart had painfully noted that he hadn't come anywhere near the front of the house until she'd finished and gone down to the water's edge. She smothered a yawn, knowing she'd be doing a lot of yawning for the foreseeable future. She wouldn't be getting any sleep until they were at the safe house, and if she was exhausted by then, it would only serve her right. Damn, she wished Bill or Cole would call. Telling herself they would when they had something to tell her didn't make the waiting any easier. I should have found this, she said silently yet again as she stared at the wreckage. The minute Walt told me he'd heard something down here, I should have torn the place apart until I found it. Those suspicions she hadn't yet been able to lay to rest rose up again. Why would Walt have told her he'd heard something at the boathouse if he'd rigged the boat himself? Just because she'd caught him off guard? Or was he that confident she wouldn't find anything? Admittedly, she didn't know that much about powerboats, but still… And why had Dave been so worried about whether she could prove it was sabotage? Because he was afraid of being implicated? Or simply because he, too, along with Cash, was fighting the idea that the terrorists had gotten so close? Cash. His angry words echoed in her ears, slicing deep into the tender part of her heart that had dared to let him close. She knew he'd been angry, furious in fact that she'd dared to even suggest his oldest friends might be suspects. She even understood. She knew all about striking out when something was too painful to be borne. But to strike out like that… Had last night truly meant so little to him? God, maybe he was used to nights like that. Maybe sex was like that for him all the time. Maybe— Stop it, she ordered herself. He was hurt, he was angry, he struck out and that was it. She couldn't change what he'd said. She couldn't change anything, but she wished she could. She wished with all her heart that Cash hadn't heard her voice the questions she had no answers for. Dave and Walt could be, in fact most likely were, completely innocent, the string of evidence that had given rise to her doubts nothing more than coincidences. Or one of them could know a lot more than they were telling. Or, hell, she thought gloomily, they couldbothbe in it up to their necks, for some crazy reason she couldn't fathom. She nearly laughed, albeit glumly, at the thought of conservative businessman Dave and studious Walt both in cahoots with a fanatical splinter group like Scirocco. God, no wonder Cash was furious; in retrospect, standing back from the string of coincidences, it seemed ridiculous. But then, so did the idea of the man she thought Cash Riordan was, ignoring the son he'd fathered. Maybe, she thought wearily,


you never really knew people at all. She rubbed her arms against a sudden chill and wondered how much of it was from the growing chill of the approaching night, and how much was from the sight of the blackened hulks of boat and boathouse. Suppressing a shiver, she turned away from the grim scene. She didn't know what drew her toward the small point at the end of the island—whether it was a wish to see the ospreys one last time, or the thought that it would surely be to there that Cash had retreated. In either case, the result was the same. When she saw him beneath the madrona tree, staring not at the growing nest but out at the water, as if the regal birds who had made his platform their home no longer had the power to hold him, Kyra felt her heart twist inside her. She came to a stop a couple of feet away, uncertain. She didn't know what to do. She'd never known what to do in situations like this, she thought sadly. She could shoot, fight hand-to-hand, handle a car like a professional stunt driver, but she couldn't deal with this. When it came to love, she was a naive little fool. Love? Oh, God, she thought in despair as the word formed in her mind. She hadn't. Had she? She hadn't done something so utterly stupid as to fall in love with a man so far out of her league—not again. She just knew she hadn't. She fought the urge to cut and run. If she had done something so foolhardy, which she wasn't about to admit, it was her own problem as long as Cash didn't guess. And he wouldn't, she vowed silently. She could keep her foolishness to herself, but she couldn't bear to know he thought of her as little more than a… a what? A prostitute? Isn't that what he'd virtually accused her of? Unexpectedly, anger flicked through her. For an instant she wondered at it. She'd felt only pain at Jack's betrayal;why was this different? She didn't know, didn't linger on it. It was Cash she had to deal with now. Cash and the way his trust, so reluctantly given, had been yanked back so easily. It clawed at her like the talons of the ospreys. The fact that the very thing she had so admired him for, his loyalty to his friends,was what was now tearing her apart did nothing to ease her pain. She knew he knew she was there; she'd seen the sudden tension of his body. Yet he didn't look at her; he just kept staring out at the water. That anger, sharp, galvanizing, bit into her again. "I'd like an answer to just one question." She was aware of the edge in her voice, but didn't care. She saw Cash close his eyes and draw in a long, deep breath. She waited a moment, but he never moved, never even looked at her. When she spoke again, she knew her words echoed with pain, but she couldn't seem to care about that, either. "Do you really think I…slept with you because I was told to? Do you thinkthatlittle of me?" For a moment she thought he wasn't going to answer. Then, in a flat tone with an edge of its own, he said, "That's two questions." So that was the way it was going to be, Kyra thought as pain clawed through her again. Sarcastic quips, not answers. But then, she supposed his response was an answer in itself. Fighting down the hurt, knowing she'd brought it on herself with her own foolishness, she turned to go. She'd known there was no future for a woman like her with a man like Cash Riordan, yet she'd plunged ahead anyway. She had no one to blame but herself, and—


"Kyra." She froze. There had been something in his voice when he said her name, something that mirrored her own pain and confusion. Slowly she turned to look back at him. He hadn't moved. He was still facing the water, but now his eyes were open, staring once more at the expanse of the sound that was rapidly turning to inky blackness. Kyra waited. "I don't really think…" He swallowed, then began again. "I don't think it was like that. Not exactly. Maybe you just… I don't know. I don't know what I think anymore." It wasn't much of a concession, but Kyra sensed it was all she was going to get. She gave herself a mental shake; she had other things to worry about. She could guess how he would react to the string of instructions she was about to give, but right now nothing was more important than doing whatever she had to to keep him alive. "It will be completely dark in a few minutes. Get back up to the house. And once you're there, stay there. In your room, preferably, I can't be sure the alarms in the rest of the house are still functioning properly." He looked at her then. His face was set, his jaw rigid, and she knew that if she'd gained any ground with him, she'd lost it now. "Yes, ma'am," he snapped. "Whatever you say." She paled at his tone but didn't back down. "Good. Maybe you'll stay alive then." She didn't move until he did, until she was certain he was indeed heading back to the house. Then she followed to make sure he kept going.

It wasn't that he didn't see the point, Cash thought as he paced his room like an angry leopard, he just resented the way she'd ordered him. Because it made him think of orders she'd been given, to stay close to him—intimately close?—and to be on him like— "Damn." He ground it out as his pacing halted and he stared down at the soft, green rug where Kyra had indeed been on him, in the most intimate way possible. And it had been unlike anything he'd ever known. He would have sworn then that her response had been pure and utterly honest; nothing else, he thought, could have made him go crazy like that, could have made him lose control until he'd become some wild, frenzied creature who'd found his mate at last. He whirled, turning away from the rug. He couldn't think about it, not anymore. But what the hell was he supposed to think about? The supposed betrayal of one of his oldest, best friends? The idea was fit only to be dismissed out of hand, not for any serious consideration at all. Hell, he thought grimly, he'd rather live in the shadow of some rabid group's threat for the rest of his life than believe there was one ounce, of truth in Kyra's ludicrous speculations. She's just doing her job. Her own defense, that rehash of words heard so infuriatingiy often, rose up to mock him. And, he supposed, if things had been different, he might be able to accept that. If she hadn't


come to understand how close the three of them were… If she had checked them all out routinely at the beginning, he could have dealt with that, but not now, not after she knew…God, not after he'd bared his soul as well as his body to her.. Could she really be that cold, that calculating? Enough to suspect his best friends? Enough to come to him, touch him like that at her boss's orders? His stomach cramped, and it was with a little shock that he realized the idea made him physically ill. No, it couldn't be. He couldn't accept that any more than he could accept Dave or Walt's guilt. Maybe her boss's advice to stay close had been just that, and she had decided it removed the obstacle of professionalism from between them, he thought dully, finding this idea only slightly more palatable. Maybe she'd really wanted him and had just taken her boss's suggestion as permission. And why the hell does that bother you, Riordan? You live in a world where things like this happen all the time, where things or people are weighed on a scale of usefulness and cost that has nothing to do with any genuine emotion. Love so rarely entered into it, it was barely worth mentioning. And love didn't enter into it here, either, he insisted vehemently. That wasn't why this had thrown him for such a loop. He'd have been furious atanyonewho dared to accuse Walt or Dave of such machinations. It made no difference at all that it was Kyra.And that he'd wanted her so fiercely. Or, he thought, smothering a groan as he caught a glimpse of his tangled bed in the dresser mirror, that he wanted her still. Just as fiercely. And it had nothing to do with love. *** It didn't matter, Kyra thought, that she had to stay awake. It didn't matter that she'd set herself the task of making rounds of the island every hour and a full circuit of the house every quarter hour. It didn't matter, because she wouldn't be sleeping anyway. She was far too edgy, her mind working overtime, racing in so many directions, she knew she would never be able to turn it off. She might nap, but she'd never sleep, which was just as well. It was nearly dawn anyway, and the thought of what had happened just before dawn yesterday was enough to keep her vigilant. Cole had called, finally, late last night. They'd managed to keep this latest attack out of the news, he'd told her. And as of now, Scirocco hadn't been heard from yet. As for Walt, there was no record of him flying on from Seattle to anywhere else. But that wasn't to say he couldn't have done it under another name. And there was, Cole said, a regular flight to Denver within an hour of the time she had estimated Walt would have made it to SeaTac, and of course multiple flights from Denver to Los Angeles. As for Dave, the financial check would take a bit longer, but there was no immediate evidence of any trouble. But the afternoon before the Malibu house had been blown up, he'd been scheduled for a meeting with some studio reps, who were worried about the current situation and Cash's unavailability. He'd canceled the meeting, saying he'd had some other urgent business come up. No one knew what it had been. So she was right where she'd been before, Kyra thought, with possibilities, but no proof. Wearily she sank down on the sofa, hoping she'd gotten all the glass. The room was dark. She'd never realized how much light there really was at night until now, when the heavy boards replaced the plate glass. She tugged her jacket closer. The front of the house was chilly tonight; even the combination of the fireplace and the wood stove weren't quite enough to compensate for the loss of the thermal windows. But she would stay here. Uncertain of the reliability of the alarms after the blast, she had shut them off.


She didn't realize she'd dozed off until she came awake suddenly, her skin crawling with dread, her senses screaming to her groggy mind that something was wrong. She sat up, rubbing at eyes that were stinging with lack of sleep. Then she realized it wasn't lack of sleep at all that was making them water. It was smoke. She was on her feet in an instant, racing toward Cash's room. The moment she hit the hallway, she knew the fire was at the other end. Smoke billowed toward her, but it hadn't reached past the doorway to the living room yet. Dave, she thought, it was near Dave's room. She ran to Cash's door and pounded on it. "Fire,! Grab your stuff and get out," she yelled. When he didn't answer, she gave up on manners and yanked the door open. He was sitting up on the edge of the bed, looking as groggy as she had felt, as if he, too, had only just dozed off. But thankfully he was still dressed, as if he'd half expected something to happen. Kyra scooped up his bags from the dresser. The one with the mementos was heavier; he'd indeed packed light, she thought as she ran over and yanked open the French doors. The alarm clamored, but she ignored it as she set the bags outside, then turned back. "Come on!" she urged when she saw that Cash was just standing there, staring at her. "The house is on fire!" As if he'd only now registered what she'd said, Cash moved suddenly, grabbing the boots he'd left beside the bed and yanking them on. "Where?" "In the back, by Dave's room." Cash straightened up sharply, looking at her. Without a word he spun around toward the hallway door. "Cash, no! Get out. I'll go—" He ignored her as if she hadn't spoken. He was through the door and into the smoky hallway before she could get across the room to try and stop him. The smoke had gone from an ominous haze to a fearful cloud—acrid, stinging, and most frighteningly, moving fast. Kyra opened her mouth to try and call him back, but shut it again when it only made her cough and when she realized he wouldn't listen to her anyway. She followed him down the hall, stopping to hammer on Walt's closed door, under which she was sure smoke must be creeping by now. She head Cash yell Dave's name, then heard the paroxysm of coughing as he drew in as much smoke as air before trying to yell again. She could feel the heat now, could hear the threatening crackle of the flames, the rash of the superheated air. And she knew none of it would stop Cash. She heard a thump and recognized the sound of a door being kicked open. Could he just not see it, or was the knob too hot to touch? Her heart leapt in her chest, and she tried to move faster down the hallway that was becoming rapidly uninhabitable. She stopped as a dark shape with more substance than the billowing smoke came toward her, looking almost eerie in the swirling ashen fog. She recognized the shape, the long legs, the height, the broad shoulders. Broad enough to easily carry the not inconsiderable weight of a clearly unconscious Dave.


Cash paused outside Walt's still-closed door, but Kyra coughingly urged him on. "Get Dave out. I'll roust Walt." He hesitated for an instant, and that moment of distrust rattled Kyra like nothing that had happened before. She could feel his gaze on her, assessing, and it burned more fiercely than the fire that threatened them. "Get him out!" she said again. "Through the front, where you can get clear. He needs air to breathe." She didn't wait for him to decide, just tamed back to Walt's door. As she pounded on it again, she sensed Cash leaving, gently reshouldering his pajama-clad burden. When Walt didn't respond, Kyra tried the knob. It was thankfully cool, but her relief lasted only a split second; it was also locked. "Damn it, Walt," she muttered, trying the door with her shoulder. She was coughing now, tears streaming down her face, and she could barely see her own hand on the resistant knob. She backed up a long step, knelt for an instant to draw in a breath of cleaner air, then stood. In a long,smooth move taught to her long ago in a police academy that seemed an epoch away, she lifted one leg and drove her foot against the door beside the knob. The solid oak door shuddered but didn't give, and she wished for an instant that Cash hadn't built it quite so well. She did it again and again, quickly, and on the third kick the knob finally gave under the strain. And Walt's door swung open on an empty room. The thick smoke swirled into the new territory she'd opened for it, but she went in and looked anyway. No sign of Walt. She turned and hurried back to the door. The flames were there, licking at the doorjamb, spreading so quickly she knew in only minutes this side of the house would be engulfed. She abandoned any idea of going after her own bag; there was nothing in it she cared about anyway; she still had the Glock with her from her rounds. She darted out into the hallway past the flames; she had to feel her way along the wall by hand, but she made it at last to the living room. Here the smoke was thinner, but she knew it was only a matter of time. She ran across the room and out the front door, gratefully dragging in a deep breath of the clean, cold, salt-tinged air. Cash was several yards from the house, kneeling over Dave's sprawled figure. Kyra ran, then slowed when she started to slip on the wet ground. "Is he conscious?" Cash didn't even look up at her arrival and question. "No. But he's breathing. Barely." "As long as it's on his own," she said as she crouched down beside them, trying to sound reassuring. Dave was wearing, she thought inanely, exactly what she would have expected; conservative tailored pajamas, with a small crest embroidered over the pocket. Hardly the attire of a working arsonist. She tried to gather her scattered thoughts. "Any sign of burns?" "Not that I can see."


Kyra glanced at Cash, saw the worry carved into the smoke-stained lines of his face. She tried again. "Then he should be all right. But he may go into shock." Cash was wearing only his bloodied chambray shirt, now streaked with soot and ash, so Kyra pulled off her own heavy jacket and spread it over Dave. Only then did Cash look at her. "Giving succor to the enemy?" Kyra's eyes widened. God, she wanted this over with, wanted this pain to stop. She bit her lip to steady herself. "Now," she said, hoping he would attribute the huskiness of her voice to the smoke and not the rioting emotions inside her, "is not the time to discuss your new opinion of me. We've got to find Walt." Cash stiffened. "What?" "He wasn't in his room when I got in— Cash, wait!'' He was on his feet, heading for the house at a run. Smoke was pouring out of the gaps between the boards now and through the open front doorway, but he never even slowed. Fear rushed through Kyra like the billows of smoke, and she raced after him. Only the fact that, just-as she had, he staggered on the wet ground allowed her to get close enough. They were barely ten feet from the house when she launched herself, stretching as far as she could, taking him down at the knees with her momentum and weight. She heard him grunt as they hit the ground, but with his reflexes, she knew he would be moving quickly. And he was so damned strong... Bar arm control, she thought quickly, that trained, mechanical part of her mind directing her body, while desperation quelled emotions ran amok. She had to keep him out of that inferno. She moved swiftly, but with exquisite care as she kept him prone, locked his right arm straight at his side and bent his hand back at the wrist until she felt him go rigid beneath her. "Let me up, damn it! Walt must still be inside!" He tried to buck her off of him, twisting toward his free side. She gently increased the pressure, bending his hand back-at the wrist until he went still, and for insurance added a light but unmoving pressure of one knee just over his kidneys. "I'm sorry, Cash," she said, her voice thick with regret at what she was having to do. "Sorry? Didn't you hear me? Walt's in there!" His voice was laced with more anger than pain, for which Kyra was thankful. Small favors, she thought. "I told you, his room was empty. Maybe he—'' "Maybe?" He tried to move again. With that same exquisite care she increased the pressure and heard him let out a choking sound of rage mixed with strain. "You want me to trust my oldest friend's life to a maybe?" He let out a breath as she eased her hold a fraction. "Of course you do," he said bitterly. "You wanted to hang him on a maybe, didn't you?" He tried once more to move, hoping, she knew, that she had relaxed her hold enough. She put a tiny bit


more weight on her knee, careful only to control with the pressure over his kidneys. She could feel the frustration, the wrath, coming off of him in waves nearly as palpable as the smoke. He was already furious with her, she thought grimly; this would only make it worse. "Let me up, I've got to get to him! He's my friend, damn you." "I understand, Cash." "The hell you do. What do you know about friends like Walt? You turn them into suspects. Everything comes back to your damned job." "Cash—" He bucked furiously beneath her, trying to reach her with his free hand, and Kyra increased the pressure until she knew she had to be hurting him. "Please, Cash, stop," she begged, not caring how she sounded. "It's too late, it's too far gone." "Damn you," he swore as the pain in his arm and the pressure on his kidneys made him stop. "Damn you!" He let his head drop forward to the damp earth, hiding the house from his view, and she felt a shudder go through him. She knew she was right. The fire was spreading with a velocity that made any attempt at stopping it futile, and any attempt at reentry suicidal. She knew she was right, but it was ripping her up inside to have to do this to him. "Well, well, kids, having a little tiff?" Kyra gasped, her head snapping around as Walt suddenly loomed over them. He was looking inordinately pleased, and there was almost a swagger in his walk. She'd been so intent on stopping Cash, she hadn't sensed his approach, didn't even know what direction he'd come from. Somewhat belatedly idealizing her hold on Cash was now unnecessary, she let go and backed off of him. He scrambled to his feet, sparing only a brief but potently savage glance for Kyra as he flexed the arm she'd pinned. Without even a word to her, he turned to Walt. "You scared the bell out of me, buddy! I thought you were still in there!" "I'm fine," Walt assured him, looking even more pleased than he had when he'd found Cash and Kyra quite literally fighting. "Everything's going to be fine now. I'm sorry about the house, though." Cash looked over at the home he so loved, now little more than a shell encasing the raging flames. It was so hot, they had to step back. "Yeah," he muttered. Kyra had instinctively looked at Cash when he'd spoken, but his expression was too much for her battered emotions. She turned back to Walt. And as Walt followed Cash's gaze and looked at the house, her brow furrowed when she saw his expression go from merely pleased to smug. "Yes, everything's all right now," Walt murmured, barely loud enough for them to hear over the noise of the fire. "It's just us against the world again, like the old days, like it's supposed to be."


Cash's head tamed, puzzlement on his haggard face as he looked at his old friend. Kyra barely noticed his reaction. For her, the last piece had tumbled into place—motive. It was Walt.And it was going to tear Cash to bits. She took a step toward him, not sure what she was going to do. There was no way to protect him from the impact of the truth. In the Instant it happened, Kyra realized she should have guessed. Walt stepped between her and Cash, his eyes glittering oddly, even with his back to the fire. And when he reached beneath his shirt and drew out a small, nickel-plated, 2-inch .38, she knew just how far over the edge he'd gone. With the gun already trained on them, Kyra knew there wasn't a prayer that she could get to the Glock before he shot her. And then who knew what would happen to Cash. "Move," Walt ordered Kyra, gesturing her away from Cash with a rather wild wave of the gun. "You're not part of the plan." She took a cautious step, her mind racing. Smith & Wesson, she thought. Five shots. No difficulty hitting your target at this range. But only one target at a time. Then she caught a glimpse of Cash's pale face, and all her cool, all her training, deserted her for an instant. "Part—" Cash's voice broke, and Kyra could almost feel the horror building in him. "Part of what plan?" Walt looked at Cash, allowing Kyra to inch forward. She kept her eyes warily on the weapon Walt seemed none too familiar with. "My plan. And it worked, too," he said, his voice high with a twisted kind-of pride. "What plan?" Cash said again, his voice stronger as if his eyes had at last begun to convince his mind that what he was seeing was real. Walt didn't answer, just looked at Cash, smiling. Kyra gained another three inches. Then Walt whipped the gun around, his finger so tight on the trigger she was surprised it didn't go off with the movement. She froze, half expecting him to fire. When he didn't, she spoke quickly, hoping to divert him from the too-intent awareness of the gun in his hand. "What he means is that he's behind all the threats and the fires and the bombing, and has been all along." "Shut up! And take that gun of yours out and drop it. Over there." Walt waved the gun again. Reluctantly, knowing she had no choice at the moment, she complied. Cash's head had turned the moment Kyra had spoken, and she had seen his eyes widen In shocked disbelief. She knew she had to convince him, and fast, before Walt lost what little restraint he had left. "The initial threat was real enough, I'll bet, since it came through a terrorist's favorite channel, the media. But from then on,it was Walt, taking advantage of the situation Scirocco had set up. It explains why they always waited for the news to hit before claiming responsibility and why they didn't know any of the details—they weren't doing it. They didn't know anything about it until after—" Walt moved suddenly, and though Kyra had been half expecting it, he did it so that Cash was in the line


of fire, and she didn't dare move to stop him. Walt's finger was too tight on that trigger. "I told you to shut up!" Walt yelled as he grabbed her, one arm around her throat in a near-asphyxiating hold. The barrel of the little gun dug into her temple, and she knew it wouldn't seem so little if it went off. She went still, and after a moment Walt's arm let up a fraction and she could breathe again. She saw knowledge in Cash's face now, knowledge and a pain so great, it made her own fear seem insignificant. She felt a flash of hatred for Walt, remembering all the times he had fed Cash's fear for his friends instead of easing it, and knowing now that he'd done it intentionally. "Why?" Cash said, his voles barely above a whisper. "My God, Walt, why?" "Don't you see?" Walt asked, genuine puzzlement unmistakably in his voice. "No one really got hurt, and bow things will be like they're supposed to be. like they were in the old days." Cash stared, stunned. Walt's voice and expression turned pleading as he began to spell it out, as if he were explaining something to the Cash of his youth, the Cash who had looked up to him as his only friend. "It'll be just us again. You won't be the big star anymore, with all those people hanging around. If I be just you and me and Dave. And Carol, too. She can stay—she was almost one of us." "My God," Cash breathed again as he stared at Walt, as if he were someone he'd never seen before. Kyra felt Walt tense and knew that he'd read Cash's reaction. She didn't dare move. Walt was so intent on Cash that he'd lowered the gun slightly, and she didn't want to give him any cause to realize it. "You're my best friend," Walt said, a touch of a whimper in his voice now. "My only real friend, besides Dave. And we're your only real friends—you know that, you have to know that—after all these years." His voice changed again, became energetic, encouraging, and Kyra knew enough about the significance of such rapid mood swings to know that they were running out of time. "It'll be easy. You just quit, and we can all go back, you know, back to when you needed me, really needed me, not just for all this gofer stuff. Back to when we were all the same, remember? When none of us could get a date?" His arm tightened as his voice tamed ugly again. "Not like now, with all those phony bitches throwing themselvesat you." Kyra's breath caught at his slight emphasis on the pronoun. Lord, had she brought this last salvo on with her rejection of Walt the other-night? Cash looked at his old friend, his face twisted with pain. "God, Walt, I never knew—" "It's all right." The cheerful voice was back, unnerving in its animation. "I forgive you for that. I mean, you couldn't help it, and I know you never cared about those women anyway. That's why I never stepped in before." Cash took in a ragged breath. "Before?" "Until the baby," Walt explained, and Kyra saw Cash go even paler. "I was afraid you'd marry Alison because of it. She's only after your money, you know. So if you don't have any, if you're not famous anymore, she'll go away. So will all the others."


Kyra's gaze was fastened on Cash's face, unable to look away even though the sight of him tore at her. She could almost feel him trying to deal with the mass of crazy logic. The fact that she'd been proved right didn't make her feel at all better, not in the face of Cash's anguish. And she was very much afraid that the unbalanced Walt, seeing that his pleas weren't working, was teetering on a precarious edge. "Your plan was very good, Walt," she said, hoping desperately to placate him, calm him. "I suppose you flew from Seattle to Denver under another name? And paid cash for the ticket?" Walt scowled at her. "You can't prove that.' "I know. You're too smart to leave a trail." She tried to force an admiring tone into her voice. He hadn't put the gun back to her head yet, and she wanted to keep it that way. "I mean, that delayed-action fuse at the house in Malibu was really clever." Walt brightened. "It was, wasn't it? I read about it." He laughed. "In a book about arson." Kyra. caught her breath. Walt really was losing it, if he let himself be tricked into an admission that easily. She heard Cash make a small, pained sound, but she didn't dare look at him. She had to focus on Walt now, and looking at Cash, seeing in his face what he must be feeling, would rain her concentration. "Well," she said, keeping that admiring tone steady, "I have to admit, you've got me stumped on the boat. How'd you pull that off from inside the house?" Walt grinned, like a small boy complimented on a neat trick."Easy. I used an RC transmitter.'' Keep him talking, Kyra thought. "A what?" "A radio controller like for model airplanes. They've got a range of about five miles, you know. So I fastened a blasting cap to the gas tank, wired it to the boat's battery and left a gap in the circuit, hooked up to a solenoid. It was all below deck, where it couldn't be seen. Then I used the controller to close the circuit, and…" Walt shrugged. "Boom," Kyra whispered. He was cleverer than she'd thought. He'd blown the boat to kingdom come and had never even set foot outside the house. "Yep," Walt said, so happily it made her stomach torn. Cash swore, low and harsh, as if Walt's tone had prodded him out of his shock. "What about here?" he demanded. "We could all have died in this fire! Dave nearly did!" Walt frowned, as if shaken out of his smugness. Then, suddenly, his hand came up and the barrel of the .38 dug once more into Kyra's temple. "It's your fault, damn you," he said, a frightening anger changing his voice yet again. "I should have known that you were the real threat, not Alison. You're smarter than the others. You pretended to be different. And Cash bought it, for a while. He was different around you. But he knows better now—" he glanced at the stunned Cash "—don't you? You know she's no better than all the rest. You know she only went to bed with you because of her job. She had to keep you happy, she knows what having a famous client can do for her agency. She used you just like the rest of them."


Kyra tensed; odd how out of all the rambling Walt was doing, it was this that hurt the most. At her movement, Walt tightened his grip and turned his attention back to her. "It's your fault I had to set the fire too close to Dave's room—you and your silly alarms." He turned his gaze back on Cash, saying reassuringly, "I would have made sure you and Dave got out. It has to be the same as before, exactly like it used to be." Cash's eyes flicked to Kyra's face, and she knew he had recognized Walt's purposeful omission of her name. The horror she had sensed building in him before showed in his eyes now, and she wished she could save him from the pain of having to admit that his old friend would have let someone die a horrible death in an effort to do the impossible, to recapture the past. "Cash," Walt said, pleadingly, taking a step toward him. Quickly Cash took a step back, maintaining the distance between them. Kyra felt Walt quiver and knew that he knew he'd lost, not only everything he'd hoped to gain, but everything he already had. For an instant, all the wild energy seemed to drain out of him. His hold on her loosened, the gun tilted, aimed now at the smoky sky. Kyra's eyes flicked to where her Glock lay a few feet away. Now, she thought. She drove back hard with her elbow into Walt's belly. In the same instant she slammed her booted foot down on his instep. In the instant when he gasped, she pulled free and dove to the ground. She rolled out of his reach, toward her gun. She came up with it in one smooth motion, whirling, wondering why Walt hadn't shot her already, why he hadn't unleashed all five rounds the moment she'd moved. Because, she realized numbly as she lowered the Glock, Cash had stopped him. Walt lay sprawled on the ground, his arms outflung, his hand empty of the weapon. Cash sat atop him, although it didn't seem necessary. Walt had clearly broken, and his moans were barely audible. Cash held the small, silver gun gingerly between unsteady fingers for an instant before he flung it away in a violent motion. Kyra slid the Glock into her waistband at the small of her back and went over to kneel beside Cash. The devastation in his face tightened her throat unbearably, and her voice was a tiny, husky whisper when at last she managed to speak. "Cash, I'm so sorry. I would have given anything to have been wrong." He looked at her then, and she felt as if an unscalable, unbreachable wall had appeared between them. "But you weren't," he said, his voice flat, dead-sounding. Then, bitterly, "And won't that look great on your resume?"

Chapter 13


Kyra sat in the big, soft chair in her living room, doing nothing more than staring at the beam of early morning sunshine that slanted through the window of her apartment. Even the sunshine seemed different here, in this place where its presence was taken as much for granted as the rain in Seattle. Liquid gold, she'd heard it called up there, and she had assumed then it was because of its relative rarity. Now she knew it was because the sunlight there was different somehow, more gentle, as if it shone more sweetly because if knew how joyously it was welcomed. God, she hated this, she thought. Hated sitting around, unable to motivate herself into doing anything except remember. She wished Bill had let her go back to work, to do something, anything. No, that wasn't really true. What she wanted was to finish the job she'd started. The job she'd been forced to leave unfinished. "You haven't taken more than a couple of days off since you've worked here," Bill had told her. "Take a week. Enjoy it. Cole will assign somebody else to finish things up." "But—" "Kyra, you did a great job. You uncovered something we, never even suspected. You deserve the congratulations and the vacation." Cash could, Kyra knew, have been in real danger if Walt had continued on his delusional path. Cole's people had been busy, and by the time Kyra had returned to the office, they had documented the cash Walt had withdrawn to pay for his airline tickets to Denver and L.A. and for the explosives he'd purchased with the help of a phony contractor's license. They'd traced the hobby shop in Seattle where he'd bought the radio-control device and the auto-parts store where he'd picked up the solenoid. The psychologist Bill consulted with had said that it wouldn't have been unusual for Walt's next step to have been making sure he and Cash were together forever. In the grave. So she had, grudgingly, accepted the compliment. But Scirocco was still hovering with another threat—this time saying Cash was down to his last days of life—having been released to the media on the day they'd come back to L.A. Her job wasn't finished. It was then that Bill had hit her with the news. "You're off the case, Kyra." "But Cole said Scirocco is moving, what there is left of them. They've disappeared, and he thinks they could be headed here, that they—" "You're off, Kyra. At Mr. Riordan's request. He called me this morning." Kyra knew she would never forget the sick feeling that had filled her at Bill's words. Yet she should have known, she told herself. Cash had made it clear where he stood; right beside his old friend, even now, when Walt had been taken into custody on a seventy-two-hour hold for psychiatric examination. Cash had refused to press any criminal charges, so Walt would no doubt soon be committed to a mental-health facility. At, Kyra suspected, Cash's expense—his loyalty ran deep and unchanging. Except when it came to her.


But what had she ever done to inspire his loyalty? As if she could inspire it in any man, she thought mockingly. She'd made him face betrayal, and he hated her for it, she thought grimly.His words had left her no doubts. And Bill had relayed them so cheerfully, never guessing that each one sliced into her like one of the jagged shards of glass Walt's explosion had left behind. "He had nothing but good things to say," Bill informed her brightly, "He said he'd never seen anyone so extremely dedicated to their work.'' Kyia had had to bite her lip fiercely to keep the pain from showing. She knew Cash had intended her to hear the sarcasm, even though she was sure he had sounded perfectly sincere to Bill. She wondered what her boss would say if she told him, if she said as brightly as he had that "Yes, he even believed I slept with him because you ordered me to." True, Cash had said later he didn't really think that, but she wasn't sure what he did think. She hadn't had two minutes alone with him since things had unraveled so quickly, not that It seemed to bother him at all. Nor did the thought that Scirocco was still out there, waiting. He'd apparently decided since they hadn't really tried anything so far, he was safe for a while. He'd deal with the rest, he'd told Bill, when he got back to L. A. She should hate him, too, she thought how, through the oddly creeping numbness that was trying to envelop her as she stared at that shaft of sunlight. She should hate him for giving her a taste of an unattainable fantasy, a fantasy of closeness and love and pure erotic joy, a fantasy that would forever make her pitiful reality seem drab and hopeless. And had made the job she had so loved a tarnished, painful thing. "Stop it," she ordered herself. "You know you couldn't live In his kind of world, anyway, with your life a public spectacle. You'll go back to work and put it all behind you. God, I'm talking out loud to myself." She ended with a groan, as the paradox of wanting what she knew she couldn't live with threatened to send her spiralling down into utter despair. She wondered if anybody in this world ever really got what they wanted. Or if they still wanted it once they got it. Like Dave. She'd gone to see him in the hospital in Seattle, the day after the house had burned. She wasn't sure why; she doubted he'd be any happier with her than Cash was, but to her surprise Dave had give her a genuine, if somewhat sheepish welcome. "It's all my fault," he'd said unexpectedly, his vote sounding nasal from the oxygen tube. "What?" Kyra said, startled. "Walt. He went off the deep end when he thought Cash was going to marry Alison." Dave stammered through the rest, flushing deeply. "And…the crazy part is, the baby…isn't even his. Cash's, I mean. It…well, it's mine." Kyra blinked. "Yours?" Dave shifted uncomfortably in the hospital bed. "Carol and I…we were having trouble. She wanted a


child more than anything, but… she miscarried. Three times. The last time they told her she couldn't try again." "I'm sorry," It was automatic. Kyra was still trying to absorb the fact that Cash wasn't the child's father. "I brought up adoption, but way too soon after Carol lost the last baby. She…well, she blew up. We had an awful fight. And I… left. For a while." Understanding dawned in Kyra. "And into the breach walked the worthy Alison." Dave nodded. "I didn't…it didn't mean anything. It was just that…she was the one, back in school, that Cash was— heck, we all were—so hot for…" Dave shrugged as words failed him. "I don't know why—" "Never mind. I do." "All she wanted was to trade on the fact that Cash had had a crush on her back in school," Dave said defensively. "She wanted money and a Hollywood career, and figured using Cash was the way to get it." God, Kyra thought, no wonder Cash had thought she had used the situation to feather her own nest, to build up her own states and that of her company. That was the hard part; she could understand. Cash had been used so often, for what he was, for what he could provide in the way of influence in a cutthroat business, that she couldn't really blame him for being suspicious, for thinking anyone who seemed to care for him had to have an ulterior motive. Hadn't she thought the same thing of herself? "So you decided a little using back wouldn't hurt?" she said after a moment. Dave winced, but answered honestly. "I was sulking, I admit it. But I knew right away I'd made a mistake. I sent her away, without seeing Cash. Carol and I patched things up. Then, eight months later, Alison showed up at ZIP. Pregnant." And into this heated scenario, Dave explained painfully, walked the still-fragile Carol, hearing just too much. "Cash knew what it would do to her," Dave said, plucking at the edge of the hospital sheet that covered him. "With everything that had happened, to find out I'd… fathered a child with someone else…especiallythatsomeone else…" He seemed unable to look at Kyra. "So Cash did…what Cash always does. He bailed me out. He told Carol the baby Alison had been shouting about was his." So this was it, she thought, a little benumbed. This was the debt Dave had once spoken of, the root of that deep emotional connection between him and Cash. Lord, was there no end to Cash's loyalty? Dave glanced at her, as if he knew exactly what she'd been thinking all this time, as if he knew how much Cash ignoring his supposed son had bothered-her. "Yeah. I know. He's really something, isn't he?" "Yes, he is," she whispered. She felt like a fool. She should have known Cash would never be so offhand about his responsibility to his own child. And he'd never actually said the child was his, only that he was taking care of it. How had she had ever thought Cash capable of being like Jack? Lord, how had she ever managed to figure out


Walt's guilt, when she couldn't even see the truth about Cash? Cash, who wouldn't betray a friend even to help himself? "Anyway," Dave went on, "Alison knew a better deal when she saw one, of course. She even tried to milk it for more. Told Cash if he wanted to keep up appearances and see the kid, it would cost him a lot more. But all Walt knew was that Cash had acknowledged the child as his. He was afraid Cash would marry Alison for the baby's sake." "And he'd be all alone" Kyra murmured. "So Scirocco just provided him with the perfect cover." She had left the hospital that day with the last piece of Walt's part of the puzzle—and Dave's, when he had told her the mysteriously canceled meeting had been because Carol, at last, had herself brought up the topic of adoption—and a large question of her own was now answered. What she didn't have was a way to soothe her aching heart, her raw emotions. How could she blame Cash for believing the worst of her when she'd done the same? She was so torn, she felt as if some of that broken glass she'd cleaned up was embedded in her body, slicing deeper with every breath. She couldn't bear it any longer. She had to have some kind of distraction, something to take her mind off the pain. Something that would encourage the creeping numbness that she suddenly considered welcome. She made herself get up and flip on the television, hoping the droning noise would help, even if her mind was spinning far too quickly to concentrate on anything so unimportant to her. When the image on the screen came into focus, a group of madly frenetic cartoon characters, she nearly left it there; that was about the level her mind was working on, she thought. But she finally settled on one of the morning news shows, in some vague hope, perhaps, that everyone else's misery might ease her own somehow. It didn't ease it, but the last item on the news, certainly made her forget it. She sat gaping at the flickering screen, shock immobilizing her as the newscaster blithely announced that Cash Riordan, in seclusion since the threats on his life, would be making a public appearance tonight for the first time in weeks. The event, a charity gala for a new cancer research center, had been widely publicized according to the woman's words, and a huge crowd was expected,especially now that Riordan, whose attendance had been doubtful, had confirmed he would be there. Kyra's heart turned over as a file photo of Cash, taken fromTen Days, flashed on the screen while a different off-camera voice rehashed the threats and the events of the past weeks. Then the woman returned, smiling as she made an admiring comment about the actor's courage. Kyra shivered involuntarily. Courage? Foolhardiness, maybe, she thought. It was bad enough that he'd refused to go into the safe house on his return to L. A. With this much publicity, the whole world—including Scirocco—must know exactly where he'll be tonight. Cole had told her last week that the FBI and its colleagues abroad were close to bringing down the last of Scirocco's members, but close wasn't good enough for Kyra. The terrorists wouldn't even have to wait for an opportunity; Cash was handing it to them on a silver platter. He'd be a sitting duck. "Damn him," Kyra swore under her breath. Then she was running, grabbing her keys and heading for the door. She had started in the direction of the big house where she'd first met Cash before she remembered there wasn't much left of it. Dave, she thought, trying to remember the address that had been in the file. He was home now; he'll


know where Cash is. And he'll have a better chance of stopping this idiocy; Cash surely won't listen to me, she thought. It took her a few minutes to be sure of the address after she'd found the street. She took a breath to steady herself, then walked up to the house. She'd expected awkwardness after Dave's very personal revelations in the hospital, but when he opened the door to her, his expression was welcoming and, oddly, relieved. But Kyra didn't have time to ponder the anomaly now… "Dave," she began anxiously, "you've got to stop this thing tonight." "Believe me," Dave said, tugging at his beard as he ushered her into the living room of his home, "I've tried." Kyra followed him, her agitation rising as they walked through the room that seemed like Dave himself—unpretentious and comfortable. "He can't do this, he can't just give them a target like this." "I know. But he won't listen to me. Perhaps you should try to talk to him." "Me?" She gave a pained little laugh. "You know he would never listen to me—not now. My God, Dave, he fired me just so he wouldn't have to see me again." "Is that what you think?" Dave asked, looking at her with interest. "What do'you mean? Why else—" "Why don't you ask him?" Dave said softly. They had come to a halt in a doorway that led into what was obviously a den, lined with bookshelves, furnished with comfortable chairs and a large desk that held a computer and the mass of papers Kyra had learned went wherever Dave went. And in one of the chairs, his face as set and un-moving as in a still from one of his films, was Cash. Kyra's head snapped around to look at Dave, but he had already beat a hasty retreat. She could see his stocky figure disappearing into what appeared to be the kitchen. Slowly Kyra tamed back. Cash had risen from the chair and was standing a bare three feet away, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression still set. He obviously wasn't any happier about Dave's desertion than she was. "I didn't know you were here," she said, hating the way she sounded a little breathless. "Then we're even," Cash drawled. "I didn't know you were coming." "I wasn't—I mean, I didn't mean to—" God, Austin, she muttered inwardly, get it together. "You can't do this thing tonight," she blurted out at last. His expression still never wavered, and his voice was cool and distant. "What I can't do is go on living like this."


"But out in the open, in a crowd like that…you can't give them a chance like this. You can't do it." "I let other people decide what I could and couldn't do once, let them ran my life, when I was too young to know how to fight back. I'm not going to do it again." "But-" "There are going to be government agents all over the place—" He gave an ironic smile. "More protection than some presidents get. One way or another, this whole thing is going to be over." His smile faded. "And believe me, after what's happened, facing an armed terrorist will seem easy." Kyra stared at him as the meaning of his words sank in. "Bait," she whispered. "My God, you're setting yourself up as bait." She bit back her instinctive cry of protest. The effort dropped her voice even more. "You can't. You'll be an unmissable target." "Why so upset? You gave me the idea, you know, when you said the fire in Denver could have been a trick to get me into the open. So I thought, why not turn it around on them?" "Cash, no! There has to be a way, but not like this. Please, you can't." He looked at her for a long, silent moment. "So I should quit then?" he asked at last, his voice ominously quiet. "Give up my life, walk away? Run forever? Hide forever?" "No!" Her denial was swift, instinctive. "You can't let them win, but you can't just quit—" "Why not?" he interrupted softly, pointedly. "You did." Kyra stared at him. "What?" "You did," he repeated flatly. "You quit the day your husband put you through that public hell. You quit and ran, afraid to ever take a chance again. That's why you hate my world, because you're hiding inside yourself, keeping the world locked out because you had the misfortune to hook up with one gold-plated bastard." "I didn't," she protested, but he had hit some chord deep inside her, and the words lacked conviction. And she knew Cash knew it. "At least I'm doing something about what's crippling my life, Kyra. You're still hiding from your demons." Kyra cringed Inwardly. Was it true? Was this the real reason she found his life in the public eye so distasteful? Did it all stem from her wounded pride, her fear of having the world look at too-tall, plain Kyra Austin and wonder what on earth she was doing with Cash Riordan? When she didn't—couldn't—speak, his voice became brusque, as if he'd dismissed her already. "So don't concern yourself. I'll have plenty of protection. You don't need to try and come out of your shell." Shame flooded her. Her apprehension was a small thing, next to the chance of him being killed. She would, she realized, subject herself to a lot more than a public humiliation for the chance to keep him alive. "Besides," Cash added, "you don't have to worry that I'll get killed and mess up your sterling record. I'm


not your job anymore, remember?" Something in Kyra snapped. "Shut up," she ground out. "Just shut up about my job. If you insist on thinking that's all it was, that's your problem. And I don't care how much protection they've got set up, if you insist on this insanity, you've got more now. Me." For the briefest instant, as she glared at him, Kyra could have sworn Cash was stifling a smile. A satisfied smile, as if something very important had just gone his way. But it was gone too swiftly for her to be sure and seemed too absurd to be true anyway. "That's not necessary," he said breezily. "They've arranged a… date for me. She's very well trained, I understand. And very attractive, of course. Blond, I think." Kyra spat out a word that lifted Cash's brows. She didn't care. Whoever this anonymous woman was, Cash would be just a job to her, albeit a glamorous one. Kyra nearly groaned aloud at the irony of her own oft-repeated words coming back to haunt her. But it was true, and she wasn't about to trust Cash's life to some woman who didn't have the stake in this Kyra did. Some woman who didn't care beyond doing what she was trained to do. Some woman who didn't love him. Kyra caught her breath. She tried to call back the words, but they had already formed in her mind with vivid, unalterable clarity. She had done the one thing more foolish than believing in Jack Lange—she had fallen in love with Cash Riordan.

Cash had, Kyra thought as she paced her living room, given in awfully easily. He had merely shrugged when she insisted she would be there, off the case or not, and said he might as well cancel the other "date" then and tell the agents involved of the change in plans. She doubted the feds would be particularly happy, but Cash waved off her objection as if he were tired of discussing it and wanted her gone, out of his sight. His capitulation, she suspected, had more to do with that than anything else, an impression she felt was confirmed with his last minute, offhand announcement that a car would pick her up at seven. As she paced, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror on the bathroom door. It still startled her, although she'd had all afternoon to get used to it. She shook her head slightly, thanking fate for Carol Kowalski. She'd been almost out the door when the woman had appeared, calling her name softly. Kyra had turned to find a small, slender woman, eyes huge and doe brown behind glasses that were surprisingly flattering to her tiny-featured face. "Were you able to talk him out of it?" she asked, concern for Cash clear in her voice—for that alone, Kyra warmed toward her. "No," she admitted ruefully. "All I did was get myself corneredintoit." Carol brightened. "You're going with him?" "So it seems." "That's better then. Dave told me you're very good."


Kyra blinked, surprised. "Oh. Er… thank you." "He also said that you and Cash…" Carol's voice trailed off as color tinged her pale cheeks. "If we were," Kyra said, trying to keep her voice even, "we're not anymore. He'll never forgive me for being the one to… expose Walt." Carol's brows furrowed above the gold-rimmed glasses, "That doesn't sound like Cash. He's not that unfair." "Life," Kyra said, bitterness creeping into her tone, "is unfair" Then she realized how she'd sounded to this woman she didn't even know, and tried hastily to lighten her words. "Otherwise I wouldn't be trying to figure out how on earth I'm going to fit in at this thing tonight." Carol smiled suddenly, and it gave her tiny face a piquant charm. "You mean an intimate soiree with four or five hundred people is not your cup of tea?" "Hemlock, perhaps" Kyra said dryly, "but definitely not tea. The most formal thing I own is a plain black dress I wear if I have to go to court." She shragged. "Not that it matters. The fanciest dress and all the makeup in the world won't change anything." "Oh?" Carol's smile widened. "You think not?"' She gestured toward a large, framed photograph on the wall behind them. Kyra tamed to look. She recognized Dave immediately, but the woman, a tiny, attractive brunette with the most gorgeous eyes and a wild mane of hair… Her eyes flicked back to Carol in disbelief. She tried to hide it, aware of the implied insult, but Carol only laughed. She gave a flick of her finger to the thick, sedate braid that rested on her shoulder. "Amazing, Isn't it?" She went to a small table beneath the photograph and got a piece of paper and a pen. She wrote on it for a moment, then handed it to Kyra. "Go to Kafka's—you know, like in Metamorphosis. Here's the address. Ask for Dominic and tell him I sent you." She laughed as she glanced at the photo again. "If he can do that for me, he should be able to work wonders for you. You're really quite striking, you know." And, Kyra had to admit now as she looked at her reflection, striking she was. Well, dramatic, maybe. The talented Dominic had trimmed her hair and tousled it into an artfulfullness, had applied more makeup than Kyra had ever worn, yet managed to make it appear utterly natural while it played up the blue-gray of her eyes and the softness of her lips. And then, clucking in mock lustfulness over her tall, curved shape, he had trundled her off to the boutique next door—which he unabashedly admitted to owning half of— and selected an outfit for her. Kyra had blanched at first—red was much too bright a color for her retiring nature, and sequins were far too flashy. Yet one look in the mirror at the dramatic red-and-black plaid, sequined cropped jacket and the short, flippy red chiffon skirt changed her mind. They made her look both shapely and graceful, accenting the regal line of her neck and throat and the length and shape of her legs. They made her feel more feminine than she could ever remember, even a little sexy. She wouldn't shame Cash in this, she thought, and she had grabbed the clothes and run before good sense could return and talk her out of it. The tap at her door made her heart leap. She tried to laugh at herself. She'd faced down armed men with less trepidation than she was feeling now. She settled her feet into the high-heeled red satin pumps she'd bought—figuring as long as she was going to do it, she might as well go all out—picked up the red


purse she'd selected specifically because it would hold and give her easy access to the Glock, and walked to the door. She was a little startled at the sight of a uniformed chauffeur and a little embarrassed that, in the heels, she towered over him. But she realized that Cash could hardly come to her door in the middle of this apartment complex, and the man didn't seem at all disconcerted by her height. He was probably FBI, anyway, she thought, so she managed a polite nod and followed him. When she saw the pristine white limo that seemed at least twenty feet long, she knew she was in over her head. This would be her worst nightmare—all eyes would be on Cash Riordan tonight. And the woman with him. But you knew that going in, she told herself sternly as the chauffeur opened the rear door. You can't back down now. With her heart hammering in her throat, she got into the back seat. Cash was leaning back, legs outstretched, looking for all the world like he was asleep. And looking, in his traditional black tux—with, as if he'd somehow known, a red bow tie—like every woman's fantasy. Her body clenched deep inside as the memories flooded her, memories of his hands oh her, his mouth, the feel of him beneath her fingers and the sight of him as his body slid home, filling the emptiness she'd carried for so long. The emptiness she would live with forever now. As the limo pulled away, he lifted his lashes and gave her a sleepy look that had her pulse racing. She'd seen that look before, when he'd woken her deep in the night, just before he'd shown her she was more woman than she'd ever thought possible. "Cash," she breathed, but after the briefest of nods that barely acknowledged her presence, his eyes had closed again. Anger flicked through her. At least he could recognize her efforts with her appearance, not just glance at her as if…as if… As if he'd known all the time she could look like this, she thought suddenly. As if he'd always seen her this way. She chided herself for being foolish and set herself to paying attention. She had had eyes only for Cash at first and hadn't noticed until now the solid, square man in the front passenger seat of the limo. He held what appeared to be a walkie-talkie, with an earphone tucked into one ear. They had left the movable part of the smoked-glass partition down, in case they had to give any orders, Kyra supposed, but when the square-shouldered man spoke into the radio, it was in low tones she couldn't hear. And only now did she notice the thickness of the limo's windows—bulletproof plastic, she realized with a shiver. A pair of nondescript cars, one gray, one navy blue, had pulled in behind them and as they continued, she spotted several similar vehicles at various places along the way. Cash, indeed, had more protection than some presidents. But not enough to satisfy Kyra. There would never be enough for that. She leached for her purse, releasing the clasp so the Glock was within easy reach. As they drove on, Cash remained slouched with his eyes closed, and Kyra wondered if this was his way of avoiding having to speak to her. If so, she was getting weary of it already. If he didn't stop it soon, she would— The crash, the squeal of the limo's brakes, and the muttered curses of the two men up front came almost simultaneously. Cash sat up as Kyra leaned forward, toward the opening in the partition, trying to see. A large, closed delivery van, cheerfully labeledToy City, sat in the roadway, the brown sedan he'd rear-ended sat shoved up onto the curb. "Damn truck," the driver was saying. "Ran right into that guy."


"Idiot," the passenger agreed. "Looks like the guy in the car's hurt," Cash said. Kyra followed the direction of his gaze and saw a man crawl out of the crumpled sedan. Blood was streaming down one side of his head. "Stay put," the driver barked back at them while the passenger spoke quickly into the portable radio. Kyra relaxed a little. These men knew their stuff; they no more trusted this little scenario than she did. The injured man got unsteadily to his feet, staggering. He reeled into the street, into the oncoming traffic lanes. "He needs some help," Cash said, yanking the door open and swinging one leg out of the vehicle. Every instinct Kyra had developed over the years kicked into gear at once. "Cash, no-" She broke off as something on the periphery of her vision caught her attention. The back door of the toy truck was swinging open. The back door that was twenty feet in front of the limo and dead straight ahead. "Cash!" she screamed. She'd seen the barrel of the assault rifle aimed right at them.

Chapter 14

In a desperate move, Kyra did the only thing she could think of. She braced one long leg against the inside of the limo, grabbed the neck of Cash's tuxedo shirt and yanked back with all her strength. In the same instant, a staccato burst of gunfire raked the limo. The bullets hit with pinging, metallic thuds. Caught unexpectedly by her action, Cash fell back. He nearly crushed her with his weight as he sprawled on top of her on the limo's seat. He gasped for breath as the suddenly strangling collar cut off his air. The hail of automatic fire went on for seconds that seemed endless. Kyra felt Cash flinch, indeed, flinched herself at every thump that marked a round hitting the car. AK-47, she thought. The distinctive sound was unmistakable. Three to four hundred rounds per minute. Her stomach churned violently at the thought of Cash cut to ribbons by that kind of weapon. The limo's glass cratered but held. The occupants of the vehicle hunkered down, using the engine block for cover. The barrage stopped.


Kyra heard the crackle of the radio. The distant voice of some federal agent snapped orders. She heard Cash's harsh breathing above her, felt her own pounding heart. She waited, expecting it to begin again any second. The silence held. And then there were shouts and the sound of running footsteps. The front doors of the limo swung open. "Stay with him! Keep him down." She recognized the voice of the driver, shoutingahardly necessary order as he left. She wasn't about to leave Cash now. She felt him stir, felt an oddly resistant pressure against her. He moved as if to raise up, and she tightened her grip oh his collar. "Stay down! let them handle it." ".. just trying…breathe…" he croaked out. "Leggo." "Oh. You promise not to move?" He made a sound Kyra guessed could either have been assent or a curse. She loosened her fierce hold and heard him suck in a long breath. With the sudden expansion of his chest, she realized what that odd, stiffness had been—he was wearing a bulletproof vest beneath the tux. At least he'd taken that much precaution, she thought. Even if it offered no protection against a well-placed head shot. She would just have to make sure he didn't offer them that enticing target. She'd loosened her hold, but not released him entirely. There were no more shots, just a lot of shouting and scuffling. There was a long silence, then one oddly muffled shot. When they dared to risk a look, Kyra could see several men with automatic weapons and wearing flak vests aad helmets. A smoky mist poured out of the back of the track, and she realized that last muffled shot had been a tear-gas canister. When she saw them drag out a sagging, defeated mask clad in worn black pants and a ripped shirt, she knew it was over. They sat up slowly in the back of the limo. As they watched the agents lead the man away, Kyra straightened her new outfit, which seemed amazingly undamaged, and Cash tugged on his collar, running a finger beneath it as if it were still digging into his throat It was a long time before he looked at her. "Thank you," he said, a little stiffly. "Again." Kyra refrained from mentioning that he hadn't thanked her at all the first time she'd saved his life. And from commenting on the fact that it took an attack with an assault rifle to pry out his first words to her. Grimly proud of her restraint, she merely nodded. "I guess I should haverealizedit was a setup, but when that guy staggered out into the street…" "It was a natural reaction." Now that he'd reminded her, Kyra looked around until she saw the injured man being tended to by two of the other agents. He was talking, gesturing wildly as he did, obviously more agitated than hurt. "He looks all right now."


Cash relaxed a little, tugging at his collar once more, rubbing the skin where the starched fabric had dug in. When one of the flak-jacketed men at last started toward the limo, Cash slid out to stand beside the worse-for-wear vehicle. Kyra followed, hoping her legs would be steady enough to hold her. The combination of ebbing adrenaline and high heels was hardly stabilizing. Cash lifted one arm to brace himself on the car's roof, and Kyra wondered if he was feeling as wobbly as she was. The federal agent stopped in front of them, and when he spoke, Kyra recognized the voice that had been snapping orders over the radio. "Well, Mr. Riordan, looks like it's all over." he said, leaning against the roof of the bullet-riddled vehicle. "That's Ali, and he's the last of them. I just got word we picked up the rest trying to get into town this morning." He looked Kyra up and down, his gaze lingering for a moment on her legs and the slight swell of her breasts visible at the V of the sequined jacket's collar. Here, at least, was someone who appreciated the change in her looks, she thought, then blushed at the absurdity of such surface things making a difference. She sneaked a glance at Cash. He was looking at the agent, stone-faced, his jaw set. The same expression he'd worn in the limo. She smothered a sigh. "I'm Bob Barnes, Special Agent In charge," the man said, holding out a hand. Kyra shook it, noticing he didn't try the crushing grip some men seemed prone to with women her size and in her line of work. "You're Kyra Austin?" She nodded. "Heard good things about you. Cole always could pick 'em. By the way, that was a very smooth move, Ms. Austin. He would have had our boy here dead to rights if you hadn't been so quick." "Thank you." She remembered a time when words like that had meant the world to her. She smothered a sigh. Barnes gave a pleased laugh. "They were mighty confused, those boys. Here they were, getting all this hype in the media for things they couldn't even begin to carry out, and they had no idea who was doing it. Didn't stop 'em from taking credit, of course." Kyra glanced at Cash. He was studying his shirt cuffs, as if getting them even was the most important thing in life. Kyra knew he was thinking of Walt and wanted to change the subject. " But they came here and tried for real," she said. Barnes nodded. "We guess this was their swan song, their last-ditch effort. We've been putting a lot of pressure on them, and they've been on the run for quite a while. But if they could have pulled this off, the headlines would have brought them inalot of money from those interested in backing successful terrorist groups. And probably a lot of new members to boot.'' "Why did he give up so easily? Why didn't he keep shooting?" "Simple, Ms. Austin. He ran out of ammunition." Kyra blinked. Then she smiled. "I guess you did put a lot of pressure on."


"We try, ma'am." It was so much the polite bureaucrat that Kyra couldn't help laughing as he touched his finger to his forehead and walked away. She controlled it quickly, for fear she would lapse Into hysteria and not be able to stop. For she had just realized the truth of the man's words to Cash—it's all over. It was all over. Cash was safe now, and he didn't need her anymore. And his manner today certainly told her he didn't want her. She saw him move from the corner of her eye, but she didn't look at him. Couldn't bear to look at him. God, Austin, why don't you ever learn? She smothered the sob that was trying to rise in her throat. Maybe Agent Barnes would give her a ride home, she thought. She wanted out of this ridiculous getup as soon as possible. Get out of it and get rid of it. It wasn't her, had never been her, and there was no point pretending it was. She'd give it away. Or burn it. Anything. Stop feeling sorry for yourself, she chided herself inwardly. You did your job—now walk away, like always. It didn't work. As she looked around for the friendly agent, the sob rose up again, and this time she couldn't stop it. Tears welled up, began to spill over. She turned her back quickly. God, she didn't want Cash to see, to guess… She'd never felt a pain like this. Jack may have broken her heart, but Cash had shattered it, as surely as the glass in his home had been shattered. She started to walk away, but she couldn't see through the sheen of tears and stumbled. Strong hands grabbed her, steadied her. Cash. She tried to pull away, but he held her firmly. "Kyra" he whispered, turning her to face him with compelling strength. She kept her face averted, seeing nothing through the haze of moisture. His grip loosened, and she thought he was going to release her, but he only moved one hand to gently lift her chin. She tried to torn her head, but he wouldn't let her. She closed her eyes, wishing that would stop the tears that were spilling down her cheeks in a steady stream. "Kyra," he said again, in a voice she'd never heard from him before. "My God, you're crying. You've been nearly bombed, burned and shot, and you never broke once. Now it's all over, andnowyou're crying?" "Just—" She broke off for a gulping breath. "God, please don't cry. Not you. Not tough, strong, indomitable Kyra. I can't—" She tried again, desperately. "Just let me go. Please." "I can't. Lord, I can't. Even though I meant to, if it was what you wanted." Kyra froze. "What…" "I wouldn't blame you, after the things I said." His voice was tight, and sounded pained. "I was so wrong, Kyra. I was guilty of the oldest form of injustice. I blamed the messenger for the message. In that,


I'm no better than they—" he gestured toward the car that held the last remnant of Scirocco "—are. They blamed me for showing the world the truth about them… and I blamed you for showing me the truth about Walt." She looked at him then, his words doing what she hadn't been able to, slow the flood of unaccustomed tears. His face was taut with emotion as he looked at her. "It took a long night camped out on the island, waiting for Dave to be released, for me to realize what I'd done. To realize why my paradise…wasn't paradise anymore. Why something was missing. There was… an empty place. Not where the boat had been, or the house. I can replace those. But I can't replace you, Kyra. You're what's missing. That empty place isn't on the island, it's in me. It's a hole where you should be." Kyra stared at him. "But you thought I…that I only slept with you—" He cut her off with a gentle finger over her lips. "I told you, I don't think I ever really, truly believed that. At least not for more than a little while, when I was so shook up about Walt, I couldn't think straight. After hearing you on the phone and what Walt said, I…" He let out a long, compressed breath. "I went with my gut reaction, Kyra. Can you understand that? It was easy for that misfit kid to believe he'd been had again. A lot easier than to believe he'd really found someone… like you." He moved his hands to her face, cupping it. She was nearly even with his height in the heels, and he looked straight into her eyes steadily . "Just like," he said softly, "it was easier for you to think I could never really care for you." She made a tiny sound, her emotions so tangled she couldn't begin to sort them out. "I don't…understand. Tonight… you were so…" "Distant? Cool?" He laughed ruefully. "You bet I was. It was the only way I could keep my hands off you. When Dave suggested this—'' Kyra stiffened. "This was Dave's idea?" "Not the public appearance, no. He did his damnedest to talk me out of that. But I'd decided on that long before we left Seattle. So he came up with this." "This?" Cash gave her a wry look. "I didn't think you'd ever speak to me again after the way I treated you. But Dave said that you'd come to me when you heard. I was afraid to believe him. And I thought I was right when you didn't show up." His rueful smile was a little shaky. "You sure waited until the last minute." "I…only found out this morning. From the news. I haven't… been paying much attention to the world lately." "You only found out this morning? And you came right then?" He stared at her, something new lighting his eyes. She nodded slowly. "God, then maybe Dave was…" He stopped, and Kyra got the oddest idea that it was out of fear. "Dave was what?"


He lowered his gaze then, and Kyra knew her impression had been right. He was afraid to meet her eyes. "Dave seems to think that…" "That what?" He took a quick breath. "That you love me." Kyra's breath caught. But he didn't press for an affirmation, just went on quickly. "He said you'd try to talk me out of tonight. And if you couldn't, that you'd go with me. I told him he was crazy. That you would never go to…a function like this, that you hate—" he looked at her then "—what did you call them? Public spectacles?" "But if you hadn't fired me, I would have had to go…" Kyra's voice trailed off, her eyes widening as she stared at him. "That'swhy you fired me?" He grabbed her arms and held her tightly. "Don't you see? I didn't want you to come because youhadto. Hell, that was the hardest phone call I've ever made. And the biggest gamble I've ever taken. When you walked in at Dave's, it was all I could do not to grab you and run." Kyra stiffened slightly as she remembered that painful scene. "I never would have known. You're… quite an actor, Mr. Riordan." He winced. "I guess I had that coming. But I had to be sure It was whatyouwanted, Kyra. I wanted you to see that you could do this, that it was nothing, not for a woman like you. That's why I…never got close in the limo. To give you every chance to change your mind. I was afraid if I touched you… I wouldn't be able to let you change your mind." One of the cars behind them started, the one containing the last remnant of the nightmare. Cash looked over at it and through the hands that still gripped her shoulders, Kyra felt him shudder. "God, I never should have done it," he said fervently. "If I'd really thought they'd try anything out in a public crowd, I never would have let Dave talk me into this. It never occurred to me that they'd try it like this, before we even got there. You could have been killed.'' "It's not your fault. It was my decision." He turned back to her, studying her intently. "Was It?" he asked softly. "Did I really give you a choice?" No, Kyra admitted silently. I didn't have a choice from the moment I realized I loved you. "Why were you really crying, Kyra? It, wasn't just a reaction, was it." The words weren't a question, and Kyra knew he'd heard her admission as clearly as if she'd shouted her love to the rooftops. "There's no excuse, except that I was desperate, Kyra. Just like there's no excuse for the things I said. I kept trying to think of a way to undo everything. Bet I finally realized I can't. All I can do is ask you to try and understand. And forgive me."


Kyra's mind was reeling. She could only stand there and stare at him. After a long, silent moment, Cash swallowed, then said in a voice so hoarse, she could almost feel the tamp in his throat, "I love you, Kyra. But it's up to you. There's a big party waiting. In the world I have to live in. Do we go on? Or turn back?" Kyra nearly swayed on her feet. It was such a simple question, yet not really simple at all. He was asking so much more than just about a party; she could see it in his eyes. He was asking if she could vanquish her demons, if she could face such a public gathering—such a pubic life. And in that moment she knew that Cash had been right, that she had quit, had run, had nursed her hurts until they had festered instead of healing. But Cash was not Jack, would never be Jack. Cash was the man who knew the true meaning of loyalty and friendship, the man who had taken the brunt of a scandal to protect his friends, the man who would stand by the disturbed comrade who had made his life such hell. He was the man who knew so well what it was like to be the ugly duckling who had never quite blossomed into the swan. He was the man who, having once given his love, would never, ever take it back. She steadied herself with a hand on his shoulder. She blinked away the last of her tears. And with a smile that was unsteady but painfully sweet, she said, "We go on." And there, in the-middle of a street littered with shell casings, next to a bullet-riddled limousine, Cash Riordan performed the kissing scene of his life.

Kyra watched the water rush by under the seaplane's pontoons. Her life seemed to be moving as swiftly as that water, she thought as Steve maneuvered the craft deftly up to the newly rebuilt dock. No boathouse or boat yet; she didn't know if there would ever be. She looked at Cash for any sign of distress. He just smiled at her and tightened his clasp around her fingers. She could feel his wedding band, and she smiled back as her heart gave a little quiver of joy. The plane bobbed slightly as the door swung open and Cash jumped down to tie off the mooring line that dangled from the wing just past the main strut. Kyra reached for the white pumps she'd kicked off for comfort during the short flight. It would be awkward climbing out of the plane dressed like this, but she hadn't wanted to change. Not when Cash looked at her like he had when she'd first appeared this afternoon. Cash had suggested the outfit himself, a white silk and chiffon version of the red outfit she'd worn before, the jacket trimmed with satin and pearls, the skirt a bit longer but just as flirty and feminine. She was grateful. She would have felt uncomfortable in the traditional yards of fabric, and Cash seemed to instinctively understand. He understood so much, she thought. It had been his idea to have the ceremony in Seattle rather than L.A., although she'd told him she would survive. After the night he'd turned that charity bash into a five-hundred-person engagement party, she knew she could stand anything, even a glitzy Hollywood wedding. But he'd merely nodded, said he knew she could and, more importantly, she knew she could. Then he'd offered to take her to Ireland, to see that blessed castle she found so amusing, but when she'd realized he was thinking that she wouldn't want to go back to the island at all, she had quickly reassured him. Relieved, he had said he'd rather have the wedding in Seattle, so they could get home to the island quickly. The people who really mattered to him would make the trip, and those who wouldn't—he'd shrugged expressively.


And they had. Along with, to her surprise, nearly the entire staff of Sanders Protection. Even Cole had come—Cole who never went anywhere anymore. Cole, who had eyed Cash with the look of a man who was trying to be a graceful loser, and told him bluntly that if he hurt Kyra, he'd have him to contend with. Kyra had nearly giggled aloud when Cash had just stared Cole down and told him he didn't care how big or how Texan he was, he'd better claim his dance with the bride now, because it was the last time he'd ever lay a hand on her. Both men had wound up smiling—albeit grudgingly—at each other before the day was over. She paused in the door of the plane, but Cash was right there to grab her and swing her down as easily as if she were indeed as light as she felt right now. "You take good care of the godmother of my little girl, now," Steve admonished with a grin. Kyra blushed. Cash's friends, his true friends, had accepted her so readily, so thoroughly, that she still marveled at it. And tiny Courtney Cash Zeitler, adorned with baby yellow rosettes, had been enough to make Kyra wonder if maybe she had some maternal instincts after all. "I will," Cash quipped back at his friend, "as soon as you get out of here." Kyra's blush deepened as Steve saluted and did just that. Trying to cool her cheeks, she turned to look up at the new house. The clutter of new construction still littered the ground, but the workers had made Cash's deadline. Barely. Leave the debris if you have to, he'd told them. But leave. She knew from the plans that it was a different house, although she hadn't seen it yet. Cash had wanted to surprise her. It was a little larger, with a second level added for a master suite. And a duplicate of the old tub, Cash had said with a look that made her blush, for which he had great plans. But the feel was the same, she thought as they walked up the path, the simple wood and glass and the view of the sound the only ornament. It looked beautiful from the outside. She could hardly wait to see the rest. Especially that tub, she thought, a little rush of heat sweeping her. She'd been surprised that he'd wanted to rebuild so soon, but then realized she shouldn't have been. Cash Riordan, she thought as he opened the door, was not a man to give up easily, not on the home—or the friends—he loved. That she was now the recipient of the strongest kind of his love still took her breath away. As Cash himself did, when he swept her unexpectedly up into his arms. She giggled when she realized what he meant to do, a light, happy sound that had become almost second nature to her bow. "Don't laugh at me," Cash said sternly. "For a long time, I didn't think there'd ever be a Mrs. Riordan to do this with." Her giggle died away, and she looked at him solemnly. "I'm glad there is. And I'm so very, very glad it's me." He stopped, swallowing tightly as he looked at her. "I love you," he said, his voice low and husky. She answered him with a kiss, holding nothing back, pouring all her love and joy into it. With a strangled groan,, he quickly carried her over the threshold and kicked the door shut behind them…


And hours later, when she still hadn't seen the house, Kyra lounged back in the bubble-filled tub and decided, as her husband began to once more slide his soapy hands over her long legs, that she didn't really care at all.

Target Of Opportunity

Target of Opportunity

Target of Opportunity