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Prologue, Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three

Although the words and numbers were beginning to swim in front of Maura's eyes, her building anger kept her plugging on. That much seafood and produce had never arrived in her kitchen!

What else had been going on under her nose? She dug right to the back of the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. The bulges of the fat brown manila envelope she pulled out were the wrong shape to be more doctored invoices. She took out a rolled printout of columns of figures; some smaller, folded papers; then a few loose negatives. Last, she found several eight by ten-inch glossy photos.

One glance told her they weren't anything she wanted to examine closely. She was in no mood to tolerate someone's secret stash of porn. Just as she was about to ram the photos back into the envelope, she froze in disbelief. Four very clear, black and white pictures featured her fiancé! In each one, Jon Casen was having sex with a different woman. Maura felt sick.

The first photo was an unflattering view of Jon's fairly broad posterior. The handsome champion of the environment, everyone's knight on a white charger was mounting Danny's cousin, Lucy Spadafore. In the next shot, he was with a blonde who'd been working at the Lodge less than two weeks. The miserable cheat! Maura didn't know the other two women. The fifth photo hardly registered. It showed Jon, actually with his clothes on, in earnest conversation with two men. One was Sal Gerardo, a local crime boss. The sanctimonious phony! No wonder he'd been so patient about her reluctance to go to bed with him. She put everything back into the manilla envelope and rammed it into her large tapestry bag. She couldn't wait to see Gran's face when she saw the photos of her Golden Boy when Maura got to Lansing later tonight. On second thought - she yanked out one of the nude pictures at random - Maura decided to confront Jon with one first.

She hoped he was still in Danny's office. She had an engagement ring and a blistering message for him!

As she marched along the corridor to the front of the building, Maura angrily crumpled the photo of Jon and the waitress in her hand and rehearsed what she was going to say before she threw his ring and the photo in his face. When she started across the thick carpet of the dark lounge, she was only vaguely aware of the faint smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke that hung in the air in spite of the deodorizers the cleaners used to cover it. She heard voices. Good! They were still there.

Upended chairs on bar tables cast elongated shadows in the bright light slanting from the partially open door of the office.

"Scumbag!" The angry shout stopped her in her tracks.

Not much of the room was visible. Maura could see the back of Jon's head over the back of his leather chair and her boss's angry face as he loomed over him.

"All the times I've saved your ass, made you my partner, and you steal from me! Well, no more, Jonny. This time you pay up. If Sal and the old lady see those pictures, you're dead meat. And they'll see them if I don't get every cent back by this time tomorrow. Now, get out."

Jon stood up slowly.

"Wilson," Danny's voice was harsh with disgust as he turned to go back to his desk. "get him out of ..."

Jon lunged at Danny knocking him out of her field of view.

"What the hell!" Danny's words ended in a grunt.

Something hard, maybe a chair, skidded across the floor and hit the door with a crash, knocking it almost closed.

"Hold him, Wilson." Jon's usually cultured voice was so rough she hardly recognized it.

Wilson? Wilson Foster was the assistant manager of the lodge. He worked for Danny - not Jon. What was going on?

She heard the unmistakable sound of flesh repeatedly hitting flesh, then a cry and a moan. This couldn't be happening!

"Make it easy on yourself, partner. Tell me where you put the negatives and we'll forget all about this little error in judgment."

"F--- off!" Danny's words were blurred.

"Take over, Wilson." Jon sounded almost bored.

If she had any sense, she'd get out of here before they saw her. But, the envelope she'd found figured in this. Had Jon been stealing from his client? No. Danny had said "partner". Maura eased the door open just far enough to see what was going on.

Danny was bent over, trying to protect his stomach from Wilson's fists. Wilson grabbed him by the scruff of the neck with one hand and gave him a hard punch to the jaw. Danny went flying across the room. As he landed, his head hit the corner of the desk.

Wilson followed him over, nursing the knuckles of his right hand. When he crouched down by Danny's still body, he hissed something and began to search for a pulse.

"Christ! He's dead."

Danny certainly looked dead. Blood trickled from his mouth and nose. His grey hair was dark with it. Jon's right hand man, Walt Ames, appeared from somewhere and dropped to his knees on the other side of Danny. Jon, his back still to the door, leaned over to check for himself.

Jon must have heard Maura's sharply indrawn breath, because he whirled around. His pale eyes flared with anger, then narrowed to an icy glare.

"Do come in, Maura," he drawled. There was blood on the knuckles of his right hand.

She slammed the door to cut off the menace in his eyes and ran. She was pulling out onto the highway before she realized she'd dropped the photograph.

Jon knew she'd found the envelope.

With every mile she drove into the Uplands, Maura found the mustard-green Buick station wagon more disgusting. She hated its oily smell, its spongy brakes, its loose steering, its nauseating color. Most of all, she hated the fact that it had taken all but the last one hundred and eighty dollars and fifty-two cents she could get her hands on to buy it in Grand Rapids this morning. Concentrating on hating the car helped take her mind off her real problems.

If she had known she'd be running for her life in a few hours, she'd have cashed a larger check yesterday afternoon. As it was, even after withdrawing the daily limit from the bank machine at Kent County International, she was almost out of money. Now, she had to disappear. And she had one hundred and eighty dollars and fifty-two cents to do it with.

She couldn't go to the police. What would she tell them? She didn't know if Danny was really dead. She'd called Emergency Services from a pay phone at the airport last night and told them to send an ambulance to Driftwood Lodge because someone had been seriously injured in a fight. But she'd heard nothing on the radio about it. If Danny was all right, what would she tell the police? That Jon Casen had looked at her with murder in his eyes? Yeah, right! Jon played golf with the D.A. and the local sheriff was in his weekly poker club.

There was no one else to turn to. Gran would simply refuse to believe her story. Lately, she seemed obsessed with the dream of reliving her glory days in the governor's mansion. Unfortunately, the fulfillment of that dream depended entirely on Jon Casen's political success. She was using all the Fitzpatrick political clout to back Jon. His marriage to Maura would cement the tie. Gran had gone on about Maura's duty to the family and the expectations that neither Maura nor her father had fulfilled until Maura had given in.

Jon had never professed to love her but he had offered to be a faithful husband and father in exchange for her loyalty and public support. What a joke! She realized now that she hadn't known Jon at all. Why hadn't she paid more attention to her own reluctance to accept the deal? No self-respecting woman would have sold herself so short. Well, that was water under the bridge.

Gran would see Danny's death, if he were dead, as an unfortunate accident. Even if Maura showed her the photos of Jon with those other women, she'd find a way to make Jon's actions Maura's fault.

"What does love have to do with it?" she had exclaimed impatiently when Maura had told her that she admired Jon but didn't love him. "This is an important merger. Not a fairy tale. Your job is to consolidate the connection."

There was no help there. And in the year and a half she'd been head chef at Driftwood Lodge, she'd been so busy that the only friends she'd made were people Jon introduced her to.

She didn't dare access her bank account again. When they found her Mustang in the airport lot, they mustn't find a paper trail beyond the bank machine there. She'd thought of everything. She hoped. She was going to survive this. They wouldn't find her.

"Don't think about them. Concentrate on your driving, Maura Irene," she muttered to herself.

Luckily, it was the off-season. Traffic on most Michigan roads was light in this hiatus between the boating and the ski seasons. She checked her watch. It was only three-thirty. Considering her stops at the Thrift shop and the hairdresser, she'd made good time. The highway ten interchange was just ahead. Another couple of hours and she'd be at Dad's old hunting cabin.

Damn! A cluster of glaring orange and black signs read CONSTRUCTION AHEAD - then INTERCHANGE CLOSED. A large freestanding NO EXIT sign sat squarely in the middle of the off-ramp. Detouring onto secondary roads until she hit twenty-seven North would cost her at least an hour. It would be dark before she reached the empty, cold cabin.

Maura squinted through the smeary windshield at the darkening November sky. The weather was closing in. With luck, the freezing rain would hold off long enough for her to reach the cabin.

She could use a little good luck. She'd had enough of the other kind dumped on her last night. She would never forget the cold resolve in Jon's pale blue eyes when he realized the threat she had suddenly become to him. If he'd said the words aloud, the message wouldn't have been clearer. The man she'd been going to marry had decided to kill her.

Only her quick reaction time in slamming the door shut and punching the preset lock button had saved her. She was grateful to the elaborate security system Danny had insisted on installing. She'd had some luck, after all. She was still alive. She wondered if Danny could possibly be.

Maura could feel the panic rising again. It was fluttering inside her like a bird trying to get out of a cardboard box. Its beak and talons were tearing at the flimsy walls of her self-control, its wings beating hard. The thudding strokes were almost up to the base of her throat.

Somehow, she had to keep that lid firmly down until she got to Dad's cabin. She'd been too busy to go up there since her engagement. Jon wasn't even aware she'd inherited the place. The only thing about her life that had interested him, she realized now, was Gran's political influence.

"When I get to the cabin," she repeated like a mantra. Then, she could fall apart. She could let the bird fly free and scream out her terror and her fury in safety, but she couldn't do that until the cabin's heavy wooden door closed behind her.

In the meantime, she had to concentrate on her driving and go over the things she absolutely had to do. She'd had the propane tank topped up and the refrigerator serviced last spring. There were canned goods and staples in the larder and plenty of split wood in the shed. She'd have to spend a few of her dollars on milk and other perishables.

Her mind refused to stay focussed on these ordinary details. What was she going to do next? Even though the log house was winterized, she couldn't stay there long - particularly not with a car that was running as roughly as this wreck was.

Just as the first drop of freezing rain flattened on the windshield, not too far ahead of her, a Jeep Cherokee towing a heavy old wooden boat on a trailer eased itself carefully onto the road. Maura drew a long exasperated breath and muttered words that Gran would have been shocked she knew. However, Gran wasn't the one being held up on a hilly, two-lane road by some elderly local hauling his ancient, over-long fishing boat behind his shiny new four-wheeler. The way her luck was going, the driver would probably inch slowly down the middle of the road to be sure he didn't damage either one.

Actually, he wasn't driving slowly, but she wasn't going to be able to pass him any time soon. With the strong Northwest wind buffeting the boat, he was having a hard time holding to his own side of the road. Halfway up a long, steep grade, the trailer began to weave more erratically behind the Jeep. Maura, reluctantly, slowed down to leave a few more car lengths between them.

Suddenly, a whitetail deer materialized out of the dense tangle of evergreens and dashed across the road in front of the Jeep. The driver swerved hard to the right to avoid the animal. As he did, the boat trailer swung around ninety degrees and snapped free of the trailer hitch.

Maura couldn't believe her eyes. The trailer with its massive load jerked to a stop, then began to veer crazily back down the hill, casting sparks like a Fourth of July sparkler as its metal tongue dragged over the old, potholed asphalt. It was gathering speed as it went and headed straight for her.

She floored the accelerator and cranked the steering wheel to the left. The boat streaked past her, narrowly missing her rear fender.

The heavy old station wagon lurched as its tires ploughed deep into the soft shoulder on the left side of the road. Maura wrestled the steering wheel but the hulk had a mind of its own. The gravel sucking at its tires slowed it a bit but not enough to prevent it from careening down the steep bank. No matter how hard she tried to control the steering, the nearly treadless tires found their own route in the soft loam. Her scream was shrilling in her ears as the twelve-year-old Buick made jarring contact with a century-old birch.

Maura felt a stabbing pain above her left eye before she lost consciousness.

As Matt Hanson eased the Jeep onto the highway, three minutes earlier, all he could think of was how good a hot shower and warm, dry clothes were going to feel when he finally got back to the house. He was soaked to the skin, chilled and questioning his own sanity forever thinking that coming home to take over the family marina was a good idea.

He checked the road behind him. The only vehicle in sight was an old Buick station wagon with a bad paint job almost a quarter of a mile back. He had lots of room.

He couldn't wait to put a big maple log on the embers that should still be glowing in the stone fireplace, collapse on the overstuffed sofa with a hot buttered rum, and absorb the welcome heat from both. The only reason he'd agreed to pick up Hazel Leigh's ancient cedar-strip inboard-outboard was that the Leighs had been his father's customers for years. Besides, she had sounded so lonely and bleak when she'd apologized for leaving it this late. Old Wilf Leigh had always been responsible for getting the boat taken out of the water and stored at Hanson's boatyard.

"It should've been done weeks ago," Matt muttered to himself for the hundredth time that day.

He'd spent hours in the cold water, hauling the waterlogged cedar-strip to the surface from its sunken position at the dilapidated dock and bailing it by hand. He rotated his right shoulder gingerly and winced. Damn. He'd probably pulled something dragging the hulk onto its creaky trailer in the freezing drizzle. He hated run-down equipment. He wasn't too crazy about courting pneumonia either.

The Buick was still behind him. The driver had the good sense not to crowd him. He scowled at the desolate landscape. A Northwesterly was blowing in from Superior across the top of Lake Michigan, dragging grey streamers of what could even be snow across the leafless Uplands.

Without warning, a whitetail sprang out of the bush and leapt across the road not twenty feet in front of him. Matt wheeled hard to the right, missing the deer's flank by inches.

He didn't have a moment to waste in self-congratulations because the sharp turn had snapped the rusty coupling on the trailer hitch. Relieved of the weight of the boat, the back of the Jeep bounced so violently that only Matt's seat belt kept him from being flung against the windshield.

He undid the belt as he pulled onto the gravel shoulder and was out of his car almost before it came to a stop. Hitting the paper-thin layer of ice that coated the asphalt, Matt's feet almost slid out from under him. Swearing at the weather, faulty equipment and rotten luck, he skittered down the hill after the trailer, which was zigzagging drunkenly, but determinedly towards the puke-green Buick that had been following him.

Alertly, the driver dodged the runaway boat. The station wagon was barely clear of its path when one of the trailer's wheels hit a deep pothole. The jolt swung the boat around, slowed it down, and brought the ungainly vehicle to a jolting stop in the shallow ditch on the right side of the road.

Simultaneously, with a nice bit of driving, the driver skidded his station wagon neatly onto the left shoulder. He didn't quite get it stopped.

Matt held his breath and watched in horror as the heavy car teetered, then dipped and slid inexorably into the deep gully. The driver's shrill scream wavered on the air for a long second before the Buick hit a tall stand of birch at the bottom. The sound of splintering glass and the screech of rending metal ripped through the wet woods

Matt slithered and stumbled through the soggy undergrowth. The Buick had snapped a lot of small lumber before it smashed into the birch clump. Getting the driver out wasn't going to be easy. The right front wheel of the car rested on a three-foot stump, jamming the driver's door against the birch clump. That side of the car was a mess of crumpled metal. Luckily, the frame seemed to have held.

A strong reek of gasoline stung his nostrils. He prayed the leak was a small one as he heaved a massive piece of birch off the passenger's door, then clambered up to tug at the handle. The damned door wouldn't budge.

Dreading what he might see, he knelt on the door and peered down through the side window. In the driver's seat, a woman's still form sagged from her seat belt and shoulder harness. There was blood everywhere - on her face, her clothes. Her dark hair was matted with it. Had the branch that shattered the window on the driver's side struck her forehead hard enough to kill her? He had to get that door open. In the silence of the wet woods, he heard the steady dripping of gasoline from the ruptured gas tank.

Then he thought he heard something else. Yes, there it was again - a faint moan. She was alive!

Maybe he could raise some help on the Jeep's cell phone. No. From the pungent smell of the gas fumes trapped in this little hollow, he didn't have time for that. One spark from the battery and the whole thing could go up in flames. His one experience with the blazing aftermath of a car bomb in Belfast flashed before his eyes and gave him an additional jolt of adrenaline.

Like a madman, he cleared broken branches off the tailgate of the wagon and tossed them into the underbrush. When he yanked at the handle on the tailgate, the catch gave. The lid creaked open. A worn spare tire lay in the middle of the empty storage area. Peeking out from under it was a rusty tire iron! A few frantic seconds later, he'd popped the latch of the passenger door and pried the heavy door open.

Hoisting himself onto the seat, he reached over and pressed his fingers against the side of the woman's slender throat. Her skin was slippery with blood but her pulse was steady. Matt knew enough not to move an accident victim but the fumes from the spilled gas were turning the hollow into a bomb about to explode. Both their lives probably depended on the speed of their escape.

Even as he hurried to release her from her seat belt, his training made him note her vital statistics. She was small - no taller than five foot three and about one hundred and ten pounds. Late twenties. Tidily built. Not voluptuous but unmistakably female.

In his haste, his fingers fumbled with the catch on the seat belt. The woman groaned and opened wide-set eyes that were slightly unfocussed and filled with terror. They were also more intensely blue than any eyes Matt had ever seen.

"Don't," she whimpered and tried to shrink away from him. She gave his hand a weak shove.

"I'm unfastening your seat belt," he said, releasing the catch. His voice was huskier than usual because of his concern for her and his sense of urgency about the gas fumes. "We have to get you to a hospital."

"No." He could hear desperation in her voice. "No hospital."

"Take it easy now." He soothed her as he would a child or a frightened animal. He calmly freed her limp arms from the harness. "We have to get out of these gas fumes. Put your arms around my neck."

His nostrils caught the acrid stench of smouldering electrical wiring. Damn! They were about out of time.

As gently as he could in the awkward confines of the car, he hauled her into his arms and began to scoot his rear end up the slanting cracked leather seat. Soggy jeans didn't slide easily.

"My purse." The woman was fighting him, squirming, trying to reach down to the floor.

"Forget the purse."

He gripped her more tightly. Swinging his legs over the edge of the seat, he dropped lightly to the ground with her in his arms. However, the woman didn't stop struggling.

"Put me down." She wasn't strong but she sure was determined. "Purse," she commanded in a voice that was barely more than a whisper. "Under the seat."

"For God's sake, woman," he exploded, "This car's going to blow up. It's not worth your life."

"It is!" she retorted and swung at him.

Her unexpected wild punch caught Matt on the side of the head. The blow wasn't hard but its suddenness made him relax his hold momentarily. She wriggled out of his grip; staggered a couple of steps; then steadied herself against the car.

"Get it myself." The woman was obviously hurting so badly she could barely get the words out.

She looked about at the end of her tether. Her pale, oval face was streaked with blood. Her jacket was soaked with it and studded with shards of glass. Some cheap fool had replaced the side window with ordinary plate glass!

The accusation in her vivid blue eyes got to him. They both knew whose fault it was that her car was totalled and she was weaving unsteadily on her feet, with blood pouring down her determined little face.

The rhythm of the gas dripping was speeding up. Something snapped underneath the car. God knew what was happening down there. It was either get the damned bag or leave her there to be blown to bits when the gas fumes ignited. Matt hoisted himself up onto the car and grabbed the drawstring bag from under the seat. He leapt back down, shoved it into her arms without a word, and then hauled her up into his arms again.

"Hang on," he snapped and began the frantic, slithering scramble up the slippery incline to the road.

Maura held the precious bag against her stomach and obediently wrapped her right arm around the stranger's neck. She tucked her head under his chin to make herself as small a bundle as possible. His strong arms held her securely.

In spite of the pounding ache in her head, she was exquisitely aware of him. His jacket was cold and wet against her cheek, but the loud pounding of his heart and the sound of each breath as he carried her up the hill were strangely reassuring. She liked the way he smelled. Unlike Jon and most men she'd dated, her rescuer wore no aftershave. He smelled reassuringly of hard-working male, damp denim and wet November woods. Maura clenched her jaw against the pain and let him bear her to safety.

They were almost at the Jeep when the explosion rocked the ground under them. The man dived behind the vehicle, set her on the ground and crouched over her, protecting her with his body from the sparks the wind carried over them.

"We're out of range here," he told her after a moment. He stood up and helped her to her feet.

With his arm around her, she leaned against the Jeep and looked down the hill. Through the freezing drizzle and drifting bits of black ash, she could see a pillar of flame and black smoke rising high above the leafless trees.

The ugly wagon was no more. And she was probably as good as dead. Without money or transportation, she'd be a sitting duck.

A soggy cloud of hopelessness enveloped her, almost dampening the stubborn fire that was keeping her going. She gave up the struggle to keep her eyes open. She had enough fight left to remain conscious, but her level of awareness slipped a notch or two.

She knew that the tall man with the angry, jet-black eyes and the impressively strong, lean body was placing her carefully on the back seat of his Jeep and trying to discover the extent of her injuries with efficient, yet gentle fingers. The sensations reached her through the thick veil of pain that emanated from somewhere behind her eyes. Strangely detached from the scene, Maura wondered why the light feathering of this stranger's fingers over her body didn't distress her more.

She could tell he was trying not to hurt her but a few times when he did something to her scalp and to her left shoulder, a sharper pain stabbed through and she couldn't avoid crying out.

For a moment, when she'd regained consciousness in the car, her hazy mind had connected him with Jon. However, the sound of his marvellous low, gravelly voice had calmed her somehow.

The part of her brain that was still functioning rationally screamed at her. She knew nothing about this man. Hadn't she learned anything about the unreliability of outward appearances? She had to get away, somehow, and get to the cabin. She sighed. Just how was she going to do that?

The fingers left her body. Maura shivered and opened her eyes. Intense, coal-black eyes were peering back at her. They were large eyes set in a squarish face with prominent cheekbones. Dark brows were fixed in a thoughtful frown. She wondered what a smile would do to that forbidding face. She tried to concentrate on what he was saying.

"A piece of glass from the window took a fair slice off the top of your shoulder," he told her. "It's bled a bit. Luckily, it's not too deep and I think I've got the bleeding stopped. "Your head took a solid clout from the branch that broke the driver's window. Gave you a pretty good scalp cut, too," he went on. "I put a pad of gauze on that to staunch the blood but I didn't want to tape it." He lifted her right hand and placed it on the loose bandage. "Do you think you can hold it like that?"

She did like his husky voice.

"I'll try." She hardly recognized the reedy little voice as hers. "What's your name?" she asked.

She hadn't meant to sound like an uneasy kid in a strange playground. However, this unsettling man didn't know it but he held her life in his hands. She should at least know his name.

"Matt," he replied. His face didn't relax into a smile, but his voice had some warmth in it. "Mattias Hanson. What's yours?"

"Maur...Maureen," she replied.

Good Lord! She'd almost told him. She'd been desperate enough to trade her long blond hair, her only really good feature, for a dark brown dye job and a mediocre pixie cut, and now, she'd almost blabbed her real name to the first person who asked.

Not too swift, Maura. No, she was Maureen now. Why had she chosen a name so much like her own?

"Maureen...?" Mattias Hanson prompted.

"Everyone calls me Reenie," she ignored his request for a surname. At least, Reenie didn't sound like Maura. And Irene was her middle name, although only her father had ever used it. He used to tease her by calling her "Reenie, my little Queenie". After he died, Gran insisted that she be called Maura.

She considered telling the man with the husky voice she couldn't remember her own last name, but in her present state, she didn't have the wits to carry off feigned amnesia.

Lord, her head hurt!

She told herself to get with it. Husky Voice had told her his name was Mattias.

Real amnesia would be easier to deal with than her current confused state. She was unsure about so many things. She didn't know if Danny had really been killed or if the police knew about it if he had. The police. What if Jon had convinced the police she had something to do with Danny's death! It would be Jon's word against hers. And Wilson and Walt would back him up.

At least, she had the photographs. She might be able to do something with them. She couldn't let Jon get away with whatever he'd been doing. Whatever that was.

She had to keep her thoughts from drifting...pull herself together...get her mind in gear. The man...Mattias...wanted information.

"Kelly," she decided.

"I'm sorry about your car, Reenie Kelly." There was such sympathy in Mattias' dark eyes that she knew she must look as battered and frightened as she felt.

He gestured towards the cellular telephone attached to the dashboard. "Can I call somebody for you?"

"No. No, thank you, Mattias."

"Call me, Matt," he said, running his large hand distractedly through his damp hair. The poor man obviously didn't know what to do with her.

"Don't you have any family?"

"No," she said in the same whispery little voice. She wished she didn't sound so pathetic.

"Where were you headed? Is someone expecting you?"

"I'm not sure." That was true enough. She wasn't sure of anything. "I mean, I can't remember where I was going."

He took her hand and patted it awkwardly. "I'm not surprised. You took a pretty good bang on the head. There's a good hospital in Millbridge. We'll go straight there."

"No, we won't," she objected.

Hospitals required I.D. She had hidden her charge cards, her driver's license - anything with the name Maura Irene Taylor Fitzpatrick on it - under the carpeting of the Buick. Well, she didn't have to worry about anyone stumbling on her real identity any time soon.

"I can't afford to go to a hospital. I'll be fine. All I need is a motel." She remembered how little money she had. "Is there an inexpensive one in Millbridge? I just need to get cleaned up and get some rest."

He got behind the wheel and started the engine. "I'll look after the hospital bill. I was the one towing a defective trailer. The sooner we get you looked at, the sooner you'll get your memory back."

"I haven't lost my memory."

He swung around. His black eyes narrowed as they searched her face. "You couldn't remember where you were headed."

She thought fast. "I just forget the name of the lodge I was going to apply to first. I'm looking for work. I had a list of the places hiring kitchen staff for the ski season. It was in the glove compartment."

She was babbling. She'd never been a very good liar.

"We'd better have you checked over anyway before we talk to Gus," he said, facing forward again and putting the Jeep in gear.

"Gus?"

"The sheriff. We have to report the accident to him and call your insurance company."

"No sheriff," Maura insisted, wincing as she struggled into a sitting position. "No hospital."

"Ms. Kelly, it's my fault you need medical treatment. We'll go on from there after you've seen a doctor."

"Please. Don't report the accident."

Maura met his eyes in the rear vision mirror. His stern face softened a bit. She must look really pathetic.

"The car was on its last legs. I won't be making an insurance claim. Please, Matt," she pleaded.

Matt could see a sheen of tears in her startling blue eyes. Even an eye that was rapidly puffing up and closing, purplish bruises on her cheek and bloody, matted hair couldn't lessen the impact of those eyes. He'd better deposit her at the hospital before he did something really stupid. He had learned to avoid needy females like the plague. However, he should do something to erase the desperate look from those blue eyes. He had a totally irrational urge to take her in his arms and tell her to leave everything to him. Now, that was an urge he was damn well going to resist!

Reenie Kelly was on the verge of hysteria. He was receiving a clear message that she was in real trouble. Hazel Leigh's runaway boat had simply added to it. Were the police after her? Had the man in her life hurt her? Or threatened her?

The outrage he felt at the possibility that any man had laid violent hands on her came out of nowhere. In his brief stint with the anti-terrorist squad, he'd seen the brutality that men willingly inflicted on each other and on innocent bystanders. He'd been able to distance himself emotionally from it then. Now, just imagining someone hurting this spunky little woman was giving him fits. He wasn't thrilled with this sudden onset of empathy.

Considering the situation as coolly and rationally as he could, he knew what he had to do. He had caused Reenie Kelly enough trouble. Until he had a better idea of what or whom she was afraid of, he couldn't, in all conscience, force her to report her accident to Gus. What would it hurt to do what she asked?

"All right, if you don't want me to report the accident, I won't. My sister, Bronwyn, is a nurse," he said. "I'll take you back to the marina and get her to come and check you over. Will you accept her judgment about whether you need to go to the hospital?"

Reenie Kelly nodded, then winced. She clutched the pad of gauze to the top of her head and eased back down onto the seat.

Bronwyn answered his call on the second ring. Matt old her what had happened. His sister couldn't understand why he wasn't taking the woman directly to the hospital and he couldn't tell her. He wasn't sure himself.

"Just be there, Bronwyn," he said as he signed off.

As Maura listened to him sign off, she lay with her eyes closed, more frightened than she had ever been in her life. She had no idea where she was being taken. She had no choice but to trust Mattias Hanson. Fate in the form of a runaway boat trailer had seen to that.

There was something ironic about deciding not to make her getaway in a lodge boat because of the high waves on Lake Michigan, then having her escape scuppered by a boat on dry land. Some day, if she lived long enough, she'd laugh at that.

"We're here," Matt announced.

Maura struggled up onto one elbow so she could see where "here" was. She didn't think she'd slept but darkness had fallen. One thing was for sure. The place was well lit. She had to squint against the painful light to see anything at all.

On a high steel fence, a floodlit black and white metal sign proclaimed "Hanson's Marina". Inside the enclosure, glaring security lights flooded open areas between several large, metal sheds with curved roofs, which she guessed stored boats for the winter. They cast grotesque shadows on the calm water of what must be a sheltered bay. The place looked like a set for the kind of movie where mysterious beings have abducted all forms of earthly life.

Maura shivered. She hated this vulnerable feeling. She'd always enjoyed solitude and prided herself on being able to look after herself. Being hunted changed that. She made herself concentrate on the sure, economical movements of Matt's hands as he wheeled the Jeep through the wide gates.

For at least a few hours, her survival was in those long blunt-fingered hands. Reaching the cabin was out of the question for now. Even if she could get her hands on a vehicle, she was in no shape to drive. The pain, she could handle; the way her eyesight seemed to drift in and out of focus was another matter.

As far as rescuers were concerned, fate could have played worse tricks on her. Matt Hanson seemed determined to see she was all right. How could she be so naive? Hadn't Jon taught her not to take a man at face value? Matt was probably only trying to avoid being sued. He didn't know she was more likely to sprout wings and fly than contact anyone in the Michigan legal community right now.

Suddenly, a volley of deep-throated barking shattered the silence. Two massive German Shepherds in full cry came tearing around the side of one of the metal boat-storage barns. Running behind them, trying vainly to catch up with them, was a heavy-set, balding man. The dogs leapt at the Jeep, yelping excitedly in the open window.

"Down, girls," Matt shouted.

To Maura's amazement, the dogs stopped and stood docilely by the side of the Jeep, their tails wagging vigorously.

"Bronwyn called. You all right, Matt?" The stocky man mopped his freckled forehead and peered anxiously at him.

"I'm fine, Jeff," Matt said. "Ms Kelly, here, is the one who's injured." He gave the other man an extremely brief account of the accident. "Is Bronwyn at the house yet?"

At that moment, a dark blue van wheeled into the lot. A tall, striking woman opened the driver's door far enough to lean out. Maura tensed. She couldn't remember where but she was pretty sure she'd seen that black hair with its dramatic white streaks before. She stared back at the probing black eyes that were swiftly cataloguing her face. Maura recognized those eyes.

Then, she realized they were the same jet black as Matt's. The wave of relief that came over her was overwhelming. She had enough real trouble. She didn't need to see danger where there was none.

"Bring her to the house," Bronwyn ordered, getting back inside her car and putting it in gear.

"Bronwyn would have made a drill sergeant," Matt said, with a reassuring smile. "But she has a good heart."

The smile was fleeting but it transformed his stone face into a dangerously attractive one. She hoped he didn't smile often. His impassive face was easier to deal with.

"Now that you're here," Jeff told him, "I'll go pick up Leigh's boat."

Giving Jeff a grateful two-fingered salute, Matt followed his sister's van past several smaller buildings to a low, rambling, log-faced house at the water's edge. Compared to the stockade atmosphere of the rest of the complex, it looked reassuringly homey.

"Jeff must have turned the lights on for us," Matt said. "I hope he turned up the thermostat."

"You must be frozen," Maura suddenly realized.

She'd been vaguely aware that Matt's jacket was wringing wet and smeared with her blood but she'd been too self-absorbed to think beyond her own discomfort. The man had to be exhausted and chilled to the bone.

She was still fumbling with the car door when Matt opened it and reached for her. It would be nice to let him pick her up in his strong arms and hold snugly against his chest again, but this was no time to start allowing herself to lean on people.

Every self-protective instinct warned her that Matt could be dangerous. He was too vital, too male, too managing. He exuded the kind of animal magnetism that she had always steered clear of. "I can walk," she made herself protest. "There's nothing wrong with my legs."

Her attempt at independence fizzled. When she took her first step, a wave of dizziness hit her.

"Yeah, sure," Matt muttered as he swung her up into his arms.

Bronwyn held the door open for them. The look she gave her brother was an anxious one.

"Bring her into Dad's room," she said, heading towards a door at the far end of the large living room, just beyond a massive stone fireplace.

Maura caught glimpses of comfortable-looking, chintz-covered furniture and glowing coals in the fireplace as Matt carried her through to the bedroom and deposited her gently on the bed.

"My sister, Bronwyn Cooper," he said, gesturing at the woman standing beside him. "And this is Maureen Kelly."

"Reenie," Maura corrected.

Bronwyn gave Maura a perfunctory smile.

"You look frozen, Matt. Quick, have a warm shower and put on some dry clothes. Start the water luke warm. Don't let it get hot too quickly."

"Yes, Mom," Matt growled.

"Sorry." Bronwyn sounded more impatient than apologetic. "You go ahead. I'll see what I can do for Reenie."

Bronwyn's words were directed at Matt, but her dark eyes were focussed on Maura's face. When Matt hesitated, his sister insisted, "You won't do her any good by standing around here with your teeth chattering. Scoot!"

He left.

"You have to be firm with them," she told Maura. One corner of her mouth twitched slightly.

Maura knew she'd remember if she'd ever met a woman as forceful as Bronwyn. That fleeting moment of recognition outside had probably been the product of overwrought nerves.

Bronwyn took a small flashlight out of her bag. "Look over my shoulder."

Looking into the bright light hurt. So did the gentle removal of the wad of gauze Matt had placed on the gash on her hairline. Bronwyn grimaced in sympathy and handed her a small mirror.

"As you can see, I'll have to cut some hair away to clean that. But because of the bang you took on the head, we'll have to do it without pain killer," she warned.

She worked quickly with sure hands. However, it took all Maura's will power not to whimper while Bronwyn trimmed the hair from around the cut and cleaned up the abrasions on her face, neck and left shoulder. By the time she finished, Maura was exhausted.

Matt appeared in the doorway, his dark hair still damp from his shower. He'd obviously just finger-combed it and the stray locks curling over his forehead somehow softened the harsh lines of his face. Maura relaxed a little at the sight of him. Like it or not, he'd become her anchor in this turbulent sea that was tossing her around.

He handed Bronwyn a folded, grey sweatsuit. "I'm a fair bit bigger than Reenie. Maybe something of Pete's would fit better."

"No question," she agreed. "Look in Dad's bottom drawer. Then leave us a minute while I help Reenie change."

The panicky feelings that had never completely submerged resurfaced when Matt left the room, but they subsided a little when she heard his footsteps stop just outside the door. He hadn't gone far.

Bronwyn efficiently stripped Maura of her bloody shirt and jeans and helped her pull on the soft grey sweats. She had to roll the cuffs but they fit better than Matt's would have.

"That should do it." Bronwyn briskly returned her equipment to her bag, motioned for Reenie to lie down on top of the bed and pulled a brown satin comforter up over her feet.

The moment she opened the bedroom door, Matt appeared in the doorway "Well?" he said.

"She should see Dr. Walmer, Matt," Bronwyn pronounced. "She seems to be slightly concussed. And I've done my best with her wounds but they probably need a few stitches. Doc could give us a better idea if she should go into hospital for observation."

"I don't think so," Maura interrupted, sitting up quickly. The room took a few seconds to settle down. "I appreciate everything you've done for me. But if you wouldn't mind taking me to the nearest motel," she said with a satisfactory amount of assurance in her voice, "I'd get out of your hair right away."

"She can stay in Pete's room, Wyn," Matt stated as if Maura hadn't spoken. "You said it will be a couple of weeks before he's well enough to move home. And I know what signs to look out for. I took a shift watching Tommy after he took that tumble off the shed roof last summer. You could come back to check on her in the morning, couldn't you?"

"I'm not a stray puppy!" Maura broke in. It was past time she took control here. She kicked back the comforter and swung her legs over the edge of the bed. "It's my decision. And I've decided to leave. Thanks anyway!"

"Sorry." Matt looked taken aback at her explosion.

She was a little surprised herself. She never lost her temper. She'd put up with too many flamboyant chefs who never bothered to restrain theirs. This was the second time in a few hours that she'd blown up at this generous bulldozer of a man.

"You said you had no one to call to look after you. We still have to do something about replacing your car. And I can't let an injured woman wander off on her own. Especially with a suspected concussion." Matt's tone said clearly that he was a reasonable man dealing patiently with an irrational woman.

He was an overbearing, sexist dinosaur.

"Reenie," he said quietly. "Would you like to stay here for a few days until you're well enough to be on your way?"

She met Matt's eyes. She was startled by the look of concern in his eyes. He actually looked as if he cared what she did. That was when, to her dismay, she lost control.

When Matt saw the tears beginning to well up in Reenie's blue eyes, he wanted to run. He didn't deal well with tears. But the moment she gave in to the first racking sob, Matt found himself by her side with one arm around her quaking shoulders. He admired the way she'd dealt with the shock and the pain of the accident without a whimper. But she had a right to cry. And she needed comforting. When she didn't pull away from him, he wrapped both arms around her. She looked so small and battered and she felt so soft. Holding her nestled against him while she cried noisily and soaked the front of his sweatshirt felt ominously right.

He looked at his sister and raised his eyebrows in a helpless kind of a grimace. What else could a man do?

Common sense told him that what drew him to this little firebrand was sex, pure and simple. Parts of his anatomy that hadn't seen much activity for more than a year were reacting predictably to the softness of her breasts against his chest. As for his unexpected compulsion to look after her... Well, why shouldn't he feel protective? He'd been in the protecting business one way or another since he was eighteen.

He didn't know what he'd said that had set her off. What he'd seen of Reenie told him she didn't cry easily. Clearly, right now, her troubles looked insurmountable to her. Even though he hadn't done it intentionally, he had caused some of the major ones; therefore, it was his duty to help her. It was as simple as that. He was obliged to get her on her feet again and protect her from whatever danger had made her run. He'd sure sound like a pompous ass if he came out and said that. He probably was.

For the moment, he simply held her and stroked her shaking shoulders while she cried. A little voice inside him asked if he knew how ridiculous his rationalizing was.

"You don't have to see the doctor if you don't want to." Bronwyn's abrupt reversal didn't surprise him. Wyn was basically kind. She was also perceptive. Right now, she was giving him a long, knowing look.

"Matt's right," she went on. "There's no reason you can't stay right in this room for the next few days. Dad's staying at my house while he recovers from hip surgery," she added.

His arms felt strangely empty when Maura disengaged herself from his embrace. She swiped the tears off her cheeks with the back of her hand.

Obviously embarrassed, she didn't look directly at Matt but spoke to his sister. "I'm sorry I broke down like that."

"It's the shock. Most people shed a few tears after an accident," Bronwyn assured her.

"I will take you up on the offer of a bed for the night," Reenie said. "Thank you."

"Good! You'd better get some rest now. Oh, you probably could use this," she said, taking Reenie's elbow and leading her towards the tiny washroom off the bedroom. "We had a shower installed in here when Dad began to have problems with the stairs but you'll have to keep the dressings dry for a day or two."

A few minutes later, she tucked Reenie into bed under the down-filled comforter.

As she left, Bronwyn said to Matt who was hovering quietly just outside the doorway, "I'll be back in the morning, Matt. You remember the routine from last summer? Only light fluids. And wake her every hour or two."

Then he was alone with his unsettling guest.

"Well, then." His voice sounded louder than he intended when he broke the awkward silence. "I seem to have my marching orders. I'll wake you in an hour or so."

Reenie's vivid blue eyes were already drifting closed. "Thank you, Matt," she murmured.

The mound of comforter hid her slight frame completely. All Matt could see was her cap of dark hair and one swollen, bruised cheek against the white pillowcase. He paused a moment, shaking his head in helpless denial. The impact of that determined little woman was potent. Maybe this was his emotional reaction to the shock of the accident. He liked that explanation. It wasn't all that believable, but he liked it.

He left the bedroom door open and the bedside lamp on, then put a couple of seasoned maple logs on the live coals in the living room fireplace. By the time the logs burst into flames, he was on the sofa, holding the fragrant mug of hot buttered rum that he'd been promising himself since early afternoon. As he luxuriated in the radiating heat of the flames, he wondered about Reenie Kelly.

She was definitely on the run but Matt didn't believe it was from the law. However, she'd almost fainted when he mentioned Gus. Matt had dealt with enough criminals to know how deceptive appearances could be, but he'd give odds that Reenie wasn't used to subterfuge. She wasn't any good at it.

She wasn't wearing a ring but rings were easy to remove. He scowled. Nevertheless, she was too attractive not to have some man hovering about.

What kind of trouble was she in? She had been frantic not to leave her purse behind. Even now, it was beside her on the bed. She hadn't let that big tapestry bag out of her reach for a minute. What was in it? Was Reenie Kelly a thief? He was back to that again.

He damned the whole situation to Hell and stamped out to the kitchen to throw a couple of frozen meat pies into the oven. He'd better eat something before it was time to wake the lady in question to make sure she hadn't slipped into a coma. He'd better take out a can of chicken broth in case she wanted something when she awoke.

He couldn't avoid the most important question. Why was he doing any of this?

The meat pies and the rum improved his mood slightly. He wrapped himself in a loosely woven woollen throw, put an alarm clock on the coffee table, and lay down to doze in front of the fire. He didn't expect to get much sleep a few feet away from the disturbing woman who'd been dropped into his life. He wished he could blame someone else for this predicament but it was his own damned stupid idea.

Eventually, lulled by the warmth of the hardwood coals, he did drowse off. His internal alarm woke him an hour and a half later and he checked that Reenie was sleeping normally. That set the pattern for most of the night. Every time he woke her, she reacted exactly the same way.

Her blue eyes snapped open.

"Oh," she gasped, rigid with terror. Then she sighed and gave him a sleepy smile. "Matt."

Every single time, that fleeting smile charmed him. Any man would react the same way to that kind of intimate, trusting smile from a lovely, rumpled female. He had to remind himself that the intimacy and the trust were all in his imagination. The woman was still in a state of shock. But each time, apparently satisfied that she was safe with him, she'd drop off to sleep again. Perhaps her terror was something else he'd imagined.

Around five o'clock, Matt was awakened by a low, anguished cry. He rushed into Pete's room to find Reenie huddled in a tight little ball in the middle of the bed. She was fast asleep and sobbing. He couldn't make out what she was mumbling but he thought he heard the word "blood." Then she gave that unearthly lament again and sat up holding her head.

"Oh, no-o-o,"she whimpered. "He is dead."

My God! What had the woman done?

"Who? Who is dead?" he said, bending over to touch her shoulder.

The staring blue eyes that met his held no recognition.

"Don't touch me!" she cried, recoiling from him. Her legs were tangled in the bedding. When Matt grabbed her arms to keep her from landing on the floor, she twisted away from him and tried to stagger to her feet.

"Have to get out of here. Have to..." she whispered frantically.

Matt backed away. "Reenie. Listen," he said quietly, wondering what he was going to do next if she didn't snap out of this. "It's Matt. You're at the marina. Remember?"

She blinked and sense slowly came back into her eyes. The wariness, however, remained.

"You were having a bad dream."

Gradually, Maura realized where she was and who was speaking to her. But Matt's voice had lost all its warmth and he was looking at her with more than a trace of suspicion.

The illusion of safety she had felt in the night was gone. She wished she could bolt away from the questions in Matt's eyes but her stomach was queasy and her knees were threatening to collapse under her. She sat cautiously on the edge of the bed.

"I'm sorry I disturbed you," she said. "I must have been reliving the accident."

"No one died in the accident, Reenie."

Oh, God! What had she said?

"Died?"

"You were upset. Shocked. Because someone was dead."

"My dog." She looked up quickly to see if he was buying that explanation. But who could read that poker face?

"He was hit by a car," she added. "Last week."

Matt gazed at her for a minute. She sensed something that could have been disappointment in the set of his shoulders.

"Why don't you try to get a couple of hours more sleep?" His voice was cold. "I'll check on you before I head out to the boathouse."

Maura watched him leave the room. Was he on his way to call his friend, the sheriff, about the frightened woman he'd taken into his home? Maybe Matt would give her story about a dead dog the benefit of the doubt long enough for her to get over her dizziness.

And go where? Jon would know the minute the local sheriff inquired about a woman of her description. Nowhere in the Houghton Lake area would be safe. Jon could find out about the cabin. Gran had never been interested enough in her rebellious son's fishing camp to learn exactly where it was but she knew it existed.

Maura lay back down on the bed, too dizzy and exhausted to do anything else.

"What do you think, Jon?" Glad asked as the housekeeper who had served her for over thirty years deposited a ceramic pot of coffee on the table. Angry as he was at Glad, Jon Casen couldn't help but admire the way she dismissed the woman with a wave of her delicate, veined hand.

"How long will it take the police to locate her?" she continued when they were alone.

Anyone who didn't know Gladys Fitzpatrick as well as Jon did would look at the elegant woman sitting across the breakfast table from him and think she was perfectly calm. A lifetime in the public eye enabled her to sit with a relaxed smile on her face and her manicured fingers resting easily in her lap. The tension around her fine, old, carefully made-up eyes, however, told a different story.

He'd like to throttle the headstrong old girl for calling the cops last night. He thought she'd bought the story that Maura was just having a jealous tantrum. Of course, he'd been so damned tired he hadn't read Glad as well as he usually did.

By the time Wilson had finally thought to take the hinges off the door of Danny's office Sunday night, Maura was long gone. They had hurriedly stowed Danny's body in the trunk of Wilson's car. Then leaving Wilson to deal with the cleanup, Jon taken off with Walt to try to find Maura. After he'd wasted three hours looking for the troublesome bitch, Jon had broken speed records getting back to Lansing in time to pretend to wake up in his own apartment at Glad's.

With no sleep at all, he'd had to hang around the old lady all day and suffer through all her phone calls to anyone she could think of who might know where Maura was. He had to be there when Glad got in touch with her. He left her for one measly hour after dinner to make some calls of his own and she'd called the cops.

Now he was going to have to out-think everyone. He had the advantage that everyone assumed that he was devoted to the uptight little prude. Why couldn't Glad's granddaughter be like the other women in his life? Most females were like putty in his hands, but not the one woman he needed to control to make sure that he had the Taylor-Fitzpatrick connection sewed up.

After he'd learned that Danny had found out about the profits he'd skimmed, Jon had tried to coax Maura into eloping with him to Vegas. The frigid bitch wouldn't be coaxed or seduced, almost broke the engagement on Saturday when he came on a little too strong. Then when she stumbled on the foul-up with Danny, she left him with only one course of action. He couldn't get her into bed so using sex to control her was out. He simply had to find her fast and get rid of her.

Well, he was the master of dazzling his heavyweight opponents with flashy speed and dexterity. He had a couple of ideas that he had set in motion earlier this morning.

"The police will do their best for you, Glad," he replied after a long pause. "But I'm worried about Maura." He gave her his best 'I'm really suffering here' look. "Who knows what she might do in the state she's in? I really feel guilty. I knew her nerves were in bad shape but I never dreamed she'd take that waitress coming on to me so seriously."

The old girl was swallowing this line, too. Glad Fitzpatrick had been a real fireater in her prime. Even ten years ago she would have been a tough sell, but she wasn't as keen as she used to be and sitting on the sidelines these last few years since the Governor died had made her ripe for the picking. She wanted him to be the next political star as much as he did.

Jon had told her a number of times that he was concerned about the amphetamines he suspected Maura was taking to get her through the long hours she worked at the lodge. He had to laugh at the idea of straight-arrow Maura getting into any kind of drugs. But Glad would believe black was white if he told her so.

"She knows better than to get upset about aggressive women," she replied on cue. "Maura's had enough exposure to politics to know that's part of public life. I wouldn't have believed she'd ever fly off the handle like that." She sighed. "She was always such a calm, sensible girl."

"She wasn't very calm a couple of weeks ago after the robbery," he threw in.

"That was the first time I actually saw one of those mood swings you told me about." The muscles around her mouth tightened.

He knew it rankled that Maura had lost patience with her, when Glad had been almost hysterical about losing some of her favorite jewellery.

"Well, probably Maura will come home soon full of apologies for getting you upset," he soothed. "All we can do now is wait."

Yes, relax while you can, Glad. Things are about to heat up. He wondered if Walt had been able to get the rumors started yet.

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