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Chapter One

The heavy front door of the Lone Swan Inn opened and Callie Turner loathed the anxiety pumping through her. Once the toughest female undercover cop in one of the meanest cities in New Jersey, she held her breath. Her good hand tightened on the glass she was drying. Thirteen years ago, outside that door, her father had been gunned down.

Forcing herself to shove the memory to the deepest recesses of her mind, she knew she could not allow the past to haunt her. She had enough problems. Simply drying glasses took forever due to her now physically disabled left arm. Drawing in a steady breath, she finished drying the glass and placed it firmly back in the rack.

Her first customer walked into the bar with rain streaming down his black leather jacket. The March tempest raging beyond the inn's solid brick walls had drenched his hair as well, but when he slid onto the barstool, she noticed the smudge of black grease on his cheek and the smile. She had seen that kind of practiced grin on the faces of some of the people she had pulled over for traffic violations. They always thought they could charm her out of writing a ticket. It never worked.

"What's your poison?" She raised her eyebrows a fraction, but did not return his smile.

"Valpolicella." He ordered the drink with the appropriate Italian accent as his smile faded.

"That'll be six dollars, sir." Rigid, she stood and stared back at him. Then she noticed something flicker in the back of his unusual eyes. They did not match his coal black hair but had the luster of soft hazel flecked with brown and highlighted with gold. Something about those eyes disconcerted her far more than his smile.

Certain he would detect her unease, she added in a clipped voice. "And I don't take checks or credit cards."

He frowned and appeared disappointed, but he reached for his money. Instinctively, she moved closer to the drawer where the gun lay--not that she could use it with only one good hand, but its presence helped to calm her paranoia.

The Lone Swan Inn needed paying customers and she intended to collect the cost of all drinks before she served them. She and Butch had thrown their savings into fixing up the old place. They had to recoup their money and pull the inn out of the red, or it would have to be sold--something Callie refused to allow. With his last breath, her father had begged her not to sell it. She would do all she could to honor that request.

When a whole wad of cash came out of the man's pocket, Callie struggled to maintain her composure. Balling up the towel, she wished she could stop thinking like a cop. She had nearly gotten herself killed last year by jumping to conclusions. Her useless left arm reminded her daily how dangerous impulsive moves could be.

She glanced at the man's fingers as he laid eight singles on the bar. Rimmed with black gunk, the filthy fingernails marred his long, strong hands. She pressed her lips into a thin line of distaste. With the big tip, this guy thought he knew the way to a barmaid's heart.

Hurriedly, she thanked him and scooped up the cash to place it in the cash register before turning to ready his drink.

She scanned the shelves for the proper bottle of wine. The way his voice resonated with an amazing depth made it clear and compelling, but there was something more--something familiar. Where have I met this thug?

Mentally reviewing some of the arrests she had made, she poured the drink. Then, picking up a small napkin, she swung around smoothly so she didn't spill a drop, and gave him a tight smile.

"Thanks." His gaze focused on the red wine and a muscle in his jaw twitched as if he meant to say something but thought better of it. He turned his head to glance up and down the length of the bar.

The glint of metal around his neck caught her attention. On a sturdy ball chain he wore a cross--not a heavy gold one like those worn by members of the street gangs--no. Gray steel, dull and plain, lay against his olive skin.

The symbol no longer meant anything to her--not since her father's murder, at any rate.

"May I trouble you for some peanuts, please?" he asked.

"Oh. I'm sorry. I forgot." Perspiration beaded up on her forehead, she hadn't realized until he spoke that she had been staring at him. Flustered that he had disarmed her, she rushed to grab the jar of peanuts and dropped the entire, large economy-sized container. The plastic shattered and sent peanuts shooting everywhere.

Her customer had the audacity to laugh.

Callie closed her eyes and repressed a groan. Last year, the highest award for bravery, this year the klutz award.

She opened her eyes. "I'm sorry, sir, but we're suddenly all out of peanuts."

"Happy hour is going to be a bummer."

He shrugged his broad shoulders and her heart did a strange little dance. Pressing her hand over her heart in disbelief, she stepped back. Nobody, nobody ever did that to her--especially someone who looked like a member of some famous crime family. The strain of the past year must truly be getting to her.

"Now, don't worry, I won't tell the boss." He gave a wink with one of his enigmatic eyes.

"I am the boss," she stated firmly. While Mom had the deed to the old place, Callie had taken over as the manager. Butch had promised to do all the grunt work.

Her customer regarded her with a measure of surprise that made her feel as though he could look right through her. Putting one hand up to touch the buttons of her white shirt, she reassured herself that none had come undone. Her gaze wandered to his lips and lingered there. Few men had a mouth so generous.

What am I thinking? The room grew warm. To her, it felt as if she stood in the middle of a street during a July heat wave directing traffic. She grabbed an icy bottle of water and went in search of the broom. Everything about him puzzled her. Why did she have a nagging sense that she had met him before this?

She had been back in town for two months. Very little had changed in the area in the eight years she had been gone. Her customer may have grown up here just as she had, though she judged him to be slightly older. It could be possible that he had known her sister.

She cooled down, located the broom and the dustpan, and heard the front door open again. Another customer joined Mr. Dirty Fingernails. The two obviously knew each other and moved to a booth in the corner. Leaning the broom up against the bar, Callie stepped on plenty of peanuts as she made her way to the table.

Her newest customer wore a vested suit. Judging from his leather attaché, she guessed that he was probably either a lawyer or a securities broker, but since he was talking to Mr. Dirty Fingernails, the lawyer idea seemed more plausible.

"Can I get you something?" she asked.

"Dewars on the rocks." He hurled the order at her with words clipped, cold and exact.

When she announced the price, he slid a credit card onto the table. He didn't even give her a glance--as if she were less than human. A spark of anger ignited deep down inside her.

Definitely a lawyer. She hated them all.

"Cash only," she said, unable to eliminate the contempt from her voice.

The man turned, narrowed his eyes and gave her a sharp look. "I don't carry cash."

Mr. Dirty Fingernails hurriedly reached for his wallet again. "I'll get it." He handed her the money.

Deliberately stomping the peanuts under her feet, Callie went back behind the bar, finding it nearly impossible to stifle her hostility. She should have taken the lawyer's credit card and shredded it into slivers.

She chose a glass, scooped up the ice, poured the Scotch, snatched up a cocktail napkin, and started back at the table.

She discovered that crushed peanuts are far more slippery than whole peanuts. As she rounded the end of the bar, her feet slid out from under her. The drink went flying and crashed against the gleaming brass bar rail. She snatched at the broom, hoping to break her fall. The long handle landed on a chair and prevented her from breaking the same arm she had mangled last year. Her bottom landed with a resounding thud on the floor, miraculously missing the busted glass by inches.

Mortified, she winced as the heat blazed in her cheeks. This whole entrepreneurial experiment could turn out to be a disaster if she made pratfalls the regularly scheduled entertainment.

The two men rushed over to her.

"I know a great workers' comp lawyer..."

"Cut it out, John." Mr. Dirty Fingernails reached out to her with one of his contaminated paws. "Can you get up?"

She glanced up into his face and found concern gentling his rugged jaw. The crazy flutter tingled around her heart again. She held out her hand, completely ignoring his unwashed state, and that's when he gave her a genuine smile--one that deepened a dimple in his cheek. Once again, an odd sense of déjà vu came over her.

She had seen him before. Yet, for some reason, she could not recall where or when, which for her seemed very strange.

The calluses on his warm hand rubbed against her skin. That summertime heat wave-on-the-asphalt feeling came over her once more and she could barely breathe as the man who remained an enigma in her memory helped her to her feet.

"Nick, I've told you a million times. Don't be so ready to lend a hand. One of these days, you're going to get sued," the vested lawyer grumbled.

"Have you forgotten the good Samaritan?" Nick--or Mr. Dirty Fingernails--asked the lawyer.

Callie could have sworn something magnetic kept her hand in his. She had to force herself to draw away from him, to edge away from his potent attraction, one millimeter at a time. Once she broke away, she leaned against the bar with her mind racing, searching for some scrap of recollection. The lawyer had called him Nick, and though that did not help her memory, she could easily envision meeting him in some dark alley in the city where she used to work. She wondered which crime he had committed. She wondered if he recognized her.

"A good Samaritan would be taking a deposition," the lawyer insisted.

"Please tell me that someday you are going to turn into a human." Nick sighed.

The lawyer aimed a look at Nick that could slice flesh.

Unfazed, Nick threw a glare right back at John. "The courts cannot solve everything, as you well know."

Callie tried to surreptitiously dust off her derriere. Men like Nick and his friend could smile at you as they pointed a gun at your heart. She did not trust either of them.

The animosity between the two men charged the room with tension and Callie's anxiety increased. She had thought she could leave all the dark alleys behind her, but here in her father's old inn she sensed danger.

"Are you feeling okay now?" Nick laid his hand on her good arm and the impression of menace diminished while soothing warmth shimmered up from his touch. If someone had zapped her with a Taser, she would not have been more surprised.

"I landed where there's plenty of padding. No problem." She wanted to sound flippant and tough--like the hard-bitten cop she had been. However, her voice came out a little wavery--which was his fault, not hers.

"What padding? You could use some of my Aunt Bella's pasta." He gave her hand a tender squeeze before letting it go. Callie found ice quickly creeping back into her soul.

The lawyer glanced at his ostentatious watch and ground out a nasty word. "Speaking of pasta, I've got to run. There's a political dinner tonight." He shook his finger at Nick. "Remember what I said. Forget your uncle's advice. What does he know? He's an old man! You've got far more education than he does."

Nick's features hardened into granite. "Tell Alice and the kids I said hello."

"Mind if I drink your wine?"

Nick's eyes narrowed. "Go ahead. I didn't touch it."

The lawyer guzzled down the wine in one long swallow before he rushed out the door, letting in a blast of wind and rain from the storm. Callie shivered and moved further away from her lone customer.

"You'll have to excuse him. I think the job has gone to his head." His mouth turned down in disgust.

Without thinking, Callie muttered, "I hate lawyers."

His expression darkened. "They're part of the food chain."

She made the mistake of getting lost in his startling eyes again, but she caught herself after a moment. She decided he could pass a lie detector test hands down.

"Now cops--those are the guys you have to watch out for," he mused as disdain hardened the classic line of his lips. "They're the carnivores."

That remark cinched it for her and she gave him a penetrating stare. Of course he didn't trust cops. He probably had more than his share of run-ins with them. She could have been his arresting officer--though she felt certain she would have remembered that and so would he. She wondered how much time he had already served.

Clearing her throat, she picked up the broom to begin sweeping up the shards of glass and the peanuts. Where was her partner when she needed him? One look at Butch and Mr. Dirty Fingernails...Nick would slink home.

Brushing the peanuts and glass into a large pile, she thought about the lawyer who had represented the lone suspect in her father's murder case. That lawyer had insisted the evidence against his client had been improperly collected. Due to the suppression of that evidence, the man had gone free.

She had kept tabs on the man as much as she could. The last she had heard, he had been living in a trailer park in Florida, mowing lawns to make ends meet.

Tightness came into her throat as she thought about her father. For much of her young life he had been a gambler and run the family into horrendous debt. Somehow, her mother had managed to keep the family unit functioning, but when Callie's sister ran away, her mother fell apart. That's when her father changed overnight. Turning his life around, he gave up gambling and became a practicing Christian--joining her mother at church regularly for the first time since their wedding. Despite that complete reversal, he had been murdered in an apparent robbery. Callie could not understand how a loving God would allow that to happen.

Didn't God want people to turn to Him for a better life? Wasn't there supposed to be a lot of rejoicing over the lost lamb that had been found?

With her father's death, she decided to become a police officer. She made a vow to herself that she would do everything possible to get criminals off the street. Being an undercover cop seemed the best way to nab the bad guys, at least until a year ago.

She could feel her lone customer scanning every movement she made. Why was he still here?

"You are welcome to another glass of wine or Dewars--on the house," she offered, assuming that's what he wanted.

"No, thank you. I really just came for the peanuts." He gave her the clever smile once more, creasing the fine lines around his eyes, yet the dimple remained hidden.

She wondered how he could do that. With the dimple in his cheek, his strong jaw, and that thick black hair, he would stand out in any crowd. Without the dimple, he looked lethal.

* * *

Nick had resisted the idea of meeting John at the Lone Swan Inn, but John swore that a meeting at the service station would ruin his three-piece suit. As usual, Nick had given in to his friend. Besides, he had been curious when he had noticed the activity going on at the inn and wondered who would reopen the place after all the years it had been boarded up.

Then he walked into the inn, saw Callie Turner at the bar, and had a disturbing impression. Though Nick had become used to the Lord's guidance, he doubted that this could be one of those gentle nudges of the Spirit, which he usually felt as a sort of knowing. While this message came upon him in the same way, he immediately rejected it. There had to be some other reason he had gotten such a ridiculous idea into his head. Hormones, he thought.

It had been thirteen years since he had last seen Callie and while she had only grown more beautiful, she was obviously there to serve alcohol, to cater to people's addiction for drunkenness--something he abhorred. Thoughts of his mother flooded his mind and he fought to keep himself from sinking into that particular quagmire of bad memories.

When Callie Turner deliberately ignored him, it had taken a few moments for him to realize that she didn't remember him. That surprised him since he had never forgotten her. How could he? He decided that it might be best not to remind her of their first encounter. She must have blocked the whole event from her mind, and perhaps she needed to do that--considering the circumstances.

As she swept up the peanuts, he admired the brush of freckles across her nose and her graceful neck. Nick didn't doubt that other bartenders continued to card her. He mourned the loss of the long, silky ponytail she used to wear. She now had a crown of cropped, blond hair that seemed reminiscent of old photos of Amelia Earhart, but her mouth was more delicate than that of the famous aviator.

Callie Turner had grown about two inches taller and filled out in all the appropriate areas, though she apparently wanted to hide that fact. The black vest she wore hung too loosely, as though it had belonged to someone much larger. Or had it belonged to her father? An icy shiver slid up his spine.

And then there was her left arm. She kept it close to her side and the fingers on that hand appeared clenched into a rigid position. Pity wound through him. Thirteen years ago, her left arm had been as perfect as the right.

He could not mistake the fear and mistrust she directed at him with her deep espresso eyes. He had thought of her now and then in the quiet moments of his life, occasionally offering up a prayer for her. He could see now that her soul remained scarred despite the passage of time for the same haunted look remained in her heart-shaped face.

Why had she reopened the inn? He toyed with the cross at his neck. Was it because of her disability?

"Do you have another broom? I could help you," he offered.

"I am perfectly capable of cleaning this up by myself," she snapped in a brusque voice, but then she paused for a second and added with a false smile, "but thanks anyway."

He glanced at his watch and suppressed a groan. He had to get back to work. Mr. Stevens' sedan, after 159,000 miles, needed a new head gasket. Nick slid off the barstool.

"So your name's Nick?" She startled him while he stared with regret at the peanuts she dumped into the trashcan. His stomach rumbled.

"Yep. Nick Messina, grease monkey first class." He caught the flash of uncertainty as it crossed her features, but almost immediately a chill of distrust replaced any hint of warmth in her dark eyes.

"I'm Callie."

His gaze slid once again to her left hand and he lifted his brows in speculation. Nope, no ring. Had she already been married and gotten a divorce? Had she never married at all?

When he lifted his eyes, he caught the furious glare she threw at him that would have most men ducking for cover. Nick merely braced for the onslaught.

"Yes, I'm disabled," she spat out.

"I was looking for a wedding ring."

Her eyes opened wide and then narrowed once more. "I do not date customers."

"That's fine because I don't date barmaids," he retorted. His conscience immediately chastised him for that harsh remark. What was the matter with him lately?

"I told you I'm the manager!" The winter in her tone rivaled the raw blast of wind that blew in with another customer.

Nick turned around to see who it was and felt the tug at his heart as Uncle Pete limped slowly up to the bar. When he glanced back at Callie, he saw her sizing up his uncle. It disturbed him to notice the detachment of her calculated inspection. It reminded him of a judge's eyes before he announced the sentence.

Nick announced in a low voice. "That's my uncle, Pete Sanders."

Walking with a slight stoop, his skin pale and drawn, Pete Sanders seemed infinitely older than he had been a few weeks ago. "Nick--you get your hide back to the garage right now or I'll be docking you for the day. You can't be scooting off here to see your old cronies."

Nick smiled. Uncle Pete might look a bit worn, but his attitude hadn't been impaired at all.

"No old cronies here. Only John, and he left." Nick had been glad to see him go. They had been friends since grade school, even serving as altar boys together, but somewhere along the path to success John had fallen away and become greedy. Not only that, he attempted to coerce Nick to join in on his schemes. John's latest proposal made Nick's skin crawl.

Uncle Pete frowned. "John's wife has her hands full keeping that man in line."

"He needs to get his priorities straightened out." Nick shrugged.

"What happened to the peanuts?" Pete asked.

Nick chuckled indulgently. There was nothing wrong with the older man's appetite either. "It seems we are all on a restricted diet today. The new manager of the Lone Swan Inn dropped all the peanuts on the floor."

Nick noticed how Callie merely gave his uncle a brief nod, the slightest of gestures acknowledging the introduction as she continued to sweep.

His uncle raised his eyebrows a fraction and shot a questioning look in Nick's direction. Nick held his palms up to let his uncle know he had no answers. Though the situation was peculiar, Uncle Pete hid his confusion by clearing his throat. "It's nice to see this place reopening."

"Yep." Nick crossed his arms and leaned on the bar. "It's better than looking at boarded up windows from across the street."

Callie shot a stern look in his direction. "I've hired a bouncer to keep an eye on the customers. He's got his black belt--he just happens to be a little late right now..."

Her words drifted off. Nick thought he heard a fragile note in her voice and something softened in his heart. Beneath her tough, belligerent attitude a frightened girl still lingered.

"Now don't you go worrying about things." Uncle Pete made an obvious effort to calm her fears. "I've run that service station across the street for thirty-five years now. Got robbed only once--at night when the place was closed. Nobody got hurt. It was probably someone on drugs. Always is."

Callie's eyes locked with Nick's for a moment. "Better to be safe than sorry," she muttered as she went back to her sweeping.

Nick felt a curious sensation clutch him as he drank in the look in those dark mirrors of emotion. It was like driving into a black tunnel with no headlights. He dropped his gaze to the bar. Whoa. He needed to put on the brakes.

His strange feeling dissipated. He glanced at his watch, noticing that his own hands shook slightly. "Okay, Uncle Pete, I'll get back to Mr. Stevens' antique."

"It's almost a classic car."

Nick chuckled. "Sure, and the customer is always right."

"Yes, he is, son. You give 'em what they want--or convince them otherwise." He winked.

Nick nodded. It didn't matter whether you fixed engines or defended somebody in court, the customer had the upper hand most of the time. Praying for pleasant customers always helped.

He and his uncle walked to the door. He could feel Callie's eyes drilling a hole in his back. He opened the door to find that the rain had slackened off, though it had not stopped.

As they stepped outside, Uncle Pete sang a few lines in his rich tenor. "It isn't raining rain--"

"I can't believe she's going to run the inn." Nick interrupted as he closed the door behind him. "After it's been boarded up for all these years--"

His uncle sobered. "Some folks thought it should be torn down. It was getting to be an eyesore."

Nick's mind kept racing. He did not listen to his uncle's words. "What do you think of her?"

He felt his uncle's hand on his shoulder. "I thought you had sworn off all women since you broke up with Patrice."

"I'm not interested in dating a barmaid!" Nick insisted. "I just--well, obviously, Ms. Turner doesn't even remember me..."

His uncle nodded. "Must have been out of her head with grief when her father was shot."

Nick shuddered as he recalled that horrible day. He decided to change the topic.

"About Patrice." He cleared his throat and shoved back the unruly hair from his forehead. He wanted to set the record straight. "Breaking off with Patrice is one of the best things I ever did."

"I heard she had her wedding dress picked out."

Nick took in a quick breath. That was news to him. Why would she do that? He had never mentioned marriage. "I'm convinced I made the right move."

As they walked, a gray van pulled into the lot, which distracted them both. The darkened window slid down and Nick's blood turned to ice when he saw the gun aimed at them.

* * *

Callie's nerves bunched up in a cold knot at the pit of her stomach. It continued to disturb her that she could not remember where she had seen Nick. She rubbed her hand across her brow. Her paranoid reactions had to stop. Not everyone was a crook, a murderer, or a pervert.

She heard the high keen of the wind whistling. The men had not closed the door firmly behind them. She grumbled to herself as she went to shut it. A gust nudged it open further as she reached it. She could hear snatches of the men's conversation carried by the wind.

Breaking off with Patrice...wedding dress picked out...convinced I made the right move.

She leaned on the doorjamb and watched the men walk away from her. Nick must have suffered a heartbreak. No doubt, Patrice had broken things off--not him. However, as Callie stared at Nick's back, she could not help admiring his physique. Trying to gauge the width of his shoulders, she did not see the paneled van pull into the lot until it crossed directly in front of her line of vision. Then as the window slid down, she saw the gun.

"Get down!" she yelled at the men. As the gun fired, she dropped to the floor and rolled to the side. She heard Nick shout out for help.

Years of training steeled Callie to react in the best sequence. She punched in a call for help on the phone while the van roared away with smoke billowing from the tires. Through the inn's window, she saw the vehicle spin onto Four Bridges Road, ignoring the red light and nearly hitting a pedestrian.

She fought down her fear with discipline, snatching up her first aid kit before she ran to Nick and Pete. Bracing herself for the worst, she tried to keep her face impassive even though she could feel her heart beating out of control.

When she reached them, she dropped to her knees beside Pete who lay on the ground, his blood draining far too fast from a wound below his left shoulder. Nick knelt beside his uncle and looked at her with a face as ashen as the heavy clouds overhead. She swallowed past the lump in her own throat.

"He's been shot." Nick's statement seemed almost a question.

"He only winged me, son." Pete grimaced in pain. "Now don't go calling Aunt Bella--I'll be fine..." His voice faded as his eyes closed.

"Uncle Pete!" Nick called out.

Callie handed him a large gauze pad. "Nick, press down on this--hard. You've got to stop the bleeding."

Nick nodded and followed her instructions, though Callie noticed that his hands shook. She felt herself trembling all over, too.

She leaned closer to Pete's ear. "Did you recognize the guy in the van?" she asked.

"Yes." Pete's whispered answer sent a chill up her spine.

"Do you know his name?"

Pete's head lolled to one side as his body went slack.

"Uncle Pete! Uncle Pete!" Nick shouted. "Don't die!" He began a frantic prayer where every syllable held the ache of desperation.

Callie froze as horror gripped her soul. She had used those same words once--thirteen years ago. She put a hand to her head as a wave of dizziness surged through her.

Now she remembered Nick. Her head continued to spin as it all came back to her like a horrible nightmare--only it was real. She looked at Pete's blood spilling out onto the pavement and thought she was going to be sick.

---

Chapter Two

Nick stared out into the darkness and tried to focus on the view. Hours ago he had gone past exhaustion into a surreal world where everything seemed faded and hazy on the edges. He had done all that he could do. Now he simply had to wait--and that seemed the most excruciating part of all.

Time had sped past in a blur of lights, sirens, and hasty phone calls. Unfortunately, it seemed all too familiar. He had gone through a similar ordeal when a cop had murdered Ted three years ago.

The old anger fired through him and he found himself clenching his teeth while whispering a desperate plea for help in quelling his rage. He strained to see the river far below the hospital window, hoping that he could calm himself by staring at the gentle waves. The streetlights on either bank illuminated the serene, inky ribbon of the Monmouth River as it flowed toward the sea where it would meet the dawn. He found that watching the rhythmic swells did compose him, but then he closed his eyes and Callie's stricken face swam into his memory.

He had known the shooting of his uncle must have been a replay of her worst nightmare--only this time, he had shared it with her. However, his uncle would live, thanks to God, but Nick had seen the horror flash in Callie's eyes. He could pinpoint the moment she remembered exactly who he was. The awful memory's impact must have left her raw.

He took a deep breath and prayed she would be okay.

"You go home now and get some rest." Aunt Bella tapped his forearm. "I'll stay here until Papa wakes up."

Nick opened his eyes and saw himself reflected in the dark glass with Aunt Bella, the tracks of tears still dampening her cheeks. He loved her far more than he had loved his own mother. That reality sent an ache stabbing at his heart. "The doctor said he might not regain complete mobility in his arm."

"He's alive--praise the Lord--besides, what does the doctor know--eh? I'll feed him my zuppa and he'll be as strong as ever."

Nick frowned. He could see the steel had not left her spine. She believed there was nothing in the world that could resist the power of prayer or her cooking. That was all anyone needed to get through life in Aunt Bella's opinion. It would be foolish to try and reason with her. Once she made up her mind, there were no other options.

Uncle Pete would soon be floating away on a river of zuppa.

"I called Uncle Tony. He should be here in another hour." Nick knew Uncle Tony could manage Aunt Bella better than he could. "Aunt Frannie will be bringing over her lasagna tonight. She said she'll stay with us for a few days."

"Did you know Frannie started using those noodles you don't have to boil first?"

"It still tastes fine."

"But boiling the noodles takes love, you know. You've got to cook with love."

Nick saw her lips tremble and once more a pain surged through him. He hated seeing Aunt Bella cry. She had cried too much when Ted had died and he didn't ever want to see her cry again. He quickly put his arm around her and led her to the sofa. He sat down with her and held her hands in his.

"Uncle Pete won't be out of recovery for quite a while. Why don't I drive you home? The nurses can call us the minute he wakes up."

Aunt Bella shook her head. "No. I'll stay. You've got to get some rest so you can open up the garage. The customers--they need service."

A spark of resentment flared up inside Nick before he tamped it down. True, Uncle Pete's business ran their lives, but it had also provided them with a good living and paid for much of Nick's education. Now, they would need the business to pay more medical bills.

He stared down at his own grimy hands covering his aunt's dainty fingers. What good had his education been? He had discovered that being a lawyer had big drawbacks. Defending the guilty weighed on his conscience. As a Christian, he detested lying--but that's what he had to do in court and over the years it had begun to wear on him. It got to the point where he thought it would be preferable to plummet over the edge of Niagara Falls rather than spend another day in court.

Worst of all, the courts had not given his family any satisfaction in his cousin's death. The cop who had shot Ted had been acquitted.

When Uncle Pete had been diagnosed with cancer, Nick found filling in at the service station the perfect alternative to the burnout he had gotten working as a trial lawyer. However, with the possibility that his uncle might never be able to work again, Nick realized that he didn't want to spend the rest of his life wielding a socket wrench either.

He drew his hands away from his aunt and clenched them into fists.

"I'll open up the garage as usual, but I'm going to put an ad in the paper and hire more mechanics as soon as possible."

Aunt Bella sniffed and nodded. "Make sure they're honest. Your uncle had problems with some of the young men he hired. They tried to cheat people. My Pete, he never cheated anyone. He's so good. Why would somebody shoot him?" She lowered her head and a small sob escaped from her lips.

Nick's throat closed up like the butterfly valve of a choke. He could barely get any air. He hugged Aunt Bella and let her cry, all the while thinking how he wanted to find the guy in that van who shot his uncle so he could strangle him. Personally. Even though a Christian shouldn't react that way.

* * *

"So tell me why I should keep you on as my partner." Callie glared at Butch's back as he shoved a mug into the microwave. Butch from that angle was nothing more than a shiny shaved head and a black leather jacket with the words "Harley Davidson" emblazoned in large letters across his massive shoulders.

"Cause I'm in enough trouble already." Butch set the timer on the microwave.

"How does that fit in with our fifty/fifty deal?" She heard the anger in her voice, but she couldn't seem to stop it. Some of the shock from the shooting had worn off, but not all of it. She continued to shake.

Butch's shoulders sagged. She couldn't see his face, but she knew her coldhearted question had not been fair. She took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes.

"Sorry. My nerves are frayed. I've been on edge for hours." The tension had sapped her strength, but she knew Butch would understand. They had worked together for years.

"Yeah." He blew out a gust of air. "Look, I was just taking care of my business. Ya know I had to get some of my stuff back. Ya know I have a helmet collection---worth big bucks. How did I know she would get new locks and a restraining order?"

Wrapped in her misery, Callie barely heard him. She tried to dispel the harrowing images that seemed to juxtapose themselves into a montage of horror. The van, the gun blast, the past with her father, the present with Pete, the blood--a stream of life pooling on the pavement--and Nick. Why hadn't he reminded her that they had met when her father died? She chewed on one of her fingernails.

What could he have said? She had been nearly out of her mind on that day thirteen years before. She shivered. Since she hadn't recognized him at first, maybe Nick thought she still had not regained her sanity.

She closed her eyes and like an instant replay she saw her father on the pavement and felt her heart thundering just as it had that terrible day while she ran, without thinking, without looking...

The microwave beeped. Callie opened her eyes and Butch pushed the mug toward her.

"Drink this."

"What is it?"

"Warm milk. It'll help ya relax. Ya look like death warmed over. And it has more nutrition than yer fingernail."

"Hey." She glowered at him.

"Ya told me you were going to quit that habit five years ago."

"I'm a little shook up."

"Ya think I'm having a blast? Ya know, the minute I knocked on the door...she called 911." Butch rubbed his forehead. "The officers in that postage stamp-sized, back bay town bought every line. They accused me of impersonating an officer."

Callie let out a sharp, brittle laugh at the thought of someone challenging Butch's authority. She took a tentative sip of the milk, and then another. It occurred to her that she hadn't had anything to eat or drink in quite a while. The warm milk did feel good going down. A few bunched up nerves unwound.

"They cuff you?" she asked.

Butch put his head in his hands and leaned on the bar. For a moment, she wondered if he would break down--something she had only seen him do once, when his mother had died.

"Man, I got the whole field trip." He lifted up his head and shrugged his massive shoulders.

"I-I'm sorry." But she knew that if he had been with her at the time of the shooting, everything would have been easier. "Still, you should have called me."

Butch grunted. "Ya know--those guys made it sound like they were sending me to everlasting torment when they read me the Miranda rights. Cute trick."

Silence reigned for several minutes as Callie sipped from the mug in her hands.

"Think you'll get your stuff back?"

"Not unless I get me some expensive lawyer. Man, I'm doomed. Ya know what she called me?"

"I don't think I want to know." She drank down more of the creamy elixir. "Can't you make up with--um--it was Yvette, right?"

"Yeah, Yvette. Man--she hates me. What did I do? That's what I'd like to know."

Callie's gaze focused on the remaining milk. Since they had been working together, Butch had gone through a string of romances and every one of his love affairs had gone sour within six months. Callie had no doubt that his problems were due to the type of woman he chose. Each of them seemed to be a carbon copy of the previous one--some even had similar features.

Her thoughts wandered back to Nick. There couldn't be anyone else who looked like him. He should have been a film star.

She narrowed her eyes and conjured up his image; the hazel eyes, the dark hair, the boyish grin. He would make a great con man. He could sell you Riverport's bridge and make you think you got a steal.

Her nagging conscience chastised her for that idea. He truly had been thoughtful, considering the circumstances. Before he left with his uncle in the ambulance, he had taken her hands--both of them, without cringing--in his and asked if she would be okay. She could only nod while he focused his gaze on her.

Butch broke into her thoughts. "Ya ain't sleeping here tonight."

"Why not?" Callie challenged. "The apartment upstairs is mine."

"Because I say ya ain't. Go on over to your mom's place."

"What! And sleep in the shrine!" Her cheeks grew hot.

Butch leaned on the bar, his massive muscles rippling. "I don't want to go broke renting some cheap motel room. Besides, I got a feeling...ya know...one of those hunches I get. I don't like this shooting."

Callie's stomach sloshed uneasily. Whenever Butch ignored one of his warnings, something disastrous happened. The last time, she had wound up with an arm so badly broken it would never be right again.

"I know ya. Ya sleep like a log--when ya actually make an effort to put your head on a pillow, but I always got one eye open."

"What am I going to tell Mom?" Her words trailed off. She couldn't argue with him.

"Tell her the truth--that Yvette kicked me out."

"But Mom is--well, you know what Mom is like. She'll drive me crazy."

"She worries about ya. I worry about ya, too. Sometimes ya don't have the sense to worry about yourself."

Callie glared at him and a tense silence filled the room while she thought of invectives to hurl in his direction, but before she could phrase a particularly scathing retort the annoying tones of her police radio shattered the edgy atmosphere. She set the mug down on the bar and concentrated on the message. The van had been located.

"I bet it's clean. The way I see it, that was a planned hit," she said.

"You're jumping to conclusions--again." Butch shook his head.

"How often does a paneled van drive up and shoot somebody in a parking lot in this town?" A pain stabbed at her heart as she thought of her own father. Every thirteen years.

Butch rapped his knuckles on the bar. "It could be a case of mistaken identity--meant for somebody else--like us."

His suggestion startled her at first, but then Callie simply rolled her eyes. "You are always making up some drama." She guzzled down the last of the milk. "I'm going over there and ID it."

"Ya think these local guys are going to appreciate it if ya stick your nose in their business?"

"There is such a thing as professional courtesy. Besides, it happened in this parking lot--so it is my business! Have you thought about how this shooting will affect this place? Why would anyone stop in here for a drink? They might think they'll be the next victim!"

Butch crossed his arms and sighed. "You're in no shape to drive. I'll drive ya over on the back of my bike."

"Somebody has to mind the inn--and you've just been elected as the lucky winner." She grabbed her keys and headed toward the door.

"When ya gonna get some rest?" Butch called after her.

"All I need is a good cup of coffee."

"That will just make ya chew yer fingernails some more."

* * *

Callie clutched the handle on the mug of coffee, trying to keep it steady in her hand as she studied the van. Seeing the vehicle up close brought back vivid images of the bloody incident. Her stomach sloshed uneasily as she wondered how Pete Sanders had fared at the hospital. For a few moments, when the older man had lain on the asphalt, the awful memory of the past with her father had nearly buried her with emotion, but she couldn't let that happen. She had to keep her mind on now.

Still, her father's murder continued to intrude on her thoughts. She recalled his last moments and the feel of his cold, clammy hand clutched in hers. Her whole body chilled. Nobody deserved to die as he had. He had turned his life around and become a faithful follower of the Lord, but that had not saved him. She took several deep breaths to keep the bitter pang of sorrow from overwhelming her.

I have to focus. She gulped down some of the steaming coffee. It burned her throat while her stomach reacted with a painful spasm.

She closed her eyes. Think.

The van had been discovered at Bridges Mall with a flat tire. The registration had been checked and, of course, it had been stolen. Any prints the forensics guys found would most likely belong to the registered owner. Callie trusted that the van would be meticulously combed for fibers, hair, and soil--but all that would take a lot of time. She wanted the gunman found and she wanted him behind bars--forever. Longer than forever.

Hit men rarely made mistakes. Could Pete's service station be a front for some more nefarious activity? Had he double-crossed somebody? And what about Nick?

The image of Nick, complete with a smudge of grease on his cheek and his grimy fingernails, filled her mind. Her heart softened as she remembered his concern for her. Despite his uncle's condition, he had taken a moment to ask her if she would be all right. He had seemed so genuine--so thoughtful...

She opened her eyes and straightened her spine. If any illegal activity went on at Pete's Service Station, Nick would be involved. He had to be.

She fumed remembering his comments about cops and barmaids. Leaning the mug against her bad arm, she tapped her fingers on it in a rapid staccato. For someone with a questionable background, Nick was rather opinionated.

The rhythm of her fingers on the plastic coffee mug slowed. While it would be great if Pete Sanders recovered and gave her the name of the gunman, she realized that he had been in agony when he admitted recognizing the man. Odds are that he didn't even know the guy's name--or he wouldn't remember his name--or that he would wake up fully aware that he could never reveal the gunman's name without leaving the country or vanishing forever.

Nevertheless, the man had been shot in the parking lot of the inn and it would only be polite for her to go and visit him at the hospital. She hesitated; the drumbeat of her fingers on the mug ceased.

She had no doubt that Nick would be there with his uncle. She set her mouth grimly. Well, what did it matter? The hysterical sixteen-year-old she had been did not exist anymore. She had come a long way in thirteen years. Then she stared at her maimed arm and felt a lump forming in her throat.

Refusing to give in to self-pity, she downed the coffee. The bracing onslaught of caffeine only served to remind her that she needed to get some food into her stomach. She opted to stop at the twenty-four hour Rivermill Diner. She needed some calories and she needed them now.

As she walked back to her car, she couldn't push away the terror of the awful night her father had died. Details she had buried deep in her psyche assaulted her. How could she have forgotten so much? How could her memory be so faulty?

Nick had saved her life that night.

She slid into her Ford and hated the sight of her good hand shaking. She set the mug down and turned on the ignition, hoping that the warmth from the heater would halt her disturbing reaction, but the blast of frigid air that hit her when she turned the fan all the way up made her teeth chatter as well.

Nick had grabbed her that night when she had been ready to run blindly onto Four Bridges Road. She had been in such a panic that she didn't even realize what she was doing. He had risked his own life and pulled her out of the path of an oncoming car.

She gripped the steering wheel until her fingers hurt. Could that hero have become dishonest over the years? Why not? Wealth from illicit gains always seemed to justify itself.

She put the car in gear and drove back to Riverport, her throat still seared from the coffee and her memories. Thirteen years ago, Nick had literally tackled her to the ground. She had continued to scream and scream until she couldn't even talk. Then she had cried.

She reminded herself that she was a tough, hardened professional now--or she had been up until a year ago.

She glanced in the mirror when she stopped at the light. The dark circles under her eyes didn't do much for her image. Neither did her unkempt hair. She grabbed a comb and tried to effect some damage control as the light turned green.

She frowned in the mirror again after she pulled into a parking spot on High Street. Morning still lay hours beyond the mouth of the river. Riverport's streets remained bathed in the glow of harsh artificial light, highlighting the pasty hue of her skin. She leaned over and dug in the glove compartment until she found a tube of lipstick. Then she drew a bright red slash of color across her lips.

She groaned as she examined the result. The garish color didn't go well with her complexion at all, it made her look paler. She stared at the color name on the bottom of the tube and recalled that she originally used it for her last, almost fatal undercover job--trying to rope in a few johns. She shuddered as she acknowledged that she had been fortunate to come away with only a lame arm.

She fisted her hand around the tube and squeezed. She had been foolhardy that night, but the operation had succeeded and she had gotten her award for bravery.

That had happened in the city. However, Riverport had a reputation for being smaller, calmer, and friendlier. Still, she was aware that crimes happened everywhere--and every town had its crooks and heroes.

An odd emptiness lurked somewhere under her ribcage. Last night, she hadn't been heroic at all--and that bothered her. For a moment, she considered whether it had been a mistake to try managing the inn. Perhaps simply being there made her dwell too much on the past.

She clenched her jaw. No. She would not allow it to get to her. She had to move on.

When she stepped out of the car, every nerve in her body coiled into a tight knot, ready to spring into action. She scanned the area and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Rubbing her eyes, she admitted to herself that she shouldn't have guzzled down the coffee. Caffeine made her far too jumpy.

Until the gunman was apprehended, she would probably suspect he lurked behind every tree, building, or shed. She shrugged off her anxiety as she noticed that the street at this hour was nearly deserted. Then she pitched the tube of lipstick into a nearby trashcan.

She had parked on the side of the street opposite the diner, in front of a small, shop-lined alley that led to the municipal parking lot. The rain had long ago subsided and a fresh wind from the river blew through the alley and tousled the hair she had just tried to tame.

The bar on one side of the alley had closed and lay in darkness. Her brittle nerves tightened another notch as she peered into the deep shadows of the night. Did Riverport have too many bars?

Her spine stiffened as she thought she heard a shout, but then the scream of a wailing siren pierced the air when an ambulance rushed by on the way to the hospital emergency room.

As a hand suddenly grabbed her arm, she reacted instinctively. At moments like this, she had no regrets about her career. Even with only one good hand, the element of surprise gave her the advantage. Most men did not expect a female to retaliate. With one swift yank and a body slam, she pressed her attacker against the wall in the alley with his arm twisted tightly against his back.

"You should keep your hands to yourself, mister."

"Do you have some personal space issues that I should know about?" Nick Messina groaned.

---

Chapter Three

Callie's cheeks burned. She released Nick from her hold.

"I didn't know--I thought you were going to jump me!"

She watched the grim expression come over his face as his eyes darkened. He seemed to peer right through her while he straightened out his jacket.

"I had wondered how you were doing." His voice sounded almost calm, but from the look he gave her, Callie could only assume he believed she had completely flipped out.

"I-I'm fine. I'm just--I was going to grab something to eat, and then..." She fisted her good hand in frustration. "Why were you following me?"

"I was on my way to the diner and you happened to be right in front of me." His self-confidence did not appear to be marred by Callie's rough handling. His gaze remained riveted on her and unsettled her more than she could have imagined.

She rubbed her weary eyes. Her paranoia had gotten way out of hand. She needed to get a grip on things--and soon. "I couldn't sleep, I had a mug of coffee, and I'm starving."

"Hunger makes you attack?" He lifted one eyebrow and continued to scrutinize her. She lowered her gaze to the sidewalk. He made her feel vulnerable and that aggravated her even more. "I'll buy you a meal. Perhaps that way I can save another passerby a few moments of indignity."

She knew she ought to walk away from him, but she had begun to feel lightheaded. Or was it his imposing presence that caused her to be so woozy?

She gave him a small nod, agreeing to the meal.

Stopping at the curb, Callie watched Nick look down the street with his face set grimly. She searched the hard angles of his profile, hoping to find some semblance of the compassionate man she had seen hours before, but not a trace of him remained.

"Is your uncle--um--will he be all right?" she asked. Why does this guy make me nervous? He's the one who should be uneasy!

"He's still in recovery. The doctors aren't sure whether he'll have full use of his arm. However, considering what could have happened...." His words trailed off.

Relief rushed through her at the good news and she took in a deep breath. His uncle had lived, and that fact made all the difference. "I wondered if I might be able to visit him."

"Now would not be a good time."

The image of blood on the pavement still whirled in Callie's mind. She had once believed she would become immune to scenes of violence, and that all police officers eventually became callous to the carnage they sometimes saw. She hugged her arms tightly about her. She knew now that she could only hope the shock might fade over time.

Nick walked across the street, his long stride forcing her to sprint after him. As she reached the other side, she tripped on the curb. He caught her before she crashed onto the sidewalk.

All I need are some big shoes and a red nose! She felt the heat in her cheeks.

"Thanks," she mumbled. "Look, I'm sorry I reacted so--so--"

"Violently." His mouth twitched.

She took a step backward. She couldn't be sure, but it appeared that he might be trying not to smile.

"I am a woman, it's still dark, and you grabbed me! You're lucky I didn't hit you with my handbag."

A droll expression lifted the corners of his mouth. "I think I would have preferred the handbag."

"But I know a handbag would not be very effective. You see, I took a self-defense course." The lie came easily to her lips. "After all, I knew there could be trouble managing the inn--only I didn't know it would happen so soon." After thirteen years it had happened again! The same horrible crime! She tried to swallow her anguish.

Unexpectedly, she found his arms surrounding her in a gentle hug as he drew her up against his chest. "Hey. It's okay--I'm a big guy and you didn't hurt me...much. The shooting shook me up, too. I love my Uncle Pete."

Callie's pulse lurched. She shouldn't be there with her cheek crushed against his coat and her nostrils filled with the comforting scent of leather combined with a lingering hint of gasoline. She could hear the thudding of his heart in her ear. Undeniably, his nearness consoled her. Still, she could not allow herself to fall under his spell. She knew nothing about him. Who knew what illegal activities he and his uncle found profitable?

Even though she was on leave--even though she was disabled--she was a police officer. As a strong, independent woman, she did not need a man to lean on. Yet, being in his arms felt so right. It took all her will power to step away from him.

"I'll be all right." She tried to smile, but she found her lips quivering.

They walked into the diner. The rotating display of desserts by the entrance mesmerized Callie until the waitress seated them in one of the booths. The crowd at this hour tended to be a sparse and disparate lot--young people with plenty of piercings, tattoos, and unusual hair colors along with a few scruffy middle-aged men.

Callie studied each of them, sizing them up--looking for trouble--as if she had a personal radar trap in her head. Still, the predominate color in the diner, pink, had a calming effect on her nerves. She scanned the menu, and while the placemats proclaimed the diner to have the world's best pancakes, she found that the thought of breakfast food didn't remotely appeal to her. She ordered "The Happy Waitress," a grilled cheese sandwich with bacon and tomato, plus French fries.

Nick ordered an omelet. "It's the perfect food." He flashed Callie a boyish grin and her heart did that little somersault thing again, a phenomenon that disturbed her. After all, he was a man who would never date a barmaid and hated cops. Probably doesn't date cripples either, she mused.

She turned her head to look out the window into the darkness and saw her reflection staring back at her. Her nerves had already been stretched beyond endurance and she didn't have the imagination to dream up small talk, but Nick evidently had no problem in that area. In a quiet voice, he told her what had happened once the ambulance had reached the hospital and how his aunt had rushed to join him during the tense hours of waiting.

Callie listened, forcing herself not to look at him--not even to glance at his reflection in the window. She had convinced herself that even a momentary glimpse could be dangerous. He sent all her senses pulsing on full alert.

The food arrived on cheerful Fiestaware plates. Callie reached for her sandwich, bit into it, and then made the mistake of lifting her head in time to see Nick with his head bowed and hands folded. At first, a sliver of embarrassment crept up her spine. Was he saying grace over his omelet in a public place?

Callie scanned the area quickly to be sure that nobody had noticed his irregular behavior. Fortunately, none of the other customers appeared to be aware of Nick's action. She frowned at him as his head remained bent and his hands stayed clasped together for what seemed an eternity.

Irked by his extended display of piety, Callie lifted her glass of juice and set it down with a distinctive clunk.

He sighed, unclasped his hands and reached for his coffee.

"I have a lot more than usual to be thankful for today."

His remark set Callie on edge. Though his uncle had lived, he had been seriously wounded. She couldn't understand why he should be thankful for that.

She went back to eating her sandwich and thought about all the prayers that went out to God everyday. She had listened to plenty of people giving credit to the Lord during her professional life as a police officer. Some praised the Lord when their house burned to the ground with nobody inside. Some claimed God was watching over them when they got shot in the thigh instead of the chest. Some blessed the Almighty when their loved one died in a horrendous crash because it happened so swiftly the victim could not have suffered long.

Then there were the others who cursed and blamed God. At first, she had been angry with God when her father had been murdered, but over the years she had come to believe that God didn't have much to do with anything, and all those thanking Him--or cursing at Him--were wasting their breath. Life was a gamble--sometimes people got lucky and sometimes their luck ran out. In her father's case, life had been nothing more than a giant horserace and he had never made it to the finish line.

As for her, her left arm had been permanently damaged. However, she could have died. She had plenty of dark days during the past year when she thought death would have been preferable, but now managing the inn gave her something to do. It gave her a reason to get up in the morning. Although right now, it seemed only to be giving her a giant headache.

"How's the sandwich?" Nick asked.

"Fine." She forced her lips into a wan smile but kept her gaze fixed on the table.

"Would you like anything else?"

She shook her head. He got up and walked over to check out the desserts in the glass case while she finished her meal. Then he inspected the muffins lined up along the counter.

Feeling far better with a full stomach, Callie leaned back in the booth. Her second thoughts about managing the inn faded slightly. Due to the shooting, she might have to place a few special ads in the newspaper to draw in customers or hire a band. With the place already running in the red, the idea of any more expenditures had her putting a fingernail to her mouth.

Nick slid back into the booth and shoved a small pastry across the table at her, a Linzer tart with raspberry filling.

"I didn't want anything else."

"I bet it will taste better than your fingernail."

She removed the finger from her mouth, fisted her hand and lowered it beneath the table. Though she dared to shoot him with a cold look, she felt foolish inside.

Glaring at the rich cookie in front of her, she rimmed the scalloped edge of the tart with her finger as her throat tightened.

"It will make me fat." She shoved the pastry back across the table to Nick. She watched him pick up his knife and cut the pastry in two.

"See how easily I can cut calories."

He chuckled easily--naturally, as if he did it often--as if he didn't have a care in the world. She frowned at him. How could he act so relaxed after the shooting? Maybe he didn't really love his uncle.

"Just have a taste. These are delicious," he urged.

She did not need to be reminded about the flavor of the tarts. "How can you laugh when you came close to losing your uncle?"

He leaned forward; his face grew solemn, graced with composed dignity. His strange but wonderful gaze caught and held her. "But I didn't lose him--that's the point." He lifted one half of the cookie and pushed the remaining half back in her direction.

"Meanwhile some nutcase is running around with a gun looking for another victim." She already knew that life was not fair, but she hated to accept the fact that the bad guys got away sometimes. A continual hunger for retribution gnawed at her soul.

He didn't argue with her. He bit into the pastry. "I take back what I said about an omelet being the perfect food." The tranquil quality of his voice mystified her.

Staring at him, she realized she did not understand him at all. Feeling awkward, she lifted her hand toward her mouth again, but this time she stopped before she nibbled on another fingernail and forced herself to pick up the tart instead.

As she bit into it, sweet memories rushed down upon her. The taste of raspberry jam, powdered sugar, and buttery pastry melted in her mouth. Every Sunday after church during that last year of her father's life, he used to buy her a Linzer tart.

She kept her eyes open and stared at the top of the table, hoping to stave off the ache in her soul. She had lost so many dreams thirteen years ago in that one violent moment, and the force of that loss had changed her forever.

She straightened her spine. No, the tragedy had given her focus and a goal. With grit and determination, she had succeeded and become a top-notch police officer. Then she glanced at her mangled arm and she could barely swallow the mouthful of pastry.

"I thought about you while I waited for my uncle to come out of surgery. I didn't know if you'd be okay by yourself. I know seeing the shooting brought back some awful memories for you. Your mind must have blocked out most of it, including the part about me."

She nearly choked on the cookie. "You don't look at all the same--you're bigger, bulkier--"

"Too many Linzer tarts?"

She saw a bemused smile play on his lips.

"No. It's your shoulders--I guess you're more muscular--or something like that."

The warmth that stole across his face gave him an almost irresistible appeal. With difficulty she fought to fend off his charm.

"Must be all the lifting I do. I get a better workout at the service station than I used to get at the gym. Now there's something to be joyful about."

She set her mouth in annoyance. First he was thankful and now he found a reason to be joyful.

"Are you always so deliberately cheerful?"

"No. When a friend twists my arm around my back, I get churlish."

She took in a sharp breath and glared at him. "I apologized for that. Besides, you aren't my friend."

She saw the muscle twitch in his jaw, but almost immediately he flashed her a forgiving grin--and she could not miss the dimple in his cheek. In the sincerity of that smile, she found herself softening once more.

"You may not consider me a friend, but I have thought about you a lot over the past thirteen years."

How can I believe him? "Sure you did."

His hand reached out to cover hers. "I saved your life. How could I ever forget you?"

The warmth in his fingers held the feeling of truth, but the rational portion of her brain remained wary. It would be foolish to be charmed by someone with a dubious reputation. She slid her hand away and immediately noticed the chill from the loss of his touch.

He sighed in the silence and a wavy lock of his dark hair fell onto his forehead. Callie found herself forced to resist an urge to put it back into place.

"You should have called and reminded me who you were," she chided with a heavy touch of sarcasm in her tone.

"I thought...well...you were younger..." He faltered and shoved the tumbling lock of hair back.

"Oh. I see. You don't go out with younger women--in addition to barmaids--"

"You were sixteen."

"And you were?"

"Twenty-one." He hung his head and the insubordinate hair flopped down once more. "Look, I'm sorry about the barmaid comment. That was uncalled for--it was rude--and un-Christian."

Callie fisted her hand to prevent touching his hair. She let out a caustic laugh. "Since I'm not a believer, your humble apology doesn't mean a thing to me. I can't endure listening to all that mixed-up Christian logic. It makes no sense at all. You spoke your mind--you don't date barmaids and that's fine with me. Let's be honest with each other. You are not my friend."

He lifted his brows and surveyed her face. Callie felt a sudden blush heating her cheeks.

The waitress whizzed by and dropped the check on the table. Callie snatched it up. "I insist on paying my own way."

A shadow of annoyance crossed his face. "If you must, but I really am grateful to you. It was a good thing you were there with that gauze and instructed me on how to stop the bleeding." He returned to the glib, easy manner that could completely beguile her. "You were just like a guardian angel."

She shook her head, irritated that he seemed to know the right buttons to push. Nobody had ever compared her to an angel. She had been hard as nails; that's what she had wanted to be, what she had needed to be to do her job--a job where she had been one of the best--a job she would never be able to handle again. Her eyes burned. She rubbed away the ache.

"I took a first aid course. I know the Heimlich maneuver, too, just in case somebody chokes on the peanuts."

"You seem to have taken a lot of courses."

"No one should ever stop learning."

He gave her an appreciative nod. "True." His glance sharpened as if he mentally tried to measure her.

He probably thinks I need to take a course in religion but he won't say it aloud, she decided. Still, a strange current rushed through her at his regard. Lowering her gaze, she brushed at some imaginary crumbs. Then, taking a deep breath, she stood up and made a show of cleaning up her half of the table.

"I do feel horrible about the shooting and I do want to see your uncle as soon as he is able to have visitors."

Nick stood up, too. "Whether or not you agree with my mixed-up Christian logic, as you call it, I believe in miracles and I'm sure one occurred last night." He drew an enormous medallion out of his pocket and held it up. "You may not appreciate my Christian point of view, but even the doctor says this saved my uncle's life."

Callie frowned. She had seen many religious medals, but this one matched the size of a standard photograph.

"Here, hold it." He placed it in her hands.

The weight of the medallion surprised her. It depicted a typical religious theme--a robed figure surrounded by rays of light and wearing a halo. The medallion had an intricate lacy border. She turned it over. On the back, her finger traced over a deep groove in the metal.

"Uncle Pete had this in his vest pocket. I found it yesterday on the floor in the garage and assumed it fell out of somebody's car. Uncle Pete thought it might belong to somebody at church--we advertise in the church bulletin and a lot of parishioners bring their cars to us for servicing. He was going to stop by the church last night. According to the surgeon, this deflected the bullet. Otherwise, it would have hit my uncle straight in the heart."

Callie felt a strange chill ice up her spine.