Главная страница | Современная зарубежная литература | Most Wanted Woman

Most Wanted Woman
Maggie Price
TO: LIEUTENANT JOSHUA MCCALLSUBJECT: PROBATIONARY PERIODYour reputation for bending the rules nearly cost you your badge, so we suggest you use your time off to think about how much being a cop means to you–and to your family. This time, McCall, try to keep yourself out of trouble.Since you've gotten involved with the mysterious beauty tending bar in sleepy Sundown, Texas, we've investigated her–and discovered she's a murder suspect. Romancing a fugitive isn't a good career move, McCall. And you may be forced to choose between the job you live for–and the woman you can't live without.


CONFIDENTIAL MEMO—
FILES OF
SGT. NATE MCCALL, OCPD
Badge No. 1197: Joshua McCall
Rank: Sergeant, Sex Crimes Division, OCPD
Skill/Expertise: A maverick with a passion for seeing justice done, known to bend the rules to get what—or who—he wants.
What We Know: Currently ending a leave of absence, the cop in McCall is intrigued by the gorgeous newcomer working at his favorite watering hole. And the man in him won’t be able to ignore the allure of her dangerous beauty….
Subject: Regan Ford
Current Profession: Bartender, Person of Interest
What We Know: This sexy newcomer is tight-lipped about her past, and jittery as hell around cops. Whatever she’s hiding, McCall is jeopardizing his already-endangered career—and his heart—by getting closer to the enigmatic bartender.

Most Wanted Woman
Maggie Price

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

MAGGIE PRICE
is no stranger to law enforcement. While on the job as a civilian crime analyst for the Oklahoma City Police Department, she analyzed robberies and sex crimes, and snagged numerous special assignments to homicide task-forces.
While at OCPD, Maggie stored up enough tales of intrigue, murder and mayhem to keep her at the keyboard for years. The first of those tales won the Romance Writers of America’s Golden Heart Award for Romantic Suspense. Maggie is also the recipient of Romantic Times Career Achievement Award in series romantic suspense.
Maggie invites her readers to contact her at 416 N.W. 8th St., Oklahoma City, OK 73102-2604, or on the Web at www.maggieprice.net.
For Debbie Cowan, my esteemed pal and “mediator,” for bucking me up and bailing me out more times than I can count.

Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16

Chapter 1
The instant the stranger stepped through the tavern’s front door, a weight dropped on Regan Ford’s chest, pressing against her heart so hard she could hear the panicked beat of it in her ears.
In his denim work shirt and worn jeans he looked tall, tough and sinewy. He stood with his feet wide, chest a bit forward for balance. His right leg was slightly back, as if keeping an invisible holster out of reach.
Cop! her senses warned.
The quick, instinctive fear of cornered prey had her swiveling toward the cash register. Fear barreling in like a locomotive, she rang up the pitcher of beer she’d just served to the pair of grizzled regulars gossiping about the day’s catch. Keeping her back to the man, she focused her gaze on the mirror that spanned the length of the bar. Her breathing grew shallow as she studied him through the gray haze of smoky air.
His thick, black hair brushed the wrinkled collar of the shirt that was rolled up at the sleeves to reveal muscled, sun-bronzed forearms. The faded jeans molded powerful legs. Dark stubble shadowed his jaw. There was a ruggedness about his tanned face that reached all the way to his eyes. Eyes that looked as sharp as a stiletto while he studied his surroundings.
Was he here for her? Had her flight from the law—which had begun exactly one year ago today—come to an end?
While a country song about the misery of lost love crooned from the jukebox, Regan did a quick survey of the patrons who sat shoulder to shoulder at every table and overflowed the booths. Except for a few stools at the bar, the only vacant seats belonged to the people crowded onto the dance floor. The panic sizzling through her made her want to cut and run, try to lose herself in the crowd, then slip out the back door where her car was parked. But if the cop was here for her, he’d be armed with more than just an arrest warrant. He would have a gun, and be within his legal rights to pull it while pursuing a wanted murderer. Her trying to make a break right now could get an innocent person hurt. Killed.
Regan reminded herself that people in this cozy, out-of-the-way town wouldn’t just stand by and watch him drag her away. She thought of Howie Lyons, the night shift cook working in the kitchen. Mindful of trouble that sometimes broke out when alcohol mixed with rowdy customers, Howie kept a Louisville Slugger stashed beneath the grill. Then there was Deni Graham.
Regan swept her gaze around the tavern’s dim interior until she spotted the blond waitress. Dressed in a snug red tank top and tight jeans, Deni stood at a table, laughing and flirting with six men while she jotted their orders on her pad.
Regan conceded she didn’t know her coworkers all that well. Wouldn’t let them get to know her. But she felt sure they would help her if the cop slapped a pair of cuffs on her. She would demand they call Sundown’s police chief, remind him it was within her rights to be locked up in his jail while she fought extradition to New Orleans. During that time, she could maybe figure out a way to escape and run. Again. For the rest of her life, she had to run.
Hands unsteady, she tidied the liquor bottles lining the bar’s mirrored shelf while she watched the cop through her lashes. A not-so-subtle masculine power drifted with him as he strode toward her across the peanut-shell-scattered wooden floor.
A faint, liquid tug in her belly had Regan blinking. For a year she had been dead inside. No laughter, no warmth, no feeling. That some sort of primitive awareness of this man, this cop, could spark something inside her had her spine going as stiff as a blade.
“Josh McCall!” Deni squealed then engulfed the stranger in a hug and gave him a smacking kiss on the mouth. “It’s about time you came back to Sundown.”
Regan eased out a breath. The waitress’s familiarity with the man went far toward assuring her he wasn’t there at the devil’s bidding.
Still, she was positive he carried a badge. Knowing that kept the prickles of fear at the back of her neck. She knew better than anyone there was no one more capable of treachery than a cop.
With the jukebox now between selections, the crack and clatter of pool balls drifted from the back room. Regan rolled her shoulders, attempting to ease her tension and turned in time to see the man send Deni a grin that was all charm.
“Long time no see, angel face.” They stood close enough to the bar for Regan to hear his voice, which was as smooth as the move he made to extract himself from Deni’s embrace.
“I swear, Josh, it seems like an eternity since you’ve been here.” She tugged him the few remaining steps to the bar while giving him the once-over. “You look as good as always.”
“So do you.”
Deni slid a palm up and down his arm. “When’d you get to town?”
“Just now. I wasn’t sure what I’d find in the cabin’s pantry so I decided to stop here first.”
She fluttered her lashes. “Maybe you’ll stay in Sundown long enough this time for us to get together?”
When he eased a hip onto one of the bar stools, his gaze met Regan’s. For the space of a heartbeat, his eyes focused on her so completely it was as if she were spotlighted on an otherwise empty stage.
That one searing look, along with the whispers of awareness already stirring her senses, made Regan’s throat go even more dry.
He gave her the merest fraction of a nod, then shifted his attention back to Deni.
“I’ll be here about three weeks.”
Just then, Howie’s voice bellowed an order number through the open wall hatch between the kitchen and the bar.
“That’s my cue,” Deni said. “You want your regular for dinner, Josh?”
“You bet.”
While Deni sauntered toward the kitchen’s swinging door, Regan steeled her nerves and slid a napkin onto the bar. She couldn’t exactly ignore a customer.
“What can I get you?”
“Corona.” When he shifted on the stool, light fell on the thin scar winding out of his collar and up the right side of his neck. “I’m Josh McCall.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“You’re new to Sundown.”
She turned to the cooler, met his gaze in the mirror. His eyes were intent on her face. Too intent. “Right.”
“Been here long?”
“A few months.” She retrieved a bottle, twisted off its cap.
“Have relatives around here?”
“No.” She topped the bottle with a lime wedge. “Do you?”
“More like extended family.” His eyes were so deeply brown it was impossible to see a boundary between pupil and iris. “So, where’s home?”
What should have been a simple question was as loaded as a shotgun that had been primed and pumped. “Here. There. Everywhere. I’m a gypsy at heart.” Regan had rehearsed the response so many times it now sounded normal.
She settled the bottle onto the napkin, then wiped a cloth across the bar, its gleaming wood nearly black with age.
“Sounds like you’ve known Deni awhile,” she commented.
“My family owns a cabin here. We used to spend every summer in Sundown. Mostly now we make it here for holidays.” He took a long sip of his drink. “The South.”
“The South what?”
“You’ve spent time in the South. There’s a trace of it in your voice.”
Regan kept her face blank, her hands loose while her insides clenched. “I’ve been in that part of the country a few times,” she improvised. She’d practiced endless hours to lose her native Louisiana accent. The fact he’d pegged it within minutes had her nerves scrambling.
“What about you?” She placed a plastic bowl of unshelled peanuts beside the beer bottle. Despite her inner turmoil, her voice remained steady. “Where are you from?”
He eyed her while he snagged a peanut, cracked it. “Oklahoma City. Ever pass through on your way to here, there and everywhere?”
“No. Is your family’s cabin on the lake?”
“Yeah. It sits just to the west of your boss’s house.” He popped a peanut in his mouth, chased it with a swallow of beer. “You know it?”
“Yes.” Since just standing there had her wanting to jump out of her skin, she plunged her hands into the warm soapy water in the small metal sink and began washing glasses. “I wouldn’t call it a cabin. It’s one of the biggest houses on the lake. And sits on the lot with about the best view of the water.”
“Point taken.” He palmed more peanuts, began shelling them onto the cocktail napkin. “When my grandfather bought the land and built the house, he made sure the place was roomy enough for all his kids, then later the grandkids. The entire McCall clan’s descending here for the Fourth of July. I volunteered to come down ahead of time and make repairs.”
“The holiday’s weeks away. Is the house in bad shape?”
The shot glass she was currently rinsing had Regan glancing at the big bear of a man seated at one end of the bar. Seamus O’Toole owned several used car lots in Dallas and was an avid participant in Paradise Lake’s annual fishing derby. He’d been here an hour and already had empty shot glasses stacked in a pyramid before him.
“No, there’s just a lot of minor repairs that need to be done.”
McCall’s comment had her looking back at him. She saw that his gaze had followed hers to O’Toole.
“Maybe you’ll have time to get some fishing in,” she said.
“Maybe.” He glanced toward the kitchen door. “I spotted Etta’s car parked in the back. If she’s in the office slaving over the books, I’d like to stick my head in and tell her hello. Give her a kiss.”
“You’re a friendly neighbor.”
“More than. Etta’s like a second mom to me and my brothers and sisters.” He took another drink. “To tell you the truth, I’m crazy in love with your boss.”
Regan arched a brow. Etta Truelove was a vibrant sixty-something widow with ten grandchildren, two great-grandchildren and a fiancé. “Does Etta know how you feel about her?”
“I tell her all the time.” His mouth curved in a wide, reckless grin. “One taste of her apple pie, the woman owned my heart. If she would dump A.C. and run off with me, I’d die a happy man.”
Regan was sure that glib talk and grin tumbled women like bowling pins. There had been a time in her life Josh McCall would have had the same effect on her. And, yes, she admitted, there was something about him that, despite her panic, her fear, had her heartbeat kicking hard. But she would ignore that something—easily ignore it—because she’d learned too well that you never knew, not for certain, what was under a cop’s smooth words and smiles.
With the glasses washed, she retrieved a rag and began drying. “I guess you haven’t heard about Etta’s accident.”
He set his beer aside while what looked like genuine concern settled in his eyes. “What accident?”
“She broke a bone in her foot when she slipped and fell at the marina.”
“Is she okay?”
“Well enough, considering she has to stay cooped up in her house with her leg in a walking cast. She can hobble around using a cane, but the doctor doesn’t want her on her feet for any length of time. He’s banned her from work because he knows she’d start tending bar the minute she got here. Just to make sure she follows the doc’s orders, I confiscated her car. That’s why it’s parked out back.”
“I’ll stop by her place when I leave here. Find out if she needs anything.”
“It’ll be dark out by the time you finish dinner,” Regan said. “Sundown’s got a prowler running around, so people are nervous. I’ll call Etta to let her know to expect you.”
He frowned. “What kind of prowler?”
“Beats me. He wears black and creeps around at night.” She brushed her bangs out of her eyes. “Etta mentioned him the day she hired me, so he’s been at it awhile.”
Regan felt a rush of relief when Deni stepped to the bar with a tray heaped with empties and a pad of orders. She’d spent enough time talking to McCall. Far too long in his presence that was unsettling on numerous levels. She planned to spend the rest of her shift—and his entire time in Sundown—avoiding him.
She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Let me know if you need a refill.”
“Sure. Before you go, tell me one thing.”
“What?”
“Your name.”
She hesitated. “Regan.”
“Nice name. Unusual.”
She’d thought the same thing when she saw it on a tombstone. She scooped a bag of peanuts from beneath the counter. “I’ve got work.”
“Okay. Nice to meet you, Regan.”

With dusk melting into darkness and the mellow notes of a guitar sliding from the stereo, Josh steered his red Corvette convertible along the road that ringed Paradise Lake. His mind wasn’t on the night air that flowed like warm water across his face, the soothing music or the shadowy groves of oaks and glimpses of shoreline that zipped by.
His thoughts centered on the bartender.
Although a booth had opened up just as Deni served his hamburger and fries, he had remained at the bar. While eating, he watched Regan draw beers, mix drinks and refill bowls of peanuts with single-minded intensity.
She was petite, slim and sleek. The white blouse she wore had been tucked into the waistband of jeans snug enough to whet a man’s appetite.
Her hair was as black and shiny as the lapel of a tuxedo, and it hung straight to her shoulders. She had wispy bangs that ended just above brown, gold-flecked eyes. Eyes that had reminded him of a cat’s—watching and waiting.
For what? he wondered.
When a yellow warning sign blipped in the high beams of the car’s headlights, Josh downshifted. Seconds later, the ’Vette reached the razor-sharp bend in the road the locals had dubbed Wipeout Curve.
He felt the ’Vette’s raw power as it whispered through the treacherous turn. Any other time he would have cleared his mind, eased back and savored the ride. Tonight, his thoughts remained on a slim, dark-haired stranger.
He had noticed her the instant he walked into the tavern. Noticed, too, that while she worked the register and straightened liquor bottles, she surveilled him in the mirror behind the bar. He was used to feeling a woman’s gaze, but instinct told him Regan’s study of him had nothing to do with hot-blooded attraction, and everything to do with cool-eyed suspicion.
“Interesting,” he murmured while the guitar’s soothing notes mixed with the night air. It was also of interest that she’d failed to give him her last name, nor had she revealed where she was from. It hadn’t been lost on him that every question he’d asked about her, she’d turned back on him.
Just because he’d been on suspension didn’t mean he’d gotten rusty when it came to spotting some nifty evasion tactics.
His mood darkened as the reminder of the past month threw a mental switch, rerouting his thoughts. The bitterness over having been accused of planting evidence in a rapist’s apartment was still there, simmering with a foul taste he’d almost grown used to. What he would never get used to was how his nearly losing his badge and the job that defined him had hurt his family. A law enforcement family, in which cops were the majority and wearing a uniform was a matter of pride.
He respected the badge and the law. He had just found it sometimes necessary, while coming up through the ranks, to circumvent the letter of the law in order to get what he needed to take down a guilty bad guy. No harm, no foul…until he’d been at the right place at the wrong time, and his reputation for stretching the rules had gone far in having a hell of a lot of cops suspect the worst of him.
And, yeah, he had looked guilty—who knew better than a sex crimes detective what evidence was needed to score a slam-dunk conviction on a rape? The whole squad had known he’d spent uncountable off-duty hours trying to track down the vicious six-time rapist. And stretching the rules innumerable ways just to get the bastard’s scent wasn’t something he’d shy away from—but crossing the line wasn’t one of those ways. The finger-pointing in Josh’s direction, the insinuation that he’d planted evidence had him close to quitting the force in a rage. And then he’d thought about his family and what the badge meant to him. So he’d swallowed back that rage and in the end managed to clear himself.
Now that he was back in the department’s good graces, he intended to toe the line a little closer when he reported back to duty.
Another mile down the road Josh steered into the drive of what he’d considered his second home for his entire life. The three-story structure was an architectural masterpiece. Built on a sloped, heavily wooded lot and made entirely of cedar and glass, it had a broad wraparound porch and a wide chimney built of local rock that had been weathered to a soft gray. Beyond the lush back lawn lay Paradise Lake, its rambling shoreline coiling like a snake across the Oklahoma-Texas border.
Josh climbed out of the car. Instead of heading for the house, he strode across the drive and skirted the hedge that separated McCall and Truelove property.
Although only a single porch light glowed beside Etta’s front door, Josh knew from memory that the two-story house was painted a pale blue with white shutters. A wooden swing suspended on chains dangled from the porch’s ceiling.
The air around him sparked with fireflies as he headed up the walk lined by plants that formed shadowy shapes in the night. By the time he reached the porch, the front door had swung open.
“Joshua McCall, if you aren’t a sight for sore eyes.”
The woman standing behind the patched screen door, soft light glowing behind her, was tall and lean with a helmet of iron-gray curls framing a square-jawed face. She wore a short-sleeved yellow cotton dress that hit her midcalf.
“So are you.” Frowning at the snow-white cast on her right leg, he jogged up the porch steps, gripped the screen she held half open and dropped a kiss on her forehead. He couldn’t remember when he’d actually met the gregarious tavern owner and her late husband. They had just always been permanent fixtures during his summers at the lake. As had their two sons who had wreaked havoc with the McCall brothers.
“How’s your foot, Etta?”
“Healing too slow for my liking.” Her scowl emphasized the network of lines around her eyes and mouth. “Come in and sit, Joshua. I can use the company.”
“You’re sure it’s not too late?”
“Not for this night owl.” Leaning on a cane, she limped across the living room filled with furniture positioned on an earth-toned rug. Colorful candles and crocheted throws added to the room’s sense of comfort.
“Who’s this?” Josh asked, pausing to stroke a finger over the jet-black kitten curled on the recliner.
“Anthracite. She’s a stray who wouldn’t leave.”
“Especially after you fed her, I bet.”
“What else was I supposed to do? Poor thing was starving.”
Josh scratched behind one furry ear, and was rewarded with a purr. “You named her after coal?”
“Scotty did,” Etta said, referring to her youngest grandson. “When he saw the kitten, he decided she looked like the coal he’d learned about in science class.”
“Good call.” Leaving the kitten sharpening its claws on the recliner, Josh followed Etta along a hallway. When they neared the kitchen, he raised his chin. “Do I smell apple pie?”
“You do. I decided to bake tonight and just took the last of the pies out of the oven. Could be I had a premonition you’d show up, looking too thin for your own good.”
Blame that on his suspension, he thought.
He followed her into the kitchen, painted in soft yellow, its white-tiled countertops sparkling beneath the bright overhead light. “Have I told you I’m crazy about you?”
“Every time you want pie.” She waved him to the small metal table. “Have a seat and I’ll cut us some.”
“You sit.” Placing a hand on her bony shoulder, he nudged her to a chair. “Everything still in the same place?”
“Nothing’s changed.” Etta shifted a stack of mail to one corner of the table. “There’s tea in the refrigerator.”
Minutes later, he had slices of pie and glasses of iced tea on the table. Josh settled into the chair across from hers, lifted his fork and dug in. The warm pie tasted like heaven.
“How’s the family?” Etta asked before taking her first bite.
“Mom and Dad are rocking along. Everybody’s married now, except Nate and myself. He’s fallen for a gorgeous ex-cop from Dallas. He and Paige just moved in together.” Feeling a tug on his sock, Josh looked down in time to see Anthracite attack his shoe. Chuckling, he scooped her up, settled her onto his lap and went back to his pie. “I figure it’s only a matter of time before Nate calls and tells me to rent a wedding tux.”
Etta regarded him over the rim of her glass. “Think it’s time you found a girl of your own?”
“I got tons of ’em,” he drawled.
“You’ll settle down when you find the right woman.”
“She’ll have to find me because I’m not looking for her.” The simple fact was his life had always run more efficiently solo. After Nate moved out of the house they’d shared, Josh had discovered how much he savored living alone. Made things less complicated. Just like women whose idea of the perfect relationship was a good time, a fast ride and a friendly parting.
As he popped the last bite of pie into his mouth, his gaze settled on the stack of mail on the corner of the table. “Is that a digital recorder?” he asked, plucking up the long silver piece of metal that sat on top of the stack.
“Michael bought me that gadget,” Etta said, referring to her eldest son. “I use it to record reminders. Like when to take my medicine. I call it my memory box.”
“Smart.”
“The thing tends to startle me when my own voice comes out of the blue, telling me to take my pills. There’s already enough going on around Sundown to make a person nervous.”
Josh set the recorder aside. “I heard about the prowler.”
“Whoever it is has been peeping in windows for months now. Chief Decker hasn’t had any luck catching him.”
Josh frowned. From working sex crimes, he knew that prowlers sometimes turned out to be Peeping Toms, who had the potential of escalating to indecent exposure, then more serious sex crimes. Like rape. His own career problems had been due to one man’s zeal to take down the six-time rapist.
“How were things at my tavern tonight?”
Etta’s question diverted his thoughts. “The place was packed.” Leaning back, he watched the kitten climb up his chest, wincing when her razor-sharp claws stabbed through his shirt. “Howie’s burgers are still gold. Deni’s as big a flirt as ever. Your new bartender is…interesting.”
“Regan’s a pretty little thing, isn’t she? All that dark hair and those big brown eyes.”
Cat’s eyes, he thought again. Watching and waiting. For what?
“I baked an extra pie for her,” Etta added, sliding her plate aside. “The girl’s way too thin. She hardly ever sits still and she eats like a bird.”
“And brings to mind a raw nerve.”
“How so?”
“Cops get used to people getting fidgety around them—goes with the job. But what I do for a living didn’t come up, so it wasn’t that.” He sipped his tea. “I can’t put my finger on why I made Regan nervous. Yet.”
Chuckling, Etta patted his hand. “Joshua, men who are all rakish charm and promise of trouble to come have given women the jitters since the beginning of time. You’re no exception.”
“You think that’s it? My charm made Regan itchy?”
“What else could it be?”
“Yeah, what else?” He thought about how effectively she had evaded his questions, divulging next to nothing about herself. “Does Regan have a last name?”
“Doesn’t everyone? Hers is Ford.”
“Regan Ford,” he said, trying it out. Regan Ford, hailing from no particular place, yet sounding to him more like the deep South than anywhere else. “I take it you checked her employment record and references before you hired her?”
“I didn’t need to. My instincts told me to take a chance on her. She’s living in the apartment over the tavern.”
With the kitten now propped on his shoulder, Josh crossed his forearms on the table. “You gave her a job and a place to live without running a background check? That’s not wise, Etta.”
“My late husband had a philosophy about the tavern business. Never water down the whiskey and, when it comes to employees, follow your heart.” She raised a shoulder. “I had a good feeling about Regan, so I offered her the job. The apartment over the tavern was empty, so why not let her live there?”
“Why not check her out first?”
“Like I said, I had a good feeling about her. Anyway, I had her work the same shift I did the first month she was here. Time has proven me right about Regan. She works like a trooper. The register has never come up short on her shift. Now that I’m stove up, Regan adds up all the receipts, makes the bank deposits and balances the books. She handles the ordering. You think either Howie or Deni, or any of my day workers could do that without making a mess of things?”
“I doubt it.” Like most cops, he had a healthy distrust of all mankind. Knowing that Etta had turned over her bank account to a woman she hadn’t checked out didn’t sit well. At all.
“Regan’s got a caring soul,” Etta continued. “The day cook makes me lunch and Regan brings it here. She takes the time to sit with me on the porch and visit. She runs the vacuum and dusts. Does my marketing. And cooks dinner for A.C. and me here every Sunday on her night off.”
“You ever ask Mystery Woman where she’s from? Where she’s worked?”
“No.”
He settled his hand on Etta’s. “You’re letting a woman you know nothing about handle your money and basically run your business. Who’s to say she won’t empty your bank account and disappear? Let me look into her background. Check her references. I can call Nate, have him run her through the national crime database.”
Etta’s blue eyes met his squarely. “Joshua McCall, do you own a part interest in my tavern?”
He sighed. “No, ma’am.”
“Then leave my business to me. I may not know everything about Regan, but I know what matters.”
It was all Josh could do not to remind Etta of the drifter she’d trusted a few years ago. The guy had tended bar only a week before he cleaned out the safe then disappeared.
Etta pointed a long, sturdy finger his way. “While we’re on the subject, I want you to understand that I’m fond of Regan. I don’t expect she needs to get all stirred up over a man who goes through women like water.”
“I don’t plan on doing any stirring in that area.” He glanced at the pies cooling on the counter. “I forgot to stop by the mini-mart, so I need to drive back into town. How about I drop off Regan’s pie while I’m at it?”
“Sounds good.”
He set Anthracite on the floor, gathered up the plates and carried them to the sink. What he did intend to do was look after Etta’s best interests. Which meant finding out all there was to know about Regan Ford.

Chapter 2
“C’mon, Regan. Let’s you ’n me go upstairs to your place ’n have some fun.”
“Not interested.” Regan stood at the tavern’s front door, staring up into Seamus O’Toole’s bloodshot eyes. The beefy Dallas used-car dealership owner’s breath smelled like a brewery.
He leaned in. “There’s lots of women mighty glad they said yes to old Seamus.”
“Not interested, Mr. O’Toole. At all.”
When Regan shifted to open the door, he lunged, thrusting a finger in her face. “Whas’ wrong with you? Don’cha like men? You one of them flamin’…”
As quick as a snake, her hand lashed out, grabbed his outstretched thumb, and forced it back into his wrist.
Howling, O’Toole dropped to his knees.
Behind her, Regan heard the kitchen door swing open.
“Need some help?”
Keeping a grip on O’Toole’s thumb, she glanced across her shoulder. Howie Lyons stood with the door propped open, a metal mop bucket behind him. After six months of working together, Truelove’s night cook knew Regan could hold her own with an obnoxious drunk.
“I’ve got this covered.” She looked down at O’Toole. His face was beet-red, his forehead beaded with sweat. “I said no. Got it?”
“Yeah. Sweet Jesus, I hear ya.”
She let go of his thumb and stepped back two paces.
With his knees creaking in protest, he lurched to his feet. “Ya’ crazy broad! You tried ta’ break my thumb.”
“If I intended to break it, you’d need a cast right now.” She didn’t add that due to her paramedic training, she could also apply that cast. “Did you drive or walk tonight, Mr. O’Toole?”
“Can’t ’member,” he mumbled while massaging his bruised thumb.
Regan shoved the door open. A gleaming silver Beemer sporting a dealer’s tag sat in the parking lot beneath one of the mercury vapor lamps.
“You drove, but you’re walking home.” She held out a hand. “Give me your keys. I’ll put them behind the bar. You can pick the car up when you’re sober, like you did last week.”
When he continued glaring at her, she wiggled her fingers. “Keys. You try to drive, you could wind up in a cell.”
“Maybe.” Wobbling, he dug into a pocket of his khakis. Keys jangled as he slapped them into her palm. “Somebody oughta do something ’bout man-hatin’ women,” he sneered as he lurched out the door.
“Idiot,” Regan said under her breath. After setting the lock, she wove her way around the tables, then stepped behind the bar. She dropped O’Toole’s keys inside a drawer, then hesitated.
Still wearing his grease-smeared apron over his black T-shirt and jeans, Howie gave her a considering look while overturning chairs onto the tables on the far side of the dance floor. “Something wrong?”
“What if that moron staggers in front of a car and gets mowed down?”
“You nearly ripped off O’Toole’s thumb. Now you’re worried about him stepping in front of a car?”
“I’m thinking about Etta. If O’Toole gets hurt, Truelove’s could get sued because he got drunk here.”
“Right,” Howie said. “When I leave I’ll drive the route to his house. Make sure he hasn’t stumbled and hit his head.”
“Thanks.”
Since she had already washed the pitchers and glasses, re-stocked the cooler, wiped down the bar and locked the night’s receipts in the safe, Regan was free to head upstairs. Instead, she began overturning chairs onto the tables.
“You don’t have to do that,” Howie reminded her. “My job.”
“I’ve got time,” she said, hefting another chair.
Snagging an oversize broom, he began sweeping up peanut shells. “I guess neither of us have someone waitin’ at home,” he commented, his voice now harsh and bitter. “Regan, you ever know anyone who claimed to have found religion? Someone who went off the deep end, preaching fire and brimstone?”
“No.” Etta had told her she suspected the night cook’s motive for taking on the tavern’s janitorial duties after his wife left him was to delay going home to an empty apartment.
“It’s hard defending yourself when someone gets certain ideas into their head.” Howie shook his head. “There’s battles a person just can’t win.”
Regan pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. She wasn’t trying to win a battle. She was trying to stay hidden.
After a few minutes of their working in silence, Howie raised a shoulder as he wielded the broom. “I expect havin’ Josh McCall in town’ll make Etta happy, being they’re close.”
Regan felt another stab of unease as she pictured McCall sitting at the bar, watching her just a bit too closely with those dark eyes. Eyes that had made her shiver as she fought their hypnotic pull. She had become so accustomed to the numb bleakness inside her that feeling even a slight attraction to any man unnerved her.
With all the chairs overturned, she walked to the jukebox, its light painting her arm gold as she reached to flip off the power. “Do you know McCall?”
“Sure. His family’s been coming to Sundown long as I can remember. Josh and Etta’s oldest boy were forever getting into mischief.” Howie nudged the mop bucket toward a corner. “Those two caught hell one summer when they raided the Camp Fire Girls overnight jamboree.” He chuckled as he put his back into mopping. “Now Etta’s oldest is a minister and Josh is a cop. Who’d have thought?”
“I figured out the cop part on my own,” Regan muttered.
“What’d you say?”
“Nothing.” She slid the key to her apartment out of her jeans pocket. “I’m going upstairs. Lock up when you leave.”
“Will do.”
Giving the area a last check, she headed toward a door on the opposite side of the barroom. After dealing with the lock, she reached in and flipped on the light. The narrow staircase was as straight as a ruler, with no shadowy nooks or crannies in which someone could hide.
At the top of the stairs she paused, making sure the dead bolt she’d installed on the door was still latched. A study of the door-jamb revealed no notches or pry marks. Everything appeared undisturbed.
Even so, she felt a twinge of apprehension as the lock snicked open. She would continue to feel uneasy until she checked the French doors leading to the balcony that spanned the rear of the building.
As she stepped inside what had been her safe haven for six months, the familiar sense of grief and loneliness hit her. Memories flashed toward dangerous places as her mind formed a picture of Steven’s house in New Orleans, filled with antiques and furniture covered in rich fabrics. It had been a home where gleaming tables were crammed with framed photographs. Where rare old books filled floor-to-ceiling shelves and expertly lit paintings hung on silk-covered walls.
She had planned to live the rest of her life in that house with the man she loved. Raise their children and grow old.
Her dream had ended over a year ago when she found Steven dead from what everyone believed was suicide. Weeks later, after another man died on her account, she’d learned the truth.
Since the moment I met you, you’ve disappointed me, cher. I shared that disappointment with your fiancé. And your partner. How many more times are you going to disappoint me?
Because Detective Payne Creath’s voice played all too clearly in her ears, because the words filled her with guilt and remorse she would never be free of, she wrenched her thoughts from the past. She had to think about now. Make sure she was safe for another night.
Her gaze swept the small living area, skimming across the orange-and-brown plaid sofa, matching chair and watermarked coffee table Etta had scored at a garage sale. The latest copy of the Sundown Sentinel lay on the table at the same angle she’d left it beside the vase of daisies that had just started to fade. She stepped into the kitchenette tucked in an alcove. Her coffee mug still sat on the cork coaster placed exactly two inches from the edge of the chipped sink.
She headed across the living room, noting the lamp she’d left on in the bedroom still beamed light through the doorway. The pair of mullioned French doors were locked, with no discernible notches or pry marks on the jamb. The glass panes covered by sheer white curtains presented a possible safety hazard. Still, she considered the doors a necessity since they afforded an alternate escape route. And the balcony faced the lake, providing a peaceful spot on her evenings off to sit and watch the dazzling yellow-and-red sunsets over the water.
She clenched her fingers as she stepped into the bedroom. The twin-size brass bed looked tidy and inviting with its pink chenille spread. The only thing lying on the spread was her plump throw pillow.
The closet door stood open. She habitually left it that way to eliminate a hiding spot. The few clothes she owned hung as she’d left them. Her suitcase sat on the closet floor, its lid open for quick packing.
Although it increased her sense of security, Regan knew her nightly check of doorjambs and locks was futile. Creath had once disabled the high-tech alarm on her apartment. She’d known he’d been inside solely because of the peppermint candies he left strewn across her bed.
The cop who had methodically stalked her, killed because of her, then set her up to take the fall for Steven’s murder had wanted her to know how effortlessly he could get to her.
Her gaze went to her reflection in the wavy-surfaced mirror hanging over the vanity painted a garish yellow. Sometimes when she looked in the mirror she still got a jolt. The dark-haired woman she saw wasn’t her, couldn’t possibly be Susan Kincaid, who had spent six years saving lives and wearing her auburn hair in a short cap of curls. Now, her hair was midnight black and board straight, and belonged to a bartender named Regan Ford. But the nightmares that still woke her up in an icy, terrified sweat were Susan’s.
She swallowed back a sudden rush of tears. She was so tired—physically drained, emotionally exhausted, sick of feeling out of control.
Because she had learned the uselessness of tears, she scrubbed a hand over her eyes, grabbed her laptop off the rocking chair angled in one corner, then returned to the living room. Nudging the newspaper aside, she plugged the computer into the phone jack. That done, she toed off her shoes, then settled onto the couch. While the computer booted up, she rested her head against the wall. Was it sick to consider celebrating, since Creath hadn’t found her after an entire year?
Not yet, anyway.
Listening to the modem connect to the Internet, her thoughts centered on Dan Langley, the private investigator who was her one link to the life she’d left behind. Not just for safety’s sake, but her own peace of mind, she’d had to ensure Creath hadn’t followed her when she disappeared. No matter how sly and patient the monster inside him, he couldn’t personally track her if he stayed on the job.
Langley had no idea where she was or what names she used. All he had was her e-mail address to which he had sent messages for the past year to let her know Creath was still in New Orleans.
Regan accessed her e-mail account, saw she had no message from Langley. That meant the P.I. still had Creath in his sights.
Even as relief rolled over her, a sharp rap on the French doors brought her chin up. Through the sheer curtains she saw a man’s shadowy form on the balcony beyond. He stood just outside the light fixture’s pool of illumination. Purposely?
Panic fizzed through her. Had Creath slipped out of New Orleans without Langley knowing? Somehow found her? Was it Creath waiting for her on the other side of the door?
Regan pressed a hand between her breasts to hold in her frantic heart while she fought a short, ferocious battle to pull herself together. Creath’s style wasn’t to announce himself. He would slide into the apartment like smoke, and grab her before she knew he was there.
Closing her laptop, she rose. Because she believed in evening the odds, she moved into the kitchenette and pulled a knife out of a drawer. Her breath shallowed as she neared the door. Fingers clenched on the knife’s hilt, she used her free hand to edge back one side of the sheers.
When she saw Josh McCall, the flood of adrenaline in her veins became a full-blown tsunami. In the dim light, the prominent planes of his stubbled face looked sharp as glass. The cop eyeing her through the door’s pane in some ways presented as great a danger to her as Creath.
She lowered her gaze to the pie carrier in his hand. Since he’d planned to drop by Etta’s after he left the tavern, Regan knew exactly what had happened. It was bad enough that Etta had been on her injured foot long enough to bake pies, but she was ferrying them via cop.
Having no choice, Regan undid the dead bolt, opened the door a few inches. “You moonlighting as Etta’s errand boy?” she asked smoothly.
His smile flashed charmingly. “Making deliveries gets you access into places you might not be otherwise invited to.”
Before she could react, he’d nudged a shoulder against the door, forcing her to take a step back. A slick move, she thought as he stepped past her. She narrowed her eyes. “Uninvited places like my home, you mean.”
“Exactly.” His gaze dropped to her hand. “You’re as pasty as Etta’s biscuit dough and that’s one hell of a grip you’ve got on that knife. Something wrong?”
You. “Yes, you pounded on my door at one o’clock in the morning.” When she reached for the pie, he shifted.
“If you try to juggle the pie and that knife, you might cut yourself,” he said as he headed to the kitchenette. “Wouldn’t want that.”
Teeth clenched, she remained at the open door, struggling for calm. “If anyone gets cut, it won’t be me.”
He set the pie on the counter, then turned, studying her with unconcealed interest. “You’re a tough customer, Ms. Ford.”
She felt her throat tighten. “I didn’t tell you my last name.”
“That’s right, you didn’t. I asked Etta.”
“Why?”
His gaze swept the room before returning to her. “You wouldn’t tell me.”
Sweat pooled on her palm against the knife’s handle. “You didn’t ask.”
“True.” He raised a dark brow. “Aren’t you going to offer me a piece of pie?”
“Etta never bakes just one of something. I’m sure you’ve already had your fill.”
“You’d make a good detective, Ms. Ford.”
“Like you?”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I didn’t tell you my profession.”
“Howie mentioned it.”
He angled his chin. “You asked Howie about me?”
“No, he commented you used to be a wild kid who wound up a cop.” Regan knew she had to act with confidence or blow her cover. So, she forced her mouth into a slight upward curve. “He mentioned something about you and Etta’s son raiding a Camp Fire Girls jamboree.”
Josh stroked a finger along his stubbled jaw. “Now there’s a great memory. During the raid I stole a kiss from Mary Beth Powers. That was the first time I’d kissed a girl and it was a moving experience. For my part in the raid, Chief Decker made me pick up trash along Sundown’s roadsides for a week.” He wiggled his dark brows. “After I served my sentence, I went back and kissed Mary Beth again.”
The wicked amusement in his eyes sent the primitive sensation Regan had felt before seeping over her, heating her flesh and making her stomach jitter.
“Doesn’t sound like you’re a man who learns from his mistakes,” she said, hoping the nerves jumping inside her didn’t sound in her voice.
His finger shifted from his jaw to the thin scar on the side of his neck. “If I wasn’t, I’d be long dead.” He wandered to the sofa, glanced down at her laptop, the fading daisies. “I’m worried that Etta doesn’t learn from the past.”
“How so?”
His gaze slowly lifted, locked with hers. “She takes in strays. That kitten she has? Etta probably hasn’t had her checked for rabies.”
Knowing he was talking about more than just the kitten had Regan’s stomach burning like acid. “One look at Anthracite and you can tell she’s okay.”
He moved to her bedroom door, glanced in before looking back at her. “What about you, Regan Ford?”
“I don’t have rabies.”
His gaze traveled down, all the way to her bare feet, then back up again. “You do look good on the surface.”
His intimate scrutiny seared Regan like a blast, an almost palpable force that made her knees weak. God, she had to get away from him.
Clenching her fingers on the knob, she jerked the door open wider. “It’s late, McCall, and I want to go to bed.”
He stepped to her, curled a finger under her chin and nudged it up. “That an invitation?” he murmured.
“For you to leave.” She slapped his hand away while her pulse thrummed. He was all but standing on top of her. Close enough that she could smell him. No cologne, just soap—something that brought the woods to mind one moment and dark, intimate nights the next.
She didn’t want to feel. It was safer that way, easier; if she hadn’t been numb over the past year she couldn’t have survived. Two men were dead because of her. Their murders were an internal wound she didn’t dare touch because it was still bleeding. She wanted to keep the bleak ice inside her frozen.
She took a step back from the man whose hot gaze threatened to crack that ice. “Since you’re apparently Etta’s self-designated watchdog, you might want to stick your nose in an aspect of her life where she is at risk.”
“That would be?”
“Her health. She baked tonight, meaning she spent a lot of time on her feet, which is exactly what she shouldn’t be doing. She broke a bone, she has to keep her weight off her foot as much as possible or complications could set in.”
His eyes were now crimped with concern. “What sort of complications?”
“Are you aware she’s a diabetic?”
“Yeah. Has been since I’ve known her.”
“A diabetic’s immune system isn’t top-notch. That means slower healing. Possible infections.” Regan paused when she heard the emotion begin to break through her voice. She owed everything to the woman who’d given her a job, a place to live. To hide. “I try to get Etta to follow the doctor’s orders, but she’s stubborn.”
His gaze narrowed on her face and Regan could swear she felt it penetrate through her. “You sound like you know a lot about medicine.”
She clenched her fingers tighter on the knife. “I’m just repeating what Doc Zink told me.”
“I’ll talk to Etta tomorrow. Try to get her to behave.”
“Good.”
He stepped out on the balcony. Even as he turned back toward the door, Regan shut it and shot the dead bolt into place.
She walked to the kitchenette, laid the knife on the counter and waited. When she heard his footsteps clatter down the outside staircase, a shiver ran through her, like icy fingers slicking her flesh.
He was curious about her, too damn curious. Like any cop, Josh McCall had numerous law enforcement networks available. Her Regan Ford identity could pass a cursory check, but what if he dug deeper? Standing there, she could almost feel the cold steel of handcuffs lock onto her wrists.
Panic clawed at the base of her throat. It would take mere minutes to cram her clothes into her suitcase, grab her running money and drive away from Sundown.
And go where? a voice inside her asked. Drift through a blur of towns and cities as she’d done when she first went on the run, forever looking over her shoulder to see if Creath was there?
Allowing herself a moment of despair, she dropped her head into her hands. Her life might as well have a sign posted: Danger Behind. Danger Ahead. What the hell should she do? Just the thought of taking off again, of giving up the tenuous life she’d begun in Sundown made her feel physically ill.
So, she would stay, at least for a while. Until she had time to think. To work out a plan.
She looked back at the French doors. It hadn’t been just a cop she feared who’d just walked out of them but the man whose warm touch she could still feel against her flesh. She thought her sensuality had died with Steven, but Josh McCall had proven her wrong.
A vivid premonition of disaster swept over her. “Stay away from me, McCall,” she said, her voice a thready whisper. “Just stay away.”

Payne Creath sat alone in the Homicide detail’s dim squad room amid a maze of steel desks the color of dirty putty. The air carried a stale edge of tobacco. If he concentrated, he could hear the raucous sounds of the French Quarter seeping in through the building’s grubby windows. The computer monitor holding his attention flooded his sharp-angled face with an eerie unnatural hue as his agile fingers worked the keyboard.
He possessed an innate ability to hunt. Combined with a fixed persistence, he could locate anything and anyone, no matter how long it took.
He would find her—it was fated.
Susan. She had smooth skin and liquid brown eyes, small breasts and a slender waist. From his first glimpse of her, he had loved the look of her, the sound of her, the scent. She’d been his one magic person. Only her. He had dealt with his rivals. All of them. That she’d run from him, left him, had been a dagger to the heart. As quick as that, love turned to hate. One year later, his wound still oozed blood.
Was she feeling safe, burrowed in her hiding place? Had she fooled herself into thinking he would fail to keep his promise to share his disappointment with her in the worst way imaginable? Would she feel a shiver race beneath that smooth skin if she knew how much the passage of time had honed his resolve to find her?
“Just got us a homicide call. Gonna be a long night.”
Looking up, Creath met the gaze of the short, stocky man who strode into the squad room, cell phone in hand. Creath had no friends on the police force, just acquaintances. His partner was no exception.
He dipped a hand into the plastic bag on his desk, pulled out a peppermint while his mouth formed the polished smile that pulled people in, making them believe anything he said. “What’d we do, cher, snag us a mass murder?”
“Triple. Two male college tourists and a pimp named Lo-Vell. Lots of blood.”
Creath unwrapped the peppermint. “Well, hell, guess we’ll have to put off eating breakfast.”
“Guess so. I’ll get the car, pick you up out front.”
Creath began shutting down the computer, feeling a tic of regret over interrupting the night’s search. She was smart—not once since she’d run had she used her real name, nor did he think she would. Numbers were something else. The passage of time increased the likelihood she would let down her guard. It was easier to slip back into using one’s real date of birth, maybe risk using her actual social security number a time or two. So, he watched. If any cop radioed in a check to the National Crime Information Center computer, or checked an ID or made any other type of documented contact with a female matching her description who used her real date of birth or social security number, his off-line search would turn it up.
His hunt didn’t stop with law enforcement. Using his home computer, he had hacked into the database of hospitals and ambulance services, searching for new hires. She’d have to work. By now, the amount of money she could make in her chosen profession might outweigh the peril of exposure.
And if anyone—from cop to job recruiter—ran her prints, they’d get a hit on the murder warrant.
Then she’d be his.
He would see she paid for rejecting him. For the pain she’d caused him. He would take pleasure in being the ultimate victor in this struggle.
He felt the power rise inside him as the computer clicked off and the monitor’s single eye went black. The image of him locking handcuffs around her delicate wrists crouched darkly in his brain. For him, it would be the ultimate twisting of the knife to escort her to prison, knowing she’d be spending the rest of her life locked in a cell.
Thinking of him.

Chapter 3
Josh woke the following morning with a picture in his head of Regan Ford standing at her French doors, gripping a knife. Not your normal small town response when greeting a visitor.
Of course, he had no clue if the woman who’d looked willing to wield that knife hailed from the country or a big city. No idea of where she’d come from. What, or who was in her past.
No idea yet.
Deciding to get his morning run over with before the heat set in, he pulled on shorts and a T-shirt with the sleeves torn out, then snagged a pair of crew socks and his running shoes from the duffel bag he’d yet to unpack. Halfway down the broad oak staircase a rich, heady scent greeted him. Thankful he’d taken time last night to program the coffeemaker, he headed for the kitchen.
The room was big and cluttered and, despite the gleam of snazzy appliances and shiny tiles, homey. Tossing his socks and shoes beside the granite-topped cooking island, he pulled a mug from a cabinet. While pouring coffee, his thoughts returned to Regan. Since he couldn’t shake her, he bowed to the inevitable and took a shot at analyzing what it was about the enigmatic bartender that had her clinging like a burr to his brain.
His mouth formed a cynical arch. Her sexy, slim-as-a-reed build had a lot to do with it. Females with nifty little bodies had always drawn him like…well, a cop to a crime scene.
He toasted a bagel before heading out of the kitchen. Steam billowed from his mug as he walked along the paneled hallway lined with a pictorial history of the McCall family. There’d be new photos soon, he thought. His three sisters had recently married. His oldest brother had reconciled with his wife and they’d renewed their vows. His parents had taken a boatload of pictures during the Valentine’s Day quadruple wedding ceremony.
Josh stepped out onto the front porch, narrowing his eyes against the already intense morning sunlight. With his thoughts centered on the dark-eyed bartender, he was only vaguely aware of the sweet scent of the yellow roses spilling out of the clay pots lining the porch rail.
Regan Ford had more attributes than just a body built to star in his fantasies, he conceded. There was that fox-sharp face, made even more compelling by a frame of thick, midnight-black hair he wouldn’t mind plunging his fingers into. And those auburn-flecked eyes. Watchful. Waiting. Intriguing.
On a physical level, she wasn’t a woman he could easily rid his mind of.
Then there was the challenge she presented. Last night at her apartment she’d been a package full of nerves and hostility. The nerves she tried to hide. She hadn’t bothered with the hostility.
No problem—as a cop he was used to being where he wasn’t wanted. As a man, he savored the prospect of digging through whatever layers made up Regan Ford.
Granted, it was her right not to tell him where she was from. And keep her last name to herself. A woman tending bar was smart to withhold information while engaged in a conversation with a stranger. People had all sorts of reasons for holding back personal information. One being privacy. Another, they had something to hide. Problem was, secrets sometimes held a nefarious edge, causing innocent people to get hurt.
Finishing off his bagel, he strolled to the end of the porch. Etta’s blue two-story house sat bathed in sunlight, its white shutters gleaming.
Like most cops, he believed in being thorough and covering every base. He had learned in both his personal and professional lives never to take anything or anyone at face value. Which was what Etta had done when she hired a stray off the street without checking her out.
A stray who was damn prickly about questions.
He did a mental replay of Regan’s small apartment. There’d been no photographs, letters or other personal items in sight. A lone vase of daisies was the only indication the woman who’d lived there half a year had done anything to transform the apartment into a home. The woman who’d answered the door looking pale as chalk, and gripping a knife. During his years on the force, he’d never met an abused woman who hadn’t been systematically isolated from friends and alienated from family. Was Regan Ford hiding from an abuser?
Josh sipped his coffee. That was just one of many questions his gut told him needed answers, for Etta’s protection. And to satisfy his own curiosity, which he conceded had transformed overnight from idle to intense.
The whispering slap of footsteps against pavement brought his chin up. Turning, he caught movement on the road. Raven-black hair bobbed in a ponytail as Regan, looking wasp slim in a black crop top, gray shorts and running shoes, jogged by at an impressive clip.
“Speak of the devil,” he murmured then dumped the remainder of his coffee onto the lawn. No time like the present to start working on satisfying his curiosity, he decided as he swung back into the house to grab his shoes and socks.
Ten minutes later, he jogged around a curve on the patchy asphalt road and had Regan in his sights. His gaze slid over the black crop top, down a long feline arch of spine to a small, shapely bottom in snug shorts.
One hell of an inspiring view.
Even this early, heat and humidity turned the air thick as syrup, forcing his lungs to work like a bellows. Sweat pooled on his flesh, soaked into his clothes as he focused on his target. She kept her speed steady. Her pace disciplined.
Up to this point he had held back his own speed, letting the muscles he hadn’t taken time to stretch soften and warm. Now he quickened his pace, lengthened his stride as a mindless rhythm orchestrated his movements.
He watched as Regan reached the turnoff for the marina. Traffic on the road had picked up so she had to pause and jog in place while a pickup pulling a boat on a trailer took the turn, grit popping beneath its tires. When she dashed off, she took the fork rimming the lake, heading in the direction of the tavern. He knew from previous runs that Truelove’s was five miles from his family’s house. Ten miles, round trip. If Regan made a habit of jogging from her apartment to Etta’s and back each day, she had to be in great shape.
His gaze slid from her waist down to her trim bottom, then to her tanned, coltish legs. Amazing legs. Yeah, that sexy little body was in primo shape.
After waiting at the turnoff for a break in traffic, he increased his speed. Since Regan gave no indication she was aware of his presence, he figured the heavy traffic muted the sound of his footsteps. By the time he closed in on her, all he could hear was the drum of his own pulse echoing in his ears.
He reached out, touched her elbow. “How’s it going?”
The next instant she rounded on the balls of her feet. Her arm swept up. He saw the Mace canister just in time to lock a hand on her wrist, twist her arm behind her back and turn her into the solid restraint of his body.
“Sweetheart,” he murmured in her ear. “You need to work on your friendship skills.”
With her locked against him he felt the outrage—and something more—shoot through her stiffened frame. Then his words must have penetrated and she began to squirm.
“Let go!”
He took a moment to savor the warm, salty smell of woman. Another to acknowledge that the tightening in his gut was raw and purely sexual. Then he dropped the arm he’d locked around her waist, but kept his hand clenched on her wrist. She instantly whirled to face him while trying to jerk from his hold.
“Let me go.” Her voice sounded far away. Hollow.
He pried the cylinder from her grasp, then gave her a long, speculative look. Her face was flushed, her eyes wide. “Do you Mace every jogger you meet?”
Regan’s heart slammed against her rib cage; she took choppy breaths, trying to control the adrenaline rushing through her system. “You snuck up on me. Put your hand on me. What the hell did you expect?”
“A friendly hello?”
Cars whizzed past while she glared up at him. The hand gripping her wrist was hard and strong. Like his face, his voice. “Just…let…go.”
“If I do, you going to try to Mace me again?”
She clenched her jaw. “That would be hard to do, since you’re holding the canister.”
“Good point.” He released his hold, studying her with those dark eyes that seemed to see everything at once. “I didn’t sneak up on you. Not intentionally.” He used his forearm to swipe sweat off his brow. “The traffic’s heavy—the sound of it must have kept you from hearing me come up from behind.”
“Right. Okay.” Panting, she walked in small circles to keep her muscles from locking up. “I…overreacted.”
“You’re prepared, I’ll give you that.” He held out the canister. “For a tiny thing, you pack a punch.”
Cursing herself inwardly, she grabbed the Mace from his hand and shoved it into her pocket. She’d barely heard his voice over the sound of traffic and her pounding pulse. Had known only that it was male, that the fingers on her elbow were rock hard and filled with strength. The mix of paranoia and fear that shot through her mind told her it was Creath who’d come up behind her.
The man staring at her with open curiosity was almost as bad.
For the first time, she allowed herself to take a good look at him. He looked sweaty and incredibly sexy in tattered gray shorts that revealed long, firmly muscled tanned legs. His white T-shirt was wrinkled, ragged and sleeveless. Shoulders, she thought. The man had amazing shoulders.
And, dear Lord, when she’d been locked against him his body had felt like solid muscle. When she realized it was McCall, not Creath, who controlled her struggles, fear had rocketed into searing need. It was as if her body had been starved for a man’s hardness, the hunger buried beneath her grief. And now the feel of McCall’s body had unleashed that hunger.
Her heart hammered painfully against her breastbone as she shoved an unsteady hand at the damp tendrils escaping her ponytail. “Well, see you around, McCall.”
He stepped into her path. “Wait a minute.”
“What?”
“We’re headed in the same direction. Why not run together?”
Her mouth was so dry it was hard to speak. “I prefer to jog alone.”
The grin he sent her was quick and careless. “You’re from a big city, right? A big Southern city?”
Her fingers curled into her palms. “What makes you think so?”
“You answer your door armed with a knife. You just told me to get lost. Not the usual mindset of someone who hails from a small town.”
“Look, I came out this morning to run. Not get analyzed.”
“Just making an observation. And issuing a friendly invitation. We’re headed in the same direction so we might as well jog together. You ready to go?”
She swiped her hand across her damp throat while she felt her raw nerves stretch razor-sharp. Instinct told her the more she protested, the harder he would push. And dig. The sooner she cooperated, the faster she’d get away from him.
“Try to keep up,” she said, then sprinted off.
He caught up, matched the cadence of his pace with hers. “You run every day?” he asked between breaths.
“Yes.” A prophetic question, she thought, watching him out of the corner of her eye. “You?”
“I try never to miss.”
They continued for several minutes in silence, then he said, “How about heading into town for breakfast at the café?”
“I don’t eat breakfast.”
“Lunch then.”
“Can’t.”
Her warmed muscles moved as fluidly as oiled gears by the time Regan topped the next rise. She caught sight of the narrow wooden bridge that spanned a small stream snaking off the lake. A few yards past the bridge, the road bent like a crooked finger, then narrowed into Wipeout Curve. One mile to go, and she’d be back at her apartment over the tavern. Then she could sort out her thoughts. Work to tighten her hold on her self-control even though she could feel it crumbling beneath her.
“You can’t, or you don’t eat lunch?” he persisted.
“I take lunch to Etta every day.” Her words came out in a staccato that matched the rhythm of her run. “I eat with her.”
“Dinner, then?”
“I work nights.”
“Not every night.”
“Most.”
“I get the feeling I shouldn’t plan on sharing a meal with you.”
“Trust your feelings.”
“You’re hell on a man’s ego, Regan.”
“Plenty of women at the tavern last night gave you the eye. Ask one of them to dinner.”
He shot her a smile, a quick flash of teeth that was unexpectedly charming. “Should I be flattered you paid me so much attention?”
God, he was smooth. Too smooth. “I noticed only because Deni was one of those women. More than once I had to tell her to keep her mind off you and on her job.”
“Another bruise to my pride.”
“I’m sure you’ll recover.”
Her words were nearly drowned out by the engine roar of a green Chevy with heavy metal pumping from its radio. The car shot past them, the bridge’s wooden planks clattering in the wake of speeding tires. Regan caught a glimpse of the driver—a male teenager with dark hair and an insolent grin. A laughing teenage girl with flowing blond hair leaned out the passenger window, a beer can clutched in one hand.
“Beer this early in the morning,” Regan commented. A sick feeling welled in her stomach as the car careened out of sight. “There’s an accident waiting to happen.”
“No kidding,” Josh said as he sidestepped a pothole. “Signs are posted, warning about the narrow bridge and the curve ahead. Does that kid have the sense to slow down? Not when ninety-five percent of his brainpower is in his pants.”
Regan opened her mouth to agree, her thoughts spinning off as she heard the high squeal of brakes and rubber against pavement. She and Josh had already picked up speed when the crash of glass and horrendous rending of metal exploded through the air.

Above the roaring of her heart Regan heard the pounding of her feet against the bridge’s wooden slats as she and Josh raced toward the sound of the crash. Yards past the bridge, the road transformed into the treacherous curve.
Halfway through the curve, she got a whiff of burning rubber. Fresh skid marks veered off onto the shoulder, tearing ridges into ground already rutted like a washboard. From there, the green Chevy had hurdled into a clearing rimmed with massive oaks. From what she could tell at this distance, it had crashed head-on into a thick tree trunk. The car’s hood was buckled; smoke spewed from the engine. Half of the back window was gone. The remaining glass was cracked, resembling a massive spiderweb that glinted like diamonds in the sun.
Dread settled in the pit of Regan’s stomach as she and Josh dashed toward the car. She knew from experience speed was a major predictor of severity of crash injuries. The sedan had shot across the bridge like a bullet, probably taken the curve at the same speed. Chances were, both teens were gravely injured, if not dead.
“The impact knocked out the engine,” Josh said as they neared the car. “At least we don’t have to worry about a fire.”
“Probably the only thing.”
“Yeah.”
In her peripheral vision, Regan spotted a black van skid to a stop. Its doors flew open. A bald man and a woman with a blond beehive piled out and started toward the carnage.
Metal scraped against metal as the driver’s door on the wrecked car slowly opened. The teenage boy angled his legs into view, then pushed himself unsteadily up. Blood poured out of his nose, streamed down his chin. Already, the front of his white T-shirt was stained crimson.
As if the last twelve months had never happened, Regan slid seamlessly into the paramedic she’d been in another lifetime. She felt the familiar adrenaline spike that came with knowing lives might be at stake.
What she was about to do carried consequences, but she couldn’t let them matter right now. What mattered were the two teenagers in the car.
She flicked Josh a look. “Do you know anything about emergency medicine?”
“What I’ve picked up working traffic accidents and crime scenes.” His gaze sharpened. “You have some training?”
Years of it. “I know what needs to be done.”
He gave her a curt nod. “I’ll follow your lead.”
Gripping the top of the car’s open door, the teen raised his head. His eyes were saucer wide and had a feral look. “Help us.” He staggered forward. “Help. Please, help.”
Josh snagged one of his arms, Regan the other, her mind going cold, analytical. “Don’t move,” she ordered, wrapping her hand around his wrist. His pulse was jumping, his heart rate off the chart. He was talking, breathing, which omitted the possibility of an airway obstruction. “What’s your name?”
“I… Easton.” Josh held him in place when he made a feeble attempt to turn back toward the car. “Amelia’s hurt. Bad.” He used his shoulder to wipe at the blood streaming from his nose. “She’s hurt. Please…”
“We’re going to help her,” Regan said, then looked up when the bald man and blond woman reached them. The man was sweating profusely and the woman’s face was chalk-white. She hoped to hell neither of them passed out. “Do you have a phone?”
“I do.” The man dug his cell phone out of his shirt pocket.
“Call 911 and give the dispatcher our location,” she ordered, then looked at Josh. “I don’t know Oklahoma codes. They need to be advised this is life threatening and to use lights and sirens en route.”
“Tell dispatch this is a Code 4,” Josh instructed the man.
“Have the dispatcher connect you to the nearest EMT,” Regan added. “I need you to stay on the line with the EMT so I can relay conditions of the victims.”
“Got it,” the man said.
Regan looked back at the injured boy. “Easton, I want you to lie down. Slowly.”
“No. Gotta help ’Melia.” He was sobbing. Tears mixed with the blood on his face, dripped in rivulets onto his T-shirt. The adrenaline shooting through his veins had him straining, fighting against their hold. “Let me go. Gotta help—”
“We’re going to help her.” Regan tightened her grip on his arm. An air bag had probably protected him, but he could still have spinal injuries. His head needed to be immobilized.
“Josh, we have to get him down.” Beneath her hand, the boy’s pulse hammered. “Gently.”
“All right.” He stepped in front of the teen, locked his hands on his shoulders. “Easton, I’m Sergeant McCall. Do what we tell you so we can take care of Amelia. Lie down. Now.”
A sob cut off his words as he shivered uncontrollably. “Okay.”
The instant they got Easton on the ground, Josh looked at Regan. “I’ll check on the girl.”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
He dashed for the car while Regan waved the blond woman over. “What’s your name?”
“Helen.”
“Helen, I need you to hold Easton’s head like this.”
Gulping, the woman dropped to her knees. Regan positioned the woman’s trembling hands on either side of Easton’s head. “His spine has to be kept as straight as possible. Keep his head still.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Still crouched, Regan shifted. “Easton, look at me. Look up at my face.” Using her palm, she shaded his eyes from the sun, then moved her hand while watching his pupils react to the light.
Rising, Regan snagged the bald man’s arm and pulled him toward the car. “What’s your name?”
“Quentin.”
“Tell the EMT the male victim is equal and reactive to light,” she instructed. After Quentin echoed her words into his cell phone, Regan added, “Stay close to me.”
“Okay.”
She reached the gaping driver’s door just as Josh slid out. She’d seen his same grim, flat stare on the faces of uncountable cops at accident scenes.
“She’s alive, but bad,” he began in a detached voice that Regan knew came with the job. “Wasn’t wearing a seat belt.” He gestured a blood-smeared hand at the car. “There’s an impression of her face imbedded in the windshield.”
Like an instant replay, Regan again saw the girl as the car sped by. A pretty smiling girl, her long blond hair blowing in the wind. Carefree. Happy.
Not anymore, Regan thought as she leaned in through the door and shoved the deflated air bag aside. Her throat tightened at the devastation.
“Amelia?”
The girl’s face was an unrecognizable bloody mass, her long hair dripping crimson. Using her middle three fingers, Regan pressed against the pulse-point on the girl’s neck. She watched Amelia’s chest rise and fall in labored, sporadic heaves while counting her breaths. At that instant, Regan would have given anything for some medical equipment. “Amelia, can you hear me?”
The girl’s eyelids fluttered open. She moved her head, expelled a feeble moan.
“Hang on, Amelia.” Regan checked her pupils. They were small, with sluggish reaction to the light. At this point, at least, her brain was still functioning. “I need to leave you for a second, but I’ll be back. You’re going to be okay.”
Scooting out of the car, Regan snagged the phone from Quentin. “This is a load-and-go situation,” she told the paramedic on the other end. “One patient critical, one stable. Critical patient is an approximately seventeen-year-old female with a severe head injury. Glasgow coma scale is seven. Pulse slow at fifty, respirations ten and signs of Cheyne-Stoking. Possible punctured lung.”
She exchanged a few more details with the paramedic, then handed the phone back to Quentin. “Stay on the line.”
He gave her an impressed look. “Sure, Doc.”
Regan shifted her gaze to Josh. “I need you sitting behind her. We’ve got to stabilize her head and spine.”
“The back doors are jammed. I’ll go in over the front seat.”
She glanced at his bare legs. She had glimpsed the broken glass littering the backseat. Angling to give him room to get past her she said, “Be careful of the glass.”
“Least of our problems.” He went over the seat like a shot. Regan dived back in beside Amelia.
“Wedge your elbows on top of the seat so your arms won’t get so tired.” As she spoke, Regan positioned Josh’s hands on either side of the girl’s head. Beneath her palms, she was aware of the firmness in his long fingers, the steadiness. The type of man you’d want around in a crisis.
“Right now she’s breathing on her own, but we’ve got to make sure her airway stays open,” Regan explained. “Use your fingers to push her jaw forward.” She adjusted her hands on Josh’s, moving his fingers beneath hers into position for a modified jaw thrust. “You’ve got to keep her head absolutely still.”
“All right.”
“She’ll probably vomit. Head injury patients almost always do, so get ready. When it happens, I’ll deal with cleaning her airway. You keep her motionless.”
“Yeah.”
Already, Amelia’s breathing had slowed, become even more irregular. The pinkish cerebral spinal fluid that bathed and suspended the brain and spinal cord now seeped from the girl’s ears and nose, indicating serious brain injury. An empty helplessness tightened Regan’s chest. If only she had some equipment. “Amelia?”
Nothing.
Pinching the girl’s arm got no response. “Amelia, can you hear me?” Regan knew that unconscious patients could still hear what was going on around them. “Hang on,” she said, keeping her voice calm and soothing as she rechecked the girl’s pulse. “Easton’s okay, Amelia. You’re going to be okay, too. Hang on.”
Despair engulfing her, Regan met Josh’s gaze. She knew the girl’s chances were as bleak as the look in his eyes.

An hour later, Josh stood in the clearing with Jim Decker, Sundown’s police chief. A few yards away, the coroner wheeled a gurney over the baked grass toward a hearse. The body bag on the gurney glistened like a mound of wet, black clay beneath the sun’s blazing rays.
“A shame the girl didn’t make it.” The navy-blue uniform that hugged Decker’s tall, lean frame had creases sharp enough to carve rock. Signaling his rank, silver eagles nested on each collar point of his tapered shirt. Mirrored aviator sunglasses completed the look. Josh knew that the man was in his sixties, but his dedication to keeping fit—along with a head of thick, black hair that was only now showing threads of gray—made him look a decade younger.
“Amelia was here for the summer, visiting her grandparents,” Decker continued. “They’re good folks. Now I have to go tell ’em she’s dead. And for what? A beer and a fast ride.”
Josh scrubbed a hand over his face. He’d been at the scene less than two hours, but it felt like twenty-four. “Death notices are one of the downsides of our profession.”
“That they are.”
When Decker shifted his stance, Josh’s gaze followed the chief’s across the clearing to where Regan sat in the shade of a massive oak. Her knees were up against her chest, her arms wrapped around her legs as she stared toward the road where a cop directed traffic.
Decker dipped his head. “Etta’s bartender. There’s an interesting young woman.”
The undertone of guarded curiosity in his voice told Josh the chief wasn’t referring to Regan’s physical attributes. “What’s interesting about her?”
“From what I heard when I got here, Regan Ford knows a lot about taking care of injured folks. A hell of a lot. When I asked her about it, she said she took a couple of first aid classes.”
Decker’s comment underscored what Josh now knew for certain—there was a lot more going on with Regan than met the eye. “I’d say she took more than a couple.”
Decker crossed his arms over his chest. “I drop into Truelove’s now and then, sometimes when Regan’s tending bar. She sure doesn’t have a lot to say. Now that I think about it, she does a good job of detouring around me.” Josh didn’t need to see past the dark lenses of Decker’s glasses to know the cop’s eyes held a look of narrowed speculation. “Can’t help but wonder if it’s me, or the fact I’m the law.”
“Maybe you’re just not charismatic enough?” Josh ventured.
Decker dipped his head. “Maybe you’ve forgotten that night about fifteen years ago when I happened upon you and Etta’s oldest boy with your dates out by the lake? As I recall, the four of you had made a lot of headway getting your clothes off. You were underage and had beer. I could have run the lot of you in, but I didn’t. I figure I was pretty damn charismatic that night.”
Josh chuckled. “Forget what I said, Chief. You’re the most magnetic guy I know.”
“Yeah.” Decker glanced back at the hearse, let out a breath. “Suppose kids’ll ever learn booze and speed don’t mix?”
“Wouldn’t count on it.”
“I’m not. See you later.”
Josh watched Decker climb into his sky-blue cruiser with the gold police chief’s badge on the door. So, it wasn’t just him. Regan had an aversion to other cops, too.
Why? he wondered as he headed across the clearing. Did she have something to fear from the law?
She looked up when his shadow slid over her. The paramedics who’d arrived with the ambulance had given them alcohol wipes to get the blood off their skin, but that hadn’t helped their clothes. Her crop top, shorts, even her socks sported numerous bloodstains and smears.
Up close, her skin looked pale. Sallow. Her eyes still held the devastation that had settled in them when Amelia died while they worked to save her.
“Decker talked to the hospital,” he said quietly. “The doc expects Easton to recover fully.”
Her gaze tracked the hearse as it crept toward the road. “Wish we could say the same about Amelia.”
Josh crouched, settled a hand on her shoulder. “It’s not because we didn’t try.”
She instantly tensed, leaned away, forcing him to drop his hand. Okay, she didn’t want to be comforted. He didn’t have her full measure yet, but he would.
“Regan, are you a doctor?”
She kept her gaze focused on the road. “No.”
“A nurse?”
“No. I’ve taken some first aid classes.”
“I’d say more than a few.” When he shifted closer, he felt the tension thicken around them on the hot air. “I spent a lot of years riding a black and white and I’ve seen plenty of EMTs in action. It’s obvious you have a lot of training and experience. You’re damn good at the job. So, here I am, wondering what a woman with your skills is doing tending bar instead of riding with an ambulance crew. Or working at a hospital.”
She surged up. “I have to go.”
He rose as she did, locked a hand on her upper arm. “That couple who stopped first to help saw you in action. They’ll tell people what you did for those kids. Hell, I already heard Quentin tell one of the cops you’re a doctor. Word of what happened this morning will spread like wildfire across Sundown. Every time you turn around someone’s going to ask how you know what you know. Where you learned your skills. Why you’re not using them. You think telling them you’ve had a couple of first aid classes is going to cut it?” He stepped closer. “Doesn’t do it for me. Don’t you know that the less you tell someone, the more they want to know?”
She jerked from his touch. “I have to pick up some things at the market for Etta before I take her lunch.”
“I’ll run with you as far as your place.”
“No.” Her face was flushed now from either the heat or emotion. Maybe both. “I told you, I prefer jogging alone.”
“What is it about cops that makes you nervous?”
Something flickered in her eyes, then was gone. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Then I’ll explain. Chief Decker says when he stops by Truelove’s, you make a point to avoid him. I have to wonder why, since he’s a decent guy. You sure as hell didn’t want him to know you list ‘skilled in emergency medicine’ on your résumé. Then there’s me. I come around, I get the impression you check for running room.”
She sent him a cool smile. “Cops aren’t my favorite people. Nothing personal, McCall.”
“Sorry to hear that. Some of us can be real charming if we put our mind to it.”
“Charming men don’t impress me. Now I’ve got to go.”
He stepped forward, blocking her retreat. “I watched your face while you worked on that girl. You’re not just good at emergency medicine, you’ve got a passion for it.”
“You have no idea how I feel,” she shot back. “About anything.”
“You’re right. I have no clue what stopped you from being out there, helping people. Saving lives. Or why you’ve stuck yourself in an out-of-the-way, small-town tavern.”
“I’m not stuck. I tend bar now.” Her hands clenched. “That’s what I do. What I want to do. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Didn’t say there was.” He dipped his head. “I don’t know you well enough to have you figured out. Yet. But Etta does—or thinks she does. She cares about you. Her feelings matter to me. If whatever is going on with you harms her, you’ll have me to deal with.”
Her eyes went hot. “I love Etta. She gave me a job, a place to live. I owe her. I would never hurt her.”
“I’m sure you’ll understand if I don’t just take your word for it. I intend to keep an eye on you.”
“Do it from a distance.” He saw the tremor in the hand she used to shove her bangs out of her eyes. “I don’t want to jog with you, McCall. I don’t want to eat breakfast, lunch or dinner with you. Is that clear?”
He kept his eyes cool and steady on her face. “Crystal.”
“Fine. So please leave me the hell alone.”
He watched her dash toward the road, her tanned legs pumping, ponytail bouncing.
“Not a chance, sweetheart,” he murmured.

Chapter 4
Five minutes into that evening’s shift, Regan knew Josh McCall’s prediction had been right—word of what happened that morning had spread like a wildfire across Sundown. Every customer seated at the bar had commented on the accident and her part in aiding the teenage victims. Even the pair of grizzled regulars whose usual topic of conversation was the catch of the day had shifted their focus to the wreck at Wipeout Curve.
While she poured drinks, washed glasses and filled bowls with peanuts, Regan had made sure to shrug intermittently and comment she’d taken a few first aid classes. That had satisfied some of the questioners. Others had given her a skeptical look, but hadn’t pushed for additional details.
At two hours before closing time, most of the talk had shifted to which fisherman had racked up the most points so far in Paradise Lake’s fishing derby. That, and the fact McCall hadn’t darkened the tavern’s doorstep, had Regan hoping she’d weathered the storm. If she could just fade back into obscurity and keep her distance from McCall for however long he spent in Sundown, her luck might hold.
That feeble hope went up in flames when Burns Yost, owner of the Sundown Sentinel, settled onto a stool at the bar.
“I need a beer and an interview, Regan.”
Icy panic jabbed through her while the balding, middle-aged man pulled a pen and small notebook from the pocket of his gray shirt. Yost had been only second to the police chief in people she’d made a point to avoid during her six months in Sundown. Especially after Etta told her Yost had once been an investigative reporter for a major newspaper and had gained fame by sniffing out a huge corruption-at-the-Pentagon story. A few years later, Yost had been fired when a high-profile exposé of his turned out to be fraudulent. He’d come home to Sundown and bought the Sentinel.
As far as Regan was concerned, a reporter was a reporter, no matter what was in his past. And this one apparently smelled a story.
She filled a frosted mug, set it in front of him. “Here’s your beer. You want one of Howie’s hamburgers to go along with that?”
“No, I want to interview you about what you did today.”
“I witnessed an accident and watched a young girl die, Mr. Yost. That’s not something I want to talk about.”
“Amelia’s death was unfortunate,” Yost said over the clatter of pool balls, loud talk and blare of a boot-scootin’ boogie from the jukebox. “I’ve just come from her grandparents’ house and they’re beyond grief.” He sipped his beer. “When I told them I planned to interview you, they asked me to give you their thanks for helping Amelia.”
“I did what anyone else who’d taken a few first aid classes would have done.”
Yost’s mouth curved. “I also talked to Helen and Quentin Peterson. They’re the couple who stopped at the wreck the same time as you and Josh McCall. The Petersons think you’re a doctor.”
“People tend to get impressed when someone checks a pulse while tossing out a few medical terms. That doesn’t mean they have M.D. after their name.”
“Okay, so you’re not a doctor. What are you?”
“A bartender.”
“That’s what Josh McCall said.”
The bands around her chest tightened. “You interviewed McCall?”
“Tried to. He wouldn’t even invite me in, just stood on his front porch sipping a beer and saying the same thing as you. He doesn’t want to talk about the young girl who died.”
For an instant Regan was back in that twisted, glass-strewn car with Josh, working feverishly to save Amelia. And when the girl died, Regan had looked into his dark eyes and felt a connection snap into place. A searing, wrenching link. Now, it wasn’t just her body reacting to him, it was her emotions, too.
For a woman wanted for murder to allow herself to feel any sort of connection with a cop was ridiculously reckless. As was talking to a reporter.
“Neither McCall nor I want to comment about Amelia,” Regan said. “Looks like you struck out all the way around, Mr. Yost.”
“More like I’ll have to wait until the next inning to score.” He took a long drag on his beer. “McCall also refused to comment about what he’d witnessed you do while the two of you were in that car, tending to Amelia. Since he’s a cop, I don’t take his stonewalling personally. The boys in blue trust the press about as much as they trust politicians and lawyers.”
Yost grabbed a handful of peanuts out of the nearest bowl, began shelling them. “Besides, you’re the story, not McCall. There might not be a lot of people in Sundown, but the ones who are here have a right to know what’s going on in their town. At present, you’re what’s going on.”
The dread inside Regan built. There was no way she could get away from Yost as long as he chose to sit at her bar. She was going to have to deal with him, the same way she’d dealt with McCall. Which, in retrospect, had only heightened his curiosity.
“All right, Mr. Yost, I’ll give you a comment. First, my heart goes out to the families of those two teenagers. Second, it’s time the Sundown city council does something about Wipeout Curve. You should research how many accidents have occurred there, find out how many people have been injured and/or died in those accidents. Your running articles on that in the Sentinel could prevent more deaths.”
Yost made a note on his pad, remet her gaze. “An exposé on Wipeout Curve won’t appease the curiosity of my readers, Regan. They want to know about you—where you’re from. How you wound up tending bar in Sundown. Why you’re doing that instead of working in the medical field.”
In a finger snap of time her thoughts shot back to Josh. Don’t you know that the less you tell someone, the more they want to know?
Until this moment, she hadn’t realized, not fully, the repercussions of what she’d done today. Having the attention of both a cop and a reporter focused on her was the last thing she needed. Both had the potential to discover she was using a fake identity. If that happened, the next logical step would be to try to find out her real name. Armed with that, the murder warrant would pop up on some computer run.
She took a slow, deep breath to try to control the adrenaline spewing through her system. She could almost feel Payne Creath’s hot breath on the back of her neck.
“You’ve got my comment.” She tightened her unsteady fingers on the rag in her hand and wiped it across the bar’s scarred, polished wood. “It’ll have to do.”
Yost tossed a couple of bucks beside his mug, flipped his pad closed and slid off the stool. “We’ll talk again soon, Regan.”

At closing time Regan dealt with her duties, then said good-night to Howie. If the cook wondered why this was the first night she’d declined to help with his janitorial chores, he didn’t comment on it. He just kept sweeping up peanut shells while assuring her he would lock up when he left.
Upstairs, she went through the motion of checking the doors and windows, then booted up her computer to see if she had an e-mail from Langley. There was nothing in her inbox from the P.I., which told her Creath was still in New Orleans.
For a year that had been enough to assure her, to afford her breathing room. Over the past twenty-four hours, she’d lost even that small comfort. She had McCall and Yost curious about her. Watching her. She could maybe get by with one or the other, but not both.
She flipped off the lamp beside the couch. The weak light from the fixture on the balcony seeped in through the French doors and her bedroom window, guiding her way into the bedroom.
There, she changed into a camisole and silky boxers. The way she’d exposed her background at the accident scene—topped by Yost’s visit to the tavern—convinced her she had to leave Sundown. Had to turn her back on the small apartment that had begun to feel like home. Say goodbye to the people she’d come to care about.
Etta, she thought, her throat tightening. She couldn’t just pack her meager belongings tonight and leave without saying goodbye to Etta.
First thing in the morning, Regan resolved. By this time tomorrow night, Sundown would be just a memory for her.
With exhaustion and despair overwhelming her, she didn’t bother to pull down the pink chenille spread, just toppled onto her bed.
Seconds later, she dropped off the edge of fatigue into sleep.

With a scream stuck at her throat, Regan shot up in bed. She sat unmoving in the inky darkness, her heart hammering.
Her trembling fingers clenched into fists, she gulped in air. Thinking she must have clawed her way up through the slippery slope of a nightmare, she tried to pull back some memory of it.
Nothing. She remembered nothing.
If she hadn’t had a nightmare, what had woken her? She shoved her hair away from her face, then glanced down. Her watch didn’t have a luminous dial, but she should be able to see the hands.
The realization hit her that she was shrouded in total darkness. When she’d fallen asleep, there’d been light seeping in the window from the fixture out on the balcony. There was no light now, just darkness.
From somewhere came a creaking sound.
Her pulse rate shot into the red zone. Downstairs, she thought, straining to hear past the roar of blood in her head. Had someone broken into the tavern? Creath?
No, she countered instantly, shoving back a wave of paranoia. Langley was watching him. If the homicide cop had left New Orleans, Langley would have sent her an e-mail.
Another creak had her swallowing a lump of fear. She slid out of bed, her knees almost giving out as she groped her way into the pitch-black living room. She felt her way to the couch, grabbed the phone on the end table. The dial wasn’t lighted; she didn’t want to waste time fumbling for buttons, so she stabbed redial.
After three rings, Etta answered, her voice thick with sleep.
“Etta, it’s Regan,” she said, keeping her voice whisper soft. “Someone’s broken into the tavern. I need you to call the police.”
“Lord, child, where are you?”
“Upstairs. If I try to leave, I might run into whoever it is.”
“You stay where you are and keep the doors locked. I’ll get the police there.”

In less than ten minutes, a car pulled to a stop at the rear of the tavern where Etta’s car and Regan’s Mustang sat parked. Inching back the sheer curtain that covered one of the French doors, Regan narrowed her eyes when she realized the vehicle wasn’t the Sundown police car she’d expected.
In the bright headlights that reflected off the tavern’s rear wall, she made out the sleek lines of a convertible. And the tall, lanky form of the driver who climbed out without bothering to open the driver’s door.
“McCall,” she murmured as the headlights went out, plunging the building’s exterior back into darkness. Her hand moved up to rub at her throat where her nerves had shifted into over-drive. Great. Just great. If she’d thought Etta would have called him instead of the Sundown PD, she’d have opted to take her chances with the burglar.
She could almost picture McCall keeping his back snugged against the wall as he moved soundlessly up the wooden staircase. When he gained the top step, he clicked on a flashlight, swept its beam toward the far end of the balcony.
She waited to unlock the French doors until he reached them. “What are you doing here?” she whispered.
He slipped through the door as silent as smoke, the edgy violence in the set of his body making her mouth go dry. The knots in her stomach tightened when she saw the automatic gripped in his right hand.
For a moment, no more than a blink of the eye, the image of him coming for her, arresting her for murder clawed in her brain.
“The Sundown cop on duty is on the other side of the lake, handling a domestic disturbance that involves a shooting,” he said, keeping his voice low. “Chief Decker’s there, too.”
In the beam of the flashlight the rugged lines of his face looked as if they were set in stone and he had a cop’s intensity in his dark eyes. “When the dispatcher told Etta it’d be at least an hour before a Sundown cop could get here, Etta called me.” He took a step closer. “Tell me what you heard.”
“A creaking noise. Footsteps. I heard them twice.” Fear crimped her voice, but she couldn’t help it, not when she was afraid of so much more than just the sound she’d heard.
“From downstairs?”
“I think so,” she said, brushing her bangs aside.
His gaze ranged across the small living room. “Is that the door to the interior staircase that goes down to the tavern?”
“Yes. The door at the base of the stairs is locked. I’ve got the key.”
“Give it to me. I’ll check things out.”
She moved to the coffee table, retrieved her key ring, found the key in question. “It’s this one.”
He stepped to her, his fingers brushing hers when he accepted the key ring. “Lock this door behind me.”
“All right.” She struggled to steady her heartbeat. It took all her control to keep her voice low and even. “This isn’t your job. You don’t have to do this.”
Pausing, he flicked the flashlight’s beam over her, his gaze traveling the length of her. “Seeing you in that outfit makes up for any inconvenience,” he said, then turned and strode toward the door.
Realization came with a quick jolt, followed by a rush of heat into her cheeks. Her brain had been so muddled by sleep, then fright, it hadn’t occurred to her to grab a robe. From the gleam she’d glimpsed in Josh’s eyes, she had a good idea what she looked like, standing there in an air-thin camisole and silky boxer shorts.
She watched him unlock the dead bolt, then shift to one side before he eased the door open. In one smooth move, he aimed his weapon and the flashlight’s beam down the steep staircase.
He glanced at her across his shoulder. “Lock this behind me,” he repeated, then slipped like a shadow into the stairway and pulled the door shut.
Swallowed again by darkness, Regan moved to the door and engaged the dead bolt. Closing her eyes, she leaned against the door while the look that had flashed in Josh’s eyes replayed in her brain. In that heartbeat of time, it hadn’t been a cop gazing at her, but a man. And the rapid surge in her pulse that she felt even now had everything to do with hot-blooded desire and nothing to do with fear.
She pressed her shaking hands to her lips. She was walking a tightrope between passion and danger, but the knowledge didn’t lessen the need.

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