“That’s it, boy, go get it!”

Curiosity got the better of Joe and he looked up to see Gillian and Bud engrossed in a game of fetch. Though the injured dog hobbled, he yelped out a succession of high-pitched, happy barks. The kind Joe hadn’t heard him make since he’d been with Joe’s daughter, Meggie, whiling away summer afternoons playing tug-of-war on the grassy lawn by the pool.

Gillian’s full lips and bright eyes united in one big smile. Her still-wet hair curled about her face. Where it fell to her shoulders, her navy blue T-shirt with the yellow U.S. Marshal logo was damp.

“Good boy…yes, you are a good boy.” Bud had brought the stick back and was now reaping his reward—a thorough rubdown and petting.

A flash of jealousy shocked Joe’s system.

He wanted Gillian’s attention. He wanted to be the good boy.

Dear Reader,

Joe and Gillian’s story evolved from a magical trip my husband and I took to the West Coast. Earlier that year, I’d gone through some tough personal stuff—long story. My husband had discount flight privileges through the company he worked for, so when vacation time rolled around, he suggested leaving our twins with his family, then heading to Oregon. (After visiting the state’s coast years earlier on business, he’d always wanted to go back.)

Anyway, we had no reservations except for our rental car and arrived in Portland in the middle of the night. The next morning we woke to fog so thick it was hard to see your hand in front of your face, let alone drive. Still, we slowly wound our way through thick forests to the Pacific. As in a dream, the fog lifted, and there it was, sparkling and gorgeous.

The tide was low and we walked across a beach strewn with beautiful black stones—many perfectly round like marbles. Next we came to tidal pools. Like the ones on Joe’s island, each pool housed an amazing array of life—starfish and anemones and so many fish I couldn’t begin to name them.

Farther down the road were giant sea caves, and then quaint little restaurants where we’d split a bowl of chowder. Like Joe, I found the Oregon coast to be an incredible place of healing. From forests thick with ferns and trees taller than many of the buildings we had back home in Oklahoma, to miles of deserted beaches, nature put on such a dazzling show I didn’t have time to think of anything but how lucky I was to be alive.

Wish you a lifetime of healing journeys,

Laura Marie Altom

You can reach me through my Web site at www.lauramariealtom.com or write to me at P.O. Box 2074, Tulsa, OK 74101.

Saving Joe

Laura Marie Altom

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For Aunt Katie and Uncle Paul. Happy sixtieth anniversary! The two of you are a real-life Happily Ever After. Thanks so much for being an inspiration not only to me, but to romantics everywhere! I love you!

Books by Laura Marie Altom

HARLEQUIN AMERICAN ROMANCE

940—BLIND LUCK BRIDE

976—INHERITED: ONE BABY!

1028—BABIES AND BADGES

1043—SANTA BABY

1074—TEMPORARY DAD

The United States Marshals Service

Formed in 1789 by President George Washington, the United States Marshals Service is the oldest federal law enforcement agency—and in my mind, one of the most mysterious. They used to carry out death sentences, catch counterfeiters—even take the national census. According to their Web site, “At virtually every significant point over the years where Constitutional principles or the force of law have been challenged, the marshals were there—and they prevailed.” Now the agency primarily focuses on fugitive investigation, prisoner/alien transportation, prisoner management, court security and witness security.

No big mystery there, you say? When I started this series, I didn’t think so, either. Intending to nail the details, I marched down to my local marshals’ office for an afternoon that will stay with me forever.

After learning the agency’s history and being briefed on day-to-day operations, it was time to tour. I saw an impressive courtroom and a prisoner holding cell—not a good place to be! Then we went to the garage to see vehicles and bulletproof vests and guns! Sure, I’m an author, but I’m primarily a mom and wife. I bake cookies and find hubby’s always-lost belt. Remind my daughter’s cheerleading squad which bow to wear. Nothing made the U.S. Marshals Service spring to life for me more than seeing those weapons—and I’m talking serious weapons! And then I glanced at my tour guide and realized that this guy isn’t fictional, but uses these guns, puts his very life on the line protecting me and my family and the rest of this city, county and state. I had chills.

When I started digging for information on the Witness Security Program, things really got interesting. Deputy Marshal Rick ever so politely sidestepped my every question. I found out nothing! Not where the base of operations is located, not which marshals are assigned to the program, where/who those marshals report to on a daily basis, what size crews are used, how their shifts are rotated—nothing! After a while, it got to be a game. One it was obvious I’d lose!

Honestly, all this mystery probably makes for better fiction. I don’t want to know what really happens. It’s probably not half as romantic as the images of these great protectors I’ve conjured in my mind. Oh—and another bonus to my tour…Deputy Marshal Rick was Harlequin American Romance–hero hot!

Laura Altom

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Epilogue

Chapter One

“Mr. Morgan?” Gillian Logue called above the driving rain.

The man she sought stood there at the grumbling surf’s edge, staring at an angry North Pacific. Hands tucked deep in his pockets, broad shoulders braced against the wind, he almost didn’t look real—more like some mythical sea king surveying all that was rightfully his.

Gillian shivered, hunching deeper into her pathetic excuse for a jacket.

Even in the rain, the place reeked of fish and seaweed and all things not on her L.A. beat. They were achingly familiar smells she could try all she liked to pretend didn’t dredge up the past, but there was no denying it—it was hard to come home to Oregon. Not that this island was home, but the boulder-strewn coastal landscape sure was.

The crashing waves.

The tangy scent of pines flavored with a rich stew of all things living and dead in the sea.

The times she’d played along the shore as a child.

The times she’d cried along the shore as a woman.

Shoot, who was she to judge Joe Morgan?

Yeah, she’d lost a love, and yeah, it’d hurt, but it wasn’t like she’d been married to Kent, or they’d had kids. She couldn’t even fathom the complexities of Joe Morgan’s pain.

Shouldn’t want to.

She wasn’t on this godforsaken rock to make a new friend. She was here for one simple reason—to do her job.

“Mr. Morgan?” she called again.

He looked over his shoulder and narrowed his eyes, not bothering to shield them from the rain. “Yeah,” he finally shouted. “That’s me. Mind telling me who you are? What you want?”

The wind slapped strands of her honey-blond hair in Gillian’s face. She took a second to brush them away before stepping close enough to hold out her hand. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Deputy U.S. Marshal Gillian Logue.”

The set of his jaw told her he had no intention of shaking her hand, so she reached into the right hip pocket of her navy windbreaker and pulled out a black leather wallet.

Flipping it open, she flashed him her silver star.

“I asked you a question,” he said.

“I heard you.” She notched her chin a fraction higher, hoping the slight movement conveyed at least a dozen messages. The loudest of which was that she might be housed in a small package, but she was as tough as any man—especially him. “I’m here on official business. Over a year ago, the drug lord responsible for killing your wife was released on a technicality. Now, we have him back, and we’d like you to testify.”

“What?” He put his hand to his forehead.

“The retrial starts in two weeks. Consider yourself subpoenaed.”

His brittle laugh didn’t do much for her wavering confidence.

“Because of your penchant for vanishing, my superiors thought it best you have an escort to the trial, along with someone to fill you in on current events—at least those pertaining to locking up this lowlife for good. Anyway,” she added with a tight laugh, “for the next two weeks, and the duration of the trial, you’re stuck with me.”

The man she’d studied quite literally for months eyed her long and hard, delivered a lifeless laugh of his own, then turned his back to her and headed down the beach for the trail leading to his cabin.

“Like it or not, Mr. Morgan, I’m staying!” Her throat ached from shouting over the rain. “Shoot, you may even need my protection! If we found you, one of Tsun-Chung’s henchman could, too!”

He didn’t look back.

“Your testimony’s vital to the prosecution’s case!”

Still, he kept right on walking.

Okay. Two could play this game.

She jogged to catch up, coming within a few feet of him. “If you won’t do it for your country, sir, don’t you owe it to your daughter to see that the man responsible for her mother’s death is put behind bars?”

He stopped, but didn’t turn around. His only movement was a slight clenching of his fists.

“Mr. Morgan, sir, I’m here for the duration. We know you’re a private man and we respect that, so I’ve come alone. And again, in regards to your probability for flight—you have lived in fifteen places over the past twenty months—they left me here without a boat.”

“But you have a radio, right? A cell phone?” His whole body clenched, and he still wouldn’t look at her.

“Um, no, sir.”

“Liar. Call yourself a ride. Otherwise, I’ll take you back to the mainland.” He grinned, but the gesture didn’t come close to reaching his eyes. “In these ten-foot swells, should be a fun ride in my skiff.”

Wow.

Gillian hadn’t figured this assignment would be a cakewalk, but never had she expected to encounter this barely human ice cube. Scrambling after him up the well-worn trail, she tried not to think about what amazing shape the guy was in to keep this harrowing pace on such a steep hill.

Her footfalls fell silent along the pine needle strewn path.

A little too silent.

The place gave her the creeps.

Nostrils flaring from the pungent smell of resin, she glanced over her shoulder, telling herself it was just the eerie gloom raising goose bumps on her arms. The forest of shore pine, red alder and towering western red cedars closed in on her, blocking the afternoon’s weakening gray light, reducing the wind’s howl to a gentle shush.

Stepping over a branch that’d fallen onto the trail, hearing the chatter of small stones skipping down the hillside with each misplaced step, returned Gillian to afternoons spent hiking with her brothers. For the most part, lessons in frustration.

Sure, the scenery had been gorgeous, but as overprotective as Caleb, Beau and Adam had been, it was a wonder they hadn’t figured out a way to safely stash her in their backpacks. Ever since their mom had died, when she was just eight, they’d treated her like a china doll, preferring she stay close to the house. Her dad shared that preference.

By the time she’d left for college at eighteen, she’d had enough coddling. Enough questions about her every intended move. Enough—

The slam of Joe’s cabin door jolted Gillian back into the present. The metallic thwack of a lock rammed home steeled her resolve to see this assignment through to a successful completion.

This time around, she was in charge.

Her dad had never been prouder than when all three of his boys graduated with honors from the University of Oregon, then went on to ace U.S. Marshal’s Service exams.

How had he reacted when she’d done the same?

I hope this makes you happy, cupcake. But I think your mother wanted you keeping a fine home. Raising lots of chubby babies.

Gillian swallowed the sentimental knot at the back of her throat.

The only baby she’d be handling was the overgrown variety who’d just locked himself in his cabin.

Steeling her spine, she marched right on up to the covered porch, past a rick of neatly stacked firewood, then banged the heel of her hand on a weather-beaten pine door. “Mr. Morgan, open up. We need to talk.”

From inside came a halfhearted bark—of the canine variety.

Stepping a few feet to her left, Gillian cupped her hands to a large paned window and peered inside.

A friendly eyed yellow Lab made his way to the door, doggy toenails clacking on the sections of hardwood floor not covered by thick rag rugs.

Joe Morgan was sitting in an exhausted-looking gray armchair. The rest of the cabin’s furnishings looked equally weary. The only items in the room offering any cheer were the crystal-framed photos lining the mantel.

She guessed they represented happier times that even accompanied by the glowing fire in the hearth, still weren’t enough to offset the permanent chill in Joe Morgan’s heart.

Remembering the turn of events that had led the man to this point, Gillian exchanged a fraction of her professional detachment for compassion.

Over the years, she’d told her brothers and father so many times that she didn’t need them or any other over-bearing, overly concerned men in her life, that she almost believed it. Then came that one shining summer between her junior and senior years of college when she’d learned that no, she didn’t need a man, but they sure could be fun when they weren’t related!

Gillian fell hard for Kent Hawthorne. He was tall, lean, and golden from hours spent in the summer sun. For those all-too-brief three months, she’d fancied herself in love. She’d wondered if maybe she’d fulfill her mother’s wish for her daughter to one day marry and raise her own family.

Gazing at Kent from the back end of a canoe as they’d drifted down one of the sleepy portions of the North Umpqua, images of the beautiful babies they would share ebbed and flowed like the cool, green water. Maybe they’d have a daughter, then a son. The girl would have her daddy’s dark hair and freckles, while their son would be a honeyed blonde just like her.

They’d go on family outings together, to the zoo and museums, and to leisurely Sunday morning breakfasts at their favorite waterfront café, where all four of them would fight over the best pages of the Oregonian.

Just as easily as those images bloomed, along with autumn’s first killing frost, they’d died.

Kent was a year older than her.

He hadn’t been able to decide whether to apply for graduate school in Oregon, or take a job with a high-paying, high-profile consulting firm out East.

In the end, he’d gone for the job, leaving Gillian behind. She’d retreated back into her beliefs that the whole married-with-2.5-kids routine would never be for her.

Gazing at the images of Joe Morgan’s former life, while she couldn’t possibly understand the enormity of his loss, brought her own days of mourning to the surface.

Losing her mother at a time when she’d needed her most.

Losing Kent, even though, truth be told, she’d probably never had him at all.

Gillian took a deep breath and turned back to the door.

“Sir,” she said, delivering a lighter knock. “Please, give me a few minutes. I realize you’ve already been through so much, but—”

Just as she raised her hand to knock again, the heavy door creaked open.

It’d happened so fast, she needed a second to process that she’d been granted access to the cabin’s warmth. As for any human warmth, judging by the scowl Joe Morgan still wore now that he’d wound his way back to his chair, that she might never see.

There did seem to be at least one friendly member of the family. From the reading she’d done on Joe, Gillian knew the Lab belonged to his daughter. So what was he doing here when Meghan was back in Beverly Hills with her maternal grandparents?

The big dog sniffed Gillian’s feet and knees, then nudged its soft, silky head up under her hand.

“What’s your dog’s name?” she asked.

“Bud. Stay away from him.”

Ignoring Joe’s ridiculously harsh request, Gillian knelt before the dog, turning her face when a big, wet doggy-breath-smelling tongue slicked her cheek.

Eyes narrowed, she recalled from time spent absorbing Joe’s file that the dog wasn’t named Bud, but Barney—after the purple dino.

She shot Joe a look, but let the slip go.

“Aren’t you a sweetie,” she said to the adorable lug. Thank heavens at least one male in the house was friendly!

“I thought you had something to tell me,” Joe said, staring into the dancing fire.

“Look.” Gillian slipped off her jacket and slung it over the back of a lumpy beige-plaid couch. “We can either do this the hard way by being nasty to each other, or the easy way by at least trying to be friends.”

Joe laughed—sort of. “Oh, you kill my wife, then wanna be my friend?”

“Whoa,” Gillian said, hackles raised. “We were all sick over the loss of your wife, but for the record, four damn fine marshals lost their lives in that incident, as well.”

The only indication that he’d even heard her was the twitch in his jaw.

Deciding this whole scene needed lightening up, Gillian reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a Snickers bar. “Here,” she said, crossing the twelve or so feet to Joe’s chair. “I heard that when you were in the safe house, you were real fond of these.”

Gillian offered him the candy.

After accepting it, he looked at her.

He ran his thumb over the smooth brown wrapper. Brought the candy to his nose and deeply inhaled. Was the secret to breaking down his walls as simple as chocolate?

He parked her gift on a side table, then pushed to his feet. “I’m outta here,” he said, brushing past her on his way to the door.

Gillian frowned.

Well, shoot. She pocketed the Snickers while launching a new chase. His loss, her gain. No way was she passing on perfectly good chocolate!

WITH BUD BESIDE HIM, Joe jogged the short distance into the forest, then leaned hard against the trunk of a towering pine.

What’s wrong with me?

Trembling, he bowed his head, raked his fingers through his hair.

Why couldn’t his mouth form the words of blame he so badly needed to speak? Why couldn’t he unleash the wrath that’d lived inside him for so long even he wasn’t sure where the past ended and the present began?

Then again, was any of this real, or was it the final stage of him going all the way mad?

He heard the creak of the door, even this far from the cabin.

“Joe?” the woman called, her voice eerie and echoing through the drizzle. “Please come back inside. It’s cold out here.” There was blessed silence, then the crunch of her footfalls. “We don’t have to talk about the case. Hell, we can talk sports if you want. I grew up with three brothers, so I know every sport from football to skiing.”

Joe winced. Why wouldn’t she go away?

It’d been a long time since he’d carried on polite conversation with anyone besides his in-laws and daughter. With anyone else, he kept to the basics. Since his wife’s death, since her killer’s release, since the relentless surprise attacks on his life that had transformed him into the nomad he was today, Joe had become a stranger even to himself. And the beauty of it was, he didn’t care—at least he hadn’t before she’d shown up.

Something about knowing this marshal was here made him once again accountable. Honor-bound to conform to society’s graces. To offer drinks and food. Shelter and warmth. And he hated that—feeling like he had to do what was expected instead of what he wanted, which was to fling the woman off of his island as if she were of no more consequence than a piece of driftwood marring his shore.

From between the pine boughs, Joe saw Bud saunter to the woman’s side, nudging his nose up under her hand in an attempt to get himself a pat.

Oh, but she did far more than just pat the dog.

She cupped her hand about the silky portion of his head beside his ear and smoothed her fingers across the same place over and over. That was Joe’s favorite spot to rub the dog. The fur there was perfectly smooth, almost downy in its consistency.

The fur was his.

The dog was his.

The island was his.

“If you’d like,” the marshal said, “I could make us something to eat. I make mean scrambled eggs.”

As if cued, his stomach growled. It’d been hours since his last meal.

“Joe,” she said, “I can’t even imagine how hard this must be for you. I mean…” She flopped her hands at her sides. “Here you’ve been, thinking this whole ordeal was over, when yet again it rears its ugly head….”

Over.

Yes.

It was all supposed to be over.

Funny, though, how it didn’t feel over when he wanted to hold his daughter so bad he could scream, but didn’t dare go near her more than once every couple of months for fear of her meeting the same fate as her mother.

No matter the personal cost, Meggie had been through enough. It was his duty, as her dad, to protect her—yet he was the source of the potential danger.

“I don’t blame you for being angry with me,” the woman said, “with all the marshals assigned to your case.”

Damn straight.

“But Joe, the fact of the matter is that we need you. I need you. I hate this guy as much as you do. He killed four of my best friends.” She stepped closer, off the trail and into tall, winter-dulled weeds.

A sudden breeze whipped strands of her hair in her face, making her look softer, prettier, than a female marshal should. And he hated her all over again for that—for looking so vibrant and alive when his wife was—

“I saw your propane fridge, so I’m assuming you have the basics?”

Not knowing—not caring—if she could see him or not, he nodded.

“I’m great at garbage can casseroles, too,” she said. “You know, concoctions made out of the stuff in the fridge that should probably just go in the trash, but I’m too cheap to throw out.”

She’d passed the tumble of moss-covered boulders at the edge of the clearing. He wanted her to be quiet, but at the same time, found himself straining to catch her next words.

How long had it been since he’d heard anyone’s voice, let alone a woman’s?

“French toast is another of my specialties, but I’m guessing you probably don’t have any syrup.”

Confused not by her question, but his need to answer, he said, “No. No syrup.”

“That’s okay,” she said. “Just so happens, I brought my own. We had no idea how you were set for supplies, and since I eat like a lumberjack, I brought plenty of everything.”

“Where is it? Your stuff?” he asked, surprising himself with the question.

“Down at the dock. I figured my being here would be enough of a jolt to your system without you catching sight of all of my junk, too.”

He nodded, and tucked his hands in his jeans pockets. “Is that where your radio is?” he asked. “At the dock?”

“I already told you, I don’t—”

“And I already told you—you’re lying.”

She flinched before forcing a smile. “Now, Joe, is that any way to treat a guest who just offered to share her syrup?”

“You’re not a guest,” he said, tired of her trying to woo him into conversation.

It’d almost worked, too.

Almost.

“Come on,” he said, leaving his shelter to meet her halfway through the field. “We’ll radio whoever sent you, and tell them you’re ready to go home.”

Bud bounded toward him.

She squared her shoulders and, as she had down at the beach, stubbornly raised her chin. “You just don’t get it, do you? For the next two weeks, this is my home.”

Chapter Two

In waning daylight and sheets of rain, Gillian pitched her government-issue tent smack-dab in front of Joe’s cabin.

She’d hoped he’d take pity on her and let her camp on his couch, but seeing how he hadn’t helped her lug so much as one measly can of beans up that rotten hill of his, she didn’t figure he’d cave on letting her back inside. At least his patch of grass was more bearable than those creepy woods.

She felt him watching her through the window, and sure enough, when she spun around to send him a jaunty wave and bright smile, acting as if she was having the most fabulous time of her life, he ducked behind the drapes.

Hard to believe she’d actually begged her boss, William Benton, for this assignment, which he’d begrudgingly, ironically, given her mostly because she was a she.

William and the other guys around the L.A. office figured because of her gender, Joe Morgan would cut her some slack. Right.

And just think, after having all this fun with tent stakes, she’d get to dig herself a latrine. Oh boy.

She fished a scrunchy from her backpack, securing her dripping hair in a messy ponytail, then got back to work raising her shelter.

She’d always wanted to go camping as a kid, but her brothers had never let her. Part of Kent’s charm had been that he loved all things outdoors, meaning she’d gotten to camp and hike to her heart’s content. What her brothers and father didn’t know was that while she was on those camping trips, she’d also learned to love rock climbing and white-water kayaking!

Two adrenaline rushes she’d never gotten while working the mind-numbing desk job of organizing the statewide California Court Security Officer Program, which she knew was important, but hardly the stuff of cutting-edge thrills. This assignment might be annoying, but it sure beat the heck out of sitting behind her desk.

Tent assembled, Gillian glanced back over her shoulder to see Joe darting behind bedraggled beige drapes yet again.

Bud licked the window.

Gillian smiled.

The cabin door opened and out bounded the dog, licking and wriggling his way into the tent, then promptly collapsing on the sleeping bag she’d just grabbed off the porch to toss inside.

“Why are you doing this?” Joe shouted over the rain.

“What?”

“Oh, come on. Pitching a tent in this weather? Are you trying to make some kind of point?”

“Only that I’m not leaving until it’s time to escort you to the trial.”

“What if I told you I’d make my own arrangements to get to the trial if only you’d leave?”

“Sorry,” she said with another bright smile. “But like I told you, I don’t have a radio we could use to tell anyone about a change in plans.”

“You and I both know that’s a crock,” he said, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“Look,” she said, “this bickering is accomplishing nothing more than wasting what little remains of my daylight. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to set up a security perimeter, then grab a bite to eat.”

Lips pressed tight, Joe stared at her, shook his head, then closed the cabin door.

Gillian turned to the dog. “I take it you’re staying for dinner?”

Bud-Barney thumped his tail against the tent wall.

JOE YANKED THE LIVING ROOM curtains shut with such force, the old rod holding them shuddered.

She wanted to play games? Fine. He’d let her.

She had a radio stashed somewhere, and they both knew it. If she wanted to spend the next two weeks playing Girl Scout in the rain, who was he to stop her?

Who was he? he thought, storming across the room.

The owner of this freakin’ island, that’s who.

By God, he had a right to his privacy.

He looked up from his rage to catch a glint of light from the kitchen reflecting off the framed photos lining the fireplace mantel.

Sighing, hastily turning away, Joe swallowed bile-tainted shame.

He had a right to privacy just like Willow had a right to justice. Like Meggie had a right to live a normal life, as opposed to being surrounded by bodyguards 24-7.

What if this time, that murdering low life stayed behind bars? Didn’t Joe owe it to the memory of his wife and the future of their daughter to at least cooperate with the woman trying to right the wrong of Willow’s death?

He leaned both elbows against the wood plank mantel, landing his gaze on the photo not five inches from his face.

Willow with Meggie.

Sunset on Greystone Beach.

His little girl had fallen asleep in her mother’s arms after the three of them had been on a long walk. At the time Joe snapped the picture, he’d found the sight of mother and child enchanting. He still did.

Gazing at the image of them, he found it didn’t seem real that Willow was gone. The very idea was a bad dream. As if the reason he hadn’t seen her in so long was that he’d been away on extended business.

Business. Had it been a drug lord who’d killed his wife, or in essence was it Joe’s own fault? If he hadn’t been working that Sunday morning…

Bile again rose in his throat.

How many times was he going to ask himself the same unanswerable questions?

The past was gone, but the future…

He dreamed of one day having this nightmare behind him. Of bringing Meggie here to see the island. The sea cave with its hundreds of starfish lining the rocks at low tide. The pine forest with its tumbling boulders and moss and ferns. She’d love it here—his girl.

But what about the new girl in his life? Was she loving it here? Roughing it in the rain?

Joe groaned. If only he knew what to do.

Oh sure, the proper thing would be to invite the woman inside, share a meal, then listen while she briefed him on the upcoming trial. But the truth of the matter was that the past few years had turned him into a head case.

He didn’t used to be like this.

Indecisive.

Standoffish.

Downright rude.

He used to be normal—at least by society’s definition. He’d been a successful entrepreneur, having made a fortune for himself and his investors in the import game. He’d owned a fancy house, a Jag, a Mercedes and a Hummer, even a vacation home in Cabo. So why, when he’d so diligently followed the rules of success, had tragedy stolen everything he’d loved?

As afternoon faded to night, the question refused to leave his head.

Joe tried passing time without thinking of either the past or his future. But for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what he’d ever done before the nosy female marshal arrived. He’d walked the island of course, but now, to get out of the cabin, he’d have to stroll past her tent.

What if when he was passing, she started to talk?

Even worse, what if like earlier, he couldn’t stop himself from wanting to listen?

Ditching the idea of taking a stroll, he went to the small galley kitchen to scrounge up a meal.

Did he have a taste for something simple? Soup? Or was he craving a more substantial meal? Jarred spaghetti? Canned ham?

What was she having? Those scrambled eggs of hers?

French toast swimming in warm, buttery syrup?

The last time he’d eaten French toast he’d been on vacation in Maui with Willow and her parents. Willow had been six months pregnant, and her belly had been a constant source of fascination. He’d loved rubbing it, kissing it, feeding it and the growing girl tucked safely inside.

Needing to shut out the acute pain that usually followed particularly pleasant memories, Joe yanked open the nearest cabinet door.

In a messy parade along the shelves were canned, boxed and dry goods. Soups, chili, pork and beans, macaroni and cheese, pasta in a couple of shapes and sizes.

Finally figuring he was making too big a deal out of what should have been nothing more than a routine chore, he reached for a can of chicken noodle soup and a roll of stale crackers.

After eating his fill, Joe reflexively set the bowl on the floor for Bud to finish, only the dog wasn’t there.

Was he still with their supposed protector?

Anger flashed through him. Of all the places Joe had run, this island was the one where he felt most safe. He didn’t need or want her here.

He slipped on the hiking boots he kept by the door, and marched outside. A sliver of yellow moon peeked through a break in the fog. The rain had stopped and the wind had lessened, yet the damp air somehow felt wetter in his lungs than it had before.

Folding his arms across his chest, Joe gazed out at the restless sea, refusing to even glance in the tent’s direction.

He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Bud! Come here, boy!”

About twenty yards into the dark, Bud barked, then scurried into the woods, hot on the trail of some small rodent. Ordinarily, Joe gave him the run of the island, but nothing about this night was ordinary and he didn’t like the idea of his dog wandering off. He wanted Bud close, safe.

Just in case.

Of what? He didn’t know. Just in case. For now, that was reason enough.

“Yo, Bud!” Joe’s cry fell flat against the fog. “Bud! Come on, boy, get back here!”

The dog barked, but judging from the sound, he’d traveled a good distance in the short time between calls.

“Damn dog,” Joe mumbled, stepping off the porch, and—

Whoop! Whoop! Whoop!

He winced, brought his hands to his ears, blocking the electronic racket.

The annoyance was turned off, only to be followed by the even more grating sound of a tent zipper opening, then a sleepy, “Hmm…looks like I caught something.” Gillian grinned at him.

Joe groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding. You put a perimeter alarm around my cabin?”

She shrugged, ran her fingers through sleep-tousled hair. She’d changed from her jeans, navy T-shirt and jacket into an all black number hugging her curves like porn star long johns. Swallowing hard, Joe looked away.

The woman was a damn nuisance.

“Was there anything in particular you needed?” she asked, all wide-eyed innocence.

“My dog. Seen him?”

“Up to about an hour ago, he was sleeping next to me. I heard rustling outside the tent, got up to check it out, then the next thing I knew, Bud took off, bouncing like a bunny through the weeds.”

During the last part of her explanation, she’d done a little hop that—no. No, the below the belt movement hadn’t happened. Even if it had, he could ignore it. He’d been on his own for years.

He was a man.

She was a woman.

It wasn’t attraction, but an animalistic urge. An urge he’d damn well fight, out of respect for Willow and Meggie.

Damn this woman and his dog.

If this marshal hadn’t shown up—Joe still childishly refused to even think her name—if the dog hadn’t run off, his mind could have been mercifully blank after having spent the day pressing himself to the edge of his physical endurance.

As it was, after feeling trapped in the cabin all afternoon, he felt edgy, restless, like he’d be up all night searching for sleep that would never come.

Bud barked again.

Though the fog made distance hard to judge, Joe knew the mutt was on one hell of a romp. Probably he’d reached the far side of the bluff and still hadn’t caught whatever he was chasing.

Turning back to the yellow light spilling from the cabin, Joe washed his face with his hands and sighed.

What the hell. One of them might as well get what their heart desired. For Bud, the object of his desire was a rabbit or mouse. For Joe, it was a second chance.

One he knew would never come.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Just dandy.”

“Wanna hang out? Talk about it?”

“By it, I’m assuming you mean my wife and kid?”

“Look, Joe,” she said, “I’m not the enemy, I’m your friend. I’m here to help.”

“You wanna help?” he said, hating the low menace to his voice, but finding himself incapable of changing it.

She eagerly nodded.

“Then zip yourself back into that tent and don’t come out for the next two weeks.”

“COLDER THAN A WITCH’S titty out here,” Deputy U.S. Marshal Neil Kavorski said to his partner on the boat. He shrugged deeper into his coat, craving strong black coffee, but knowing with this choppy water he didn’t stand a chance of keeping it in a mug long enough to drink.

“You say something?” his kid partner asked, lifting his iPod headphone.

Kavorski shook his head.

The kid went back to using two plastic knives as drumsticks against the cabin cruiser’s dash.

“This is BS,” Kavorski mumbled, reaching for the binoculars. He held them up to his eyes, but in the fog, there was nothing to see.

He wondered if the other team, on the island’s south side, was having better luck. Probably not, but then what did it even matter?

He chuckled.

It wasn’t like he didn’t already know the outcome of this little party.

“Think I’m going to try for some shut-eye,” he said to the kid.

“Huh?” Brimmer tossed down his knives to lift both earpieces. Tinny bass leached through.

“I’ll be down below. Taking a nap.”

“Aye-aye, Skipper.”

“Knock that crap off,” Kavorski said. “I know I’ve put on a few pounds, but it’s because of the medication.”

“Relax, would you?” The kid grinned, reached for a bag of Cheetos. “That was a compliment. The skipper had his act together. Everyone knows Ginger was all into him.”

Keeping a white-knuckled grip on the steep stair rails, Kavorski snorted. “You ever think about anything but women?”

“When I’m not thinking about the job. Which reminds me—you catch that look Logue gave me right before we dropped her off? She wants me bad.”

“On that note,” Kavorski said with another snort, “wake me when she makes her first move.”

“Oh, sure. It’ll be two weeks before we even see her again.”

“Exactly. Meaning come get me when this gig is over.”

“JOE, HON, DID YOU already pack Meggie’s toothbrush?”

“Um hmm,” he murmured, tucking his arms about Willow’s waist. Burying his face in her sweet-smelling hair.

She smelled of…of—dammit, he couldn’t remember.

Why?

Why couldn’t he remember such a simple, basic thing as his own wife’s smell?

An insistent knock sounded on the cabin door.

Hands rubbing his eyes, Joe was slow to wake, even slower to realize who would be banging on his door in the middle of the night.

“Joe!” More banging. “Open up, I think Bud’s hurt!”

Heart pounding, mouth dry, Joe opened the door to see the marshal covered in mud, her hair wild and tangled with pine needles. “I heard him yelp not long after you went back inside, but with all the fog and everything—” She hunched over, bracing her palms on her thighs. “Sorry. Thought I could get him myself, but—”

Joe grabbed for his boots, then a flashlight, heading for the door.

“You’ll need a coat, too,” she said. “It’s chilly.”

“I’ll be fine.” He brushed past her. “You turn off your babysitting toys?”

She fixed him with a hard stare. “Cut me some slack, would you? I’m just doing my job. And yes—all my perimeter alarms are for the moment turned off.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” She edged in front of him, holding out her own light. “Here, let me lead. It’s been awhile since I heard him, but I remember his general direction.”

Joe gave her a gentle shove. “I can handle this on my own.”

“No way. Not only am I already attached to that adorable, furry mutt, but if anything happens to you, my job’s on the line.”

He rolled his eyes. “Like anything’s going to happen to me. Besides, with all the rain we’ve had, it’s too slick out there for a woman. I don’t need you getting hurt, too.”

Gillian’s blood boiled.

How many times had her brothers pulled this stunt?

You’re just a girl. You’re not strong enough. You’ll hurt yourself.

“Get this straight.” Fists clenched at her sides, Gillian slowly raised her chin. “Until you appear at that trial, Joe Morgan, you’re my responsibility.”

“And you,” he said, stepping into her personal space, “get this straight. I don’t want or need your help looking for my dog. If I should happen upon any bad guys hiding behind a rock, then by all means, feel free to jump out, guns blazin’. But unless that happens, leave me alone.”

“No, sir…” She wasn’t backing down, not one inch. “I will not leave you alone.”

Lips tight, he stared at her before taking his coat from the peg beside the door—not because she’d told him to, but because if Bud was hurt, Joe might need it to keep him warm. “If you insist on coming—keep up.”

Chapter Three

Without turning to see what her reaction to his harsh words would be, Joe stepped outside, pulling the door shut with a thud behind him.

Five long, golden rectangles of lantern light fell from the cabin’s windows to weed-choked ground. Damp, still air that smelled of wood smoke and pine flared his nostrils. Beyond the glow surrounding the house, the woods stood dark, like an impenetrable row of thugs itching for a good fight.

They were in luck, he decided, raising the collar on his leather coat. His fists were already clenched.

“Bud!” he shouted.

Nothing.

No response other than a distant, rhythmic lapping of waves against the shore, at least until the cabin door opened, and his self-appointed bodyguard rustled through tall weeds in his direction.

“Damn dog,” Joe muttered, flicking off his light. “Should’ve left you in L.A. Willow’s parents would’ve treated you like a canine king.”

Bit by bit, Joe’s eyes adjusted to the gray-green blanket of night as by rote he headed down the path that ran beneath the cliffs to the small meadow where Bud could usually be found.

Joe’s footsteps fell heavily as he expelled his breaths in white clouds. The slender moon now hung high, giving off just enough light through the fog to create garish shadows that blocked his way.

“Bud!” He cupped his hands to his mouth. “Bud! Come on, boy. Let’s go home.”

Still no response.

Not a yelp, yip or whimper—out of the dog, or the woman tight on his heels.

Traveled by foot, the roughly five square mile island provided plenty of areas to get lost—especially at night. And for a citified mutt who spent most of his time lounging in front of the fire, Bud had roamed too far from the cabin.

Fighting a rush of panic, Joe quickened his pace, hopping over a gurgling stream that shone silver in the faint moonlight.

Just as he came upon the meadow where Bud often fled to chase butterflies, an owl hooted, its lonely voice only accentuating the silence.

Where was the stupid pooch?

Joe couldn’t lose that dog. He couldn’t. Bud represented so much more than a mere companion. He was Joe’s link to his old life. He’d been Meggie’s tearful gift to him the night Joe had made his goodbyes. “You take ’im, Daddy. Barney’ll protect you from the bad guys.”

As if that wasn’t reason enough to save the dog, there was another one, even more pressing. In light of what had happened earlier that evening with the marshal, the dog was now, in a bizarre way, serving as a chaperone—not against Joe’s actions, but his thoughts.

Standing close to her back, at the cabin, he’d been acutely aware of not just her vulnerable size, but her barely there perfume evoking the sweetness of candy and sex. She’d awakened his protective streak. Made him squash the urge to finger-comb pine needles from her hair.

“Yo, Bud!” Joe shouted. “Come on, boy!”

When there was still no response, he kept walking, hunching his shoulders against the cold, stumbling over exposed roots and brambles as he tried making sense of the night that was every bit as cloistering as his mixed-up emotions.

Nearing a bluff dotted with small holes that led to sea caves below, Joe remembered how much the dog liked to bark at the occasional sea lion hanging out on the rocks. They’d walked there together at low tide.

At high tide, the caves were a death trap.

To ward off a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature, Joe cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted, “Bud! Answer me! Where are you, you stupid mutt?”

At first, he heard nothing but the crack of waves breaking against an offshore bank of rocks, but then he barely made out what sounded like a whine.

“Barn? That you?”

“Oh no,” said a feminine voice from behind him. “Is he hurt?”

“Go away,” Joe said. He was scared, and angered by her intrusion.

By the fact that she might smell his fear.

His vulnerability.

Joe heard the whine again, off to his left. Judging by the muted, echoing tone, the dog had fallen. Was the friend his daughter had named Barney, the constant companion Joe had renamed the generic Bud, because he couldn’t bear thinking of Meggie every time he muttered the dog’s name, lying there hurt? Had he twisted or broken a leg? Crushed a rib? Was he slowly bleeding to death?

Joe took off at a dead run down the snaking path leading to the beach below. Even in full daylight, the route he followed was treacherous. At night, it was a natural minefield.

Rocks loosened beneath Joe’s awkward steps, clacking down the hillside. Adrenaline rushed through him.

“Joe!” the marshal cried. “Be careful! You can’t help him if you’re hurt!”

At the base of the cliff, Joe ran parallel to the shore, sloshing through frigid tidal pools a foot deep or more.

“Bud!” he hollered, approaching the cave. His voice echoed in the eerie stillness. A fog bank hugged the shore, dulling the lap of the surf.

The whine came again, close, but still muffled.

Scrambling into the mouth of the cave, Joe flicked on his flashlight, hollered the dog’s name again, then finally saw his glowing eyes. Just as he’d suspected, Bud had fallen into a crevice at the back of the cave. Even from this distance, Joe saw that he wouldn’t be able to reach the narrow space where the dog was lodged.

The marshal sloshed through shallow water behind him.

“Damn,” he mumbled. The tide was rising, and judging by the algae-and anemone-covered cavern walls, the entire area would soon be underwater.

If he didn’t figure out a solution—quick—the dog would die.

“Here, take my light,” she said, tucking it in his jacket pocket. “It’ll be a tight squeeze, but I’m pretty sure I can get back there.”

“Go away,” Joe ordered, already heading for Bud. He wasn’t sure how, but no matter what, he would find a way to save his dog.

“Come on, don’t be like this,” she murmured, tugging on his jacket sleeve with one of her small, cold hands.

He wanted to handle this on his own. Wanted to tell her to stay away—for good.

Unfortunately, his heart knew better. The sad fact of the matter was, he couldn’t handle this alone. The space was too small, his body too big.

He took a deep breath before aiming the flashlight’s beam deeper into the cave. “Follow me. It’s slick.”

She did follow him, without complaint, without concern for her own safety.

He gripped her firmly by her forearm, helping her over slimy rocks where brutally cold water already swirled. The mammoth cavern ate the ineffectual beam of light. Incoming sea slapped the rocks.

“Bud!” he called.

No answer.

“He’ll be all right,” she said.

“You can’t know that.”

“No, but I want to believe it, and sometimes that makes all the difference.”

That was just the kind of Pollyanna crap he’d have expected from someone like her.

He knew firsthand that sometimes, no matter how hard a person hoped for certain events to happen, people and dogs don’t return from the dead. He held the light high, searching again for the red glow of his pet’s eyes.

“There,” she said, taking hold of the situation by splashing through the water to the rear of the cave, then scrambling over more algae-covered rocks. “Shine the light this way,” she cried. “I’ve nearly reached him.”

Joe did as he was told.

“Hey, Bud,” she softly crooned. “Remember me? Your new roomie?”

The dog let out a scratchy whimper.

“How is he?” Joe stood frozen to the spot. “Can you get him?”

“Oh…oh, God.”

“What? What does that mean?” Though he asked the question, Joe didn’t want the answer. Sure, the dog might be alive now, but that could be a temporary thing.

“There’s…blood. Everywhere. And his right front leg, from the way he’s got it positioned, I…I hope it’s not broken.”

The dog was going to die.

Cold misery washed through Joe, replacing the blood in his veins with ice. Hadn’t he already been through enough?

“Come on, Bud,” the marshal said, her voice sounding faraway and gentle, so gentle. “I know it hurts, but you’ve got to let me get you out of there. That’s it,” she crooned. “Good boy. Oh, you’re gonna kiss me now, are you? Thank you. A girl can never have too many kisses.”

Listen to her, rambling on. Give it up, lady, the dog’s a goner.

“Great job.” Despite his internal warning, she persisted in comforting the dog. “I knew you could do it. Oh, thank you, more kisses, huh? You’re a sweetie pie, aren’t you? What a good boy. That’s it, just a little farther.”

Why was she doing this? Teasing him by making him believe the mutt had even a chance at being all right?

As if speaking to a child, she’d lowered her voice to a hypnotic, deceptively seductive tone. Over and over she crooned sweet nothings to the dog, assuring him that he would be fine because she had come to save him. How long had it been since Joe had heard a woman speak like that?

How long had it been since he’d wanted to?

Hot tears sliced the cold in his cheeks, dredging gullies in his fear.

Why couldn’t he be anywhere but this stupid cave? In here, the seduction of her strength, her compassion, echoed off the walls and the rocks and the water, filling a small corner of his mind and spirit with the crazy notion that maybe she was right. Maybe everything would be okay. Maybe her words didn’t only apply to the dog, but to himself.

“Joe,” she cried, “I’ve got him. I just need your help to pull both of us out.”

No. She no more had his dog than he had his sanity.

“Joe, please. Help. The water’s rising.”

He swallowed hard, willed his legs to move, promised that if she helped see Bud through to safety, he’d cut her some slack.

She’d wedged herself into the crevice, and he set the flashlight on a protruding rock while settling his hands about her hips. While he pulled, she cradled his dog. Bud’s blood was smeared on her face and in great dark splotches across her coat. Yet for all the gruesomeness of that image, it contrasted sharply with the brilliance of her smile.

“Whew, thanks,” she said. “It was getting a little close in there.”

He helped her perch on one of the rocks, thinking the dog seemed ridiculously large in her arms.

“You’re smiling,” he said, more to himself than her.

“Well, yeah. Bud’s pretty banged up, but I don’t think that leg’s broken, after all. The bleeding was coming from this impressive gash.” She parted the fur on the dog’s left front leg to show him. A clean cut about five inches long looked crusty with blood. Tangled and matted into the dog’s fur were bits of dried algae, leaves and twigs. “I brought a first aid kit. When we get back to the cabin, I’ll fix this up. Maybe numb it, then stitch it a couple times. With rest, he should be right as rain.”

Her message sounded too good to be true.

“How do you know something’s not broken?” he said. “Or bleeding internally? And how would you know how to give a dog stitches?”

Settling her chin companionably atop Bud’s head, she cocked her own head and grinned.

The angelic sight took Joe’s breath away.

Mussed as she was by the events of the long night, she still looked beautiful.

Wholesome.

Alive. So very alive.

In the dim light, her eyes sparkled. Strands of tousled blond hair clung to her cheeks. “What do you mean, how do I know?”

It took a second to get past his unexpected appraisal of her appearance and remember what their conversation had been about. “The stitches. How would you know how to give the dog stitches? How do you know he doesn’t have more serious injuries?”

A cloud passed over her features and he wished he could take back the words. Had he always been such a grouch?

“Give me some credit. As for the stitches, I have had a little first aid training, you know. As for how I know Bud’s not more seriously injured…” She shrugged. “I don’t know how I know. I just do. Something about his eyes. It’s a gut feel kind of thing.”

And judging by the sincerity in her face, she was telling the truth. She truly didn’t know, and he liked that.

Earlier, Joe had vowed that if she helped rescue Bud he would in turn cut her some slack. She’d fulfilled her half of the bargain, so why wasn’t at least part of his quivery sense of relief caused by gratitude for her good work? Why did he still feel so empty inside and cold?

“Hello? Earth to Joe.” She waved her slender, bloodstained hand in front of his face. “Just because we’ve got the dog doesn’t mean we’re out of trouble. Have you seen the rising tide?”

He glanced over his shoulder.

Dark, churning sea choked the cave’s mouth. There was no telling if the inky black was inches or feet deep. With the strong currents and frigid water temperature, it’d be crazy to attempt to make it out that night.

“Come on,” he said, gently scooping Bud from Gillian’s cradled arms. Gillian. At the very least, he owed her the simple courtesy of calling her by name.

In the flashlight’s dimming glow, fear came alive in her eyes. “We’re not going to swim through that, are we?”

“No,” he said, already on the move. Leading more by memory than actual sight, he stepped onto the nearest boulder, praying he wouldn’t slip on the slick seaweed. He landed with a jolt, and the dog in his arms whimpered. “Sorry, boy. We’ll be there soon.”

“Be where?” she inquired from behind him, shining the light over his shoulder.

He shouted above the crack of waves against rock. “We’re going back to where you found Bud. You can push Bud through the hole he fell through, then climb up yourself.” He paused to gauge her reaction to his plan, but she’d stopped.

“What about you?” she asked.

“What about me?”

“You’ll never fit through that hole. How are you getting out?”

“I’m not.”

“What are you saying?”

“Nothing.”

“Joe…” She held out her hands, a feeble attempt to show him the danger of their surroundings. Her one word said it all.

To stay in the cave would be deadly.

He knew it.

She knew it.

“Go on,” he said. “I know what I’m doing. I’ll be all right.”

“The hell you will.”

A cold wave slapped Joe’s right foot and the numbing water seeped through his boot, wetting his thick wool sock, slithering like an icy vine around his ankle.

“Gillian,” Joe said. “You saved my dog and I’m grateful, but if you don’t get the both of you out of here soon, you’ll be trapped. By getting myself mixed up in that whole drug case thing, I’ve already taken more lives than I care to admit, and I damn sure won’t be held accountable for yours now, as well.”

“Your testimony saved lives. Hundreds. Maybe thousands.” Dammit if she didn’t raise her chin. “I won’t leave you.”

He looked away from her determined stare. Sighed.

“Up there,” she said, in a voice tinged with panic and cold, waving the ever-weakening flashlight toward the rear of the cave. “That looks like a waterline against the rock. I don’t think the waves break beyond that point.”

Bud whimpered.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Joe said. “If you take the dog back to the cabin and get him all bandaged and warmed by the fire, then I promise to spend the night in that hole.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“You don’t believe me? Geez, lady, what gives you the impression I’d want to end it all in a crappy place like this?”

“The truth?” she said, water now swirling about her knees.

“Is there anything else?”

She aimed the light directly into his eyes. “Back there, just a minute ago, when you first told me to leave you here, you were smiling. Sure, it was a faint smile, but a smile nonetheless.” She made a leap of faith, jumping across a swirling froth of water and onto the same rock he shared with the dog. “Just a minute ago, Joe Morgan, you offered to save my life. All I’m trying to do is return the favor.”

He laughed. “You ever think to ask why I was smiling, instead of jumping to your own wrong conclusions?”

“Okay,” she asked. “Why?”

“Because just like I already told you, I feel directly responsible for my wife’s death, and though I couldn’t save her, I will, by God, save you.”

“But I’m already saving you.”

Bud whined.

“Great,” Joe said, taking the lead. “Now that we’ve got that sorted out, how about we launch a joint mission in saving each other?”

Chapter Four

Gillian’s only reply was a grunt as she steadied herself against Joe’s right shoulder before stepping past him and onto the next rock.

“Hurry,” she said a few seconds later, already a good ten feet deeper into the cave.

Shooting her an actual grin, he shook his head. “I’d forgotten how bossy women can be.”

“I’m not bossy, just right. This is no time to dillydally.”

“Do I seriously look like the type to dilly or dally?”

“Why, Mr. Morgan,” she teased. “Was that a joke?”

Passing her, he scowled, then pointed to a deep, high crevice. “Shine the light over there.”

She did.

“Think we’ll all fit?”

“Sure.”

A few minutes later, Gillian landed with a thunk on soft sand. The rock walls surrounding her felt cool and dry. A good sign, she figured, in light of the fact that everything else she’d touched that night had been slimy.

Joe knelt to settle the dog beside her, then he, too, found a seat in the sand before shutting off the flashlight.

Never having been a big fan of the dark, Gillian knew this tight, dank space should’ve thoroughly creeped her out. But somehow, with Joe and Bud beside her, it didn’t seem all that bad. More like an adventure than real danger.

And while, before she had felt like a big screwup on her first time in the field, down in this cave Joe had probably never been safer from the bad guys!

She shivered.

“Cold?” he asked.

“A little.” But she suspected her tremors had more to do with the fact that she’d come uncomfortably close to blowing her first assignment than anything to do with the cave’s chill. With any luck, her fellow marshals would be so busy playing cards, they wouldn’t notice she hadn’t called in.

Joe said, “Bud’s probably all right if you want to take my coat from him.”

“Nah. He needs it more than me. Besides, we’re squeezed in here so tight, it’d be more trouble than it’s worth just trying to get it on.”

She thought she might’ve felt Joe shrug before settling the dog across their laps. By which point they were wedged so close at their shoulders, hips and legs that damp heat fogged between them. Joe’s warmth came as a stark contrast to the sharp rock digging into Gillian’s other shoulder.

As the water in the cave rose, its pounding smacks against the rocks lessened into deceptively gentle laps.

Was it coming for them? Or had their dry patch of sand told the truth about keeping them safe?

Bud whimpered.

Gillian instinctively reached down to pet him, only her hand collided with Joe’s.

He jerked his back.

Thank God. Had he felt it, too? A sort of split-second biochemical hum passing between them?

She rubbed Bud’s silky-soft ear, which was much easier than attempting to deal with her sudden uncomfortable awareness of Joe as a man instead of her assignment. Biochemical. That attraction? All science, and nothing else.

No denying Joe was a bona fide hottie.

Which only helped make their current situation all the more uncomfortable. What this awkward mess called for was talk. Lots and lots of talk. From the first day she’d opened Joe’s file, she’d found a question burning to be asked. To some, it might seem insensitive, maybe even flip, but to a man who loved his family as much as Joe Morgan, there was something about his recent actions that didn’t add up.

She cleared her throat, then went for it. “How come you left Meghan with your wife’s parents?”

“What?” Even in the pitch-black cave, Joe’s fury was plain to see. He’d tensed his entire body. His leg and arm, which moments earlier had been pliant, were now unyielding stone.

Ack. The question had been brutal, the answer none of her business. So why couldn’t she now keep from blurting, “Sorry, but it doesn’t make sense. You just leaving her. Seems to me if you wanted to protect her, you’d keep her with you.”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” he said with a deep sigh. “I see her as often as I think it’s safe. I call a lot, too. Yeah, I’d like to be with her more, but seeing how, thanks to everyone’s favorite drug lord, I’m now your basic danger magnet, in my best parental judgment, the only way she’s safe is if I’m gone.”

Under the cover of darkness, Gillian rolled her eyes. “That’s a crock. What if Tsun-Chung kidnaps her or your in-laws, using them as bait to get to you?”

“Drop it, Mary Sunshine. Believe me, the thought’s occurred to me, and it’s not one I like to dwell on.”

“We could protect all of you.”

“Like you did my wife?”

“Odds are, that kind of thing would never happen again.”

“Promise?”

Therein lay the problem.

Of course Gillian couldn’t promise. And though she had faith in herself and in her co-workers to do their very best, she saw Joe’s point. He’d been burned once by the Witness Protection Program. Why would he want to stick his hand back in the fire?

Unable to argue with Joe’s logic, she tried being quiet, but the darkness was oppressive. Complete. Reminded her of that creepy forest they’d marched through on the way from Joe’s cabin. Even though they were surely safe from any thug types, her internal danger meter sprouted a fresh crop of goose bumps on her arms.

“You might feel better if you chat,” she said, itchy to calm her sudden nerves.

“I might feel better? Or you?”

“Okay,” she laughed. “You got me. Never been a big fan of the dark.”

“I am. It’s peaceful.”

“It’s dangerous. Boring.”

“You ever shut up?”

Being constantly around men, Joe’s bark didn’t phase her. “You always this much fun?”

“Fun? You call being crammed into a freezing cave that smells like dead fish, with a half-dead dog, no food or water, and a woman who talks more than she breathes, fun?”

At that, Gillian shook her head. “Have you ever in your whole life looked on the bright side of a situation?”

“Yeah. And then my wife died and nothing in my life has ever been bright again.”

Instantly sobered, Gillian swallowed hard. “Bud’s gonna be okay. That’s bright, isn’t it?”

“Sure. Thanks to you.” She felt him lean forward, heard him sigh. “Sorry to be such rotten company. I really do owe you for helping my pal, here, but…” Joe stopped talking to rub the scruff on the animal’s neck. She knew, not because she could see him, but because her own hand rested on the dog’s head. Her fingers tingled from Joe’s radiated heat. “…it’s just that this is hard for me.”

“What?”

“Small talk. Pretending we have anything even remotely in common.”

“Oh, I’ll bet between us we could come up with something. What’d you think of the last Brad Pitt movie?”

“Didn’t see it.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Black.”

She made a face. Kind of morose, but she supposed apropos, considering where he’d been emotionally.

“Used to be green,” he surprisingly volunteered. “So?

“What?”

“Your favorite color? It’s been awhile since I had a polite conversation, but isn’t that how it goes? I talk, then you talk?”

“Yeah. I was just thinking about your green.”

“What about it?”

“Which one? There are only about a zillion. Kelly green and bamboo. Forest and teal—which is really more of a blue, but—”

“Money green. I used to spend a lot of time worrying about making it. Then, once I had more than I could spend in a lifetime, I worried about keeping it.” He rubbed his chin. “I should’ve spent more time on my wife and kid. Maybe then I wouldn’t have been checking out that new warehouse. I would’ve been home with them, playing a game of Candyland or grilling by the pool.”

“What happened to Willow—it wasn’t your fault.”

“Yeah, it was.”

“We’ll agree to disagree on that. As for me worrying about keeping money…” Gillian laughed. “I’ve never had any. Probably wouldn’t know what to do with it if I did.”

“It’s true, you know. That old saying about money not buying happiness. I always thought it was a lie, but hell, I’ve got millions sitting in an L.A. bank. Fat lot of good it’s doing me.”

“Ever think about going back? You know, back to L.A. to be with Meghan permanently?”

“I thought we weren’t going there.”

“We’re not. Just answer me that one thing.”

“Why?”

“Who knows? Because it’s dark, and I’m cold and…” She wanted to believe her reasons for being there went beyond just doing her job. That maybe once all of this was over, he’d go get his little girl. Gillian knew what it felt like to lose her mother. The last thing she wished for Meghan was for her to lose her father, too. Swallowing the sudden lump in her throat, she said, “You’re right. It’s none of my business. Sorry I asked. I won’t again.”

Intending to keep her word, Gillian turned her attention to food, meaning it was time to wriggle their only snack from her pocket.

“What’re you doing?” Joe asked.

“Cooking supper. Hold out your hand.”

He did, and she placed something cold, hard, and at the same time soft on his palm. “What is it?” he asked.

“Taste.”

He closed his eyes and all but moaned at the incredible sensation of chocolate melting on his tongue. The Snickers she’d brought him. She must’ve taken it from the side table after he’d gone. “Thanks,” he said. “But back at the cabin, I was a jerk about it. You eat it all.”

“No way.”

After they’d taken a few minutes to eat, Joe steeled himself for Gillian to once again bring up the topic of Meghan, but she surprised him by staying quiet.

Odd. He hadn’t expected her to gracefully drop the subject of Meggie any more than he expected the flash of disappointment he felt—almost as if he’d wanted to talk about his daughter. Needed to, only he never gave himself permission. But here, in the dark, beside this slip of a woman…

Never had he been closer to a confessional. Never had he wanted more to confess.

Everything.

His pain. Grief. Anger. Most of all, guilt.

Somewhere along the line, after Willow’s death, after the trial, after saying goodbye to his little girl, he’d stopped believing in the whole concept of good. For him, the word didn’t exist.

Life sucked.

Period.

What else was there to consider?

But that had been before this whole mess with Bud. That had been before he’d almost lost his only tangible link with his wife and child. Now that Gillian had mentioned it, Bud’s still being not only alive, but in reasonably good shape, was a wonderful thing, and dammit, Joe wanted to talk about it.

He looked her way, but found only inky shadows and the warmth of soft feminine curves. Since he couldn’t see her, he imagined her, curled on her side in a comfortable position. Cheek resting on her forearm. All that whiskey-blond hair spilling onto the sand. She’d look inviting. Approachable. Like someone he’d be able to talk to. Not at all like the all-business marshal he knew her to be.

Not even in his single days had he met a woman quite like her. In whatever relationship he’d ever been part of, he’d held the indisputable position of power. It wasn’t that he’d had to have it that way, it was just how it’d been. Willow had sometimes teased him about being king of his castle, and he was, or at least used to be. Yet with just a few carefully worded sentences, this Gillian had knocked him on his ass—figuratively speaking, seeing how he’d already been there.

This morning, if someone had told him he’d actually be sorry a woman no longer wanted to hear his sad story, he’d have laughed them off the island. But then his relationship with Gillian had been odd from the start—if what they shared could even be called a relationship.

Bud groaned. He lifted his head from Joe’s knee, and Joe took the opportunity to stretch.

The dog stood, then circled, landing his butt on Joe and his head on Gillian. For a second, jealousy pricked Joe’s gut. The dog was his, so why was he lounging all over this woman? Worse yet, why did Joe care? Come first light, he’d see about getting her off his island and out of his life.

Sure about that?

For the first time since her arrival, no, Joe wasn’t sure. In the darkness, his sense of smell was heightened. Rising above the scents of the sea was her fruity shampoo. He used whatever generic brand the guy he’d hired to stock the place upon his arrival had provided. It smelled like lye. It was a bad smell. One he didn’t mind because now that Willow was dead, he wasn’t supposed to enjoy any part of his life. Yet even recognizing all of that, he couldn’t stop himself from taking another whiff.

Without knowing it, he’d craved human companionship. Maybe if he could explain to someone about his guilt, it’d somehow make it easier to bear. Unfortunately, judging by her slow, metered breaths, he was too late for any more talk tonight. Little Miss Chit-Chat had drifted off to sleep.

“MORNIN’, SKIPPER.” The kid looked up from the gloppy mess he was making of the last jar of peanut butter.

Kavorski grunted.

“Have a good night’s sleep?”

“I’ve had better rest on a horse than on this boat.” Kavorski eased himself into the dinette’s too narrow booth. Damn sharp table edge made him feel like a gutted fish.

“Want a sandwich?”

“Thanks. Make it a double.”

While the kid took two pieces of white bread from a plastic sack, he asked, “Was Team Two scheduled to be out of range anytime today?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

He slathered peanut butter on the bread. “Just tried reaching them twenty minutes ago. Got zilch. No radio or cell. Thought I’d wait another twenty, then try again.”

Kavorski laughed. “Knowing Wesson and Finch, one’s in the head and the other still sleepin’.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. With all that fog finally out of the way, I was hoping for some decent views of our guy.” The kid handed him his sandwich.

Kavorski snorted. “Yeah, and I know just what view you were hoping for.”

“Ha ha. I already told you, Logue’s off-limits for the next two weeks, but after that…” He whistled.

“Quit your daydreaming and give Team Two another call. Then wake up the princess. She’s past due for calling in.”

“Aye, aye, Skipper.”

GILLIAN OPENED HER EYES to a sight so fantastic she almost believed it a dream.

The tide was out and the cave flooded by brilliant light. Iridescent green anemones clung to the cavern walls. In luminous tidal pools of blue-green water so glassy clear it didn’t look real, lived stars. Purple and green. Striped and mottled. There were tiny darting fish and crabs. Barnacles and clams.

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