Silent Masquerade
Molly Rice

www.millsandboon.co.uk

This book is dedicated to the Schuck family who have been my own and only family for so many years: Charles, Velma, James, Patricia, Faye Simpson, Edward, Juanita and Stan Harris, Dorothy and Ted McDonald, and Elizabeth.

To Elizabeth Harri, who waits for my books with flattering impatience.

And most special thanks to Virginia Beasley Jackson, my friend and sister forever.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Bill Spencer/Hamlin—Was he destined to be on the run for the rest of his life?

Cara Dunlap/Davis—She’s running from demons of her own. Should she be running from Bill Hamlin?

Beth Dunlap—The loneliness of widowhood made her easy prey for a handsome young suitor.

Douglas Harvard—Marriage is his business, romance is his calling card and lonely widows are his clientele.

Gordon Lefebre—How effectively could he do his job if his feelings got in the way?

Harry Wilder—Was he tailing Bill and Cara for his own purposes, or was he a hired gun?

Franco Alvaretti—Mob boss recently imprisoned; revenge was a way of life for him.

Deacon Avery—Alvaretti’s attorney; desperate to reclaim his own life.

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 One

Bill Spencer had known for some time that he wasn’t going to trust his life to the protection of any government agency. He was too familiar with the mechanics of the bureaucratic system to put his faith—his life—in their hands. He knew there were moles in high places, leaks in the system’s plumbing.

But he needed to use the agency to front his escape.

He needed the Organization to think he’d gone into the Witness Protection Program, so they’d be off sniffing in that direction while he made his getaway to parts unknown, covering his tracks with the expertise he’d acquired while working both sides of the fence.

For that reason, there were two sets of papers in his pocket, one given to him by the WPP, the other a set he’d spent many nights crafting himself, not even trusting one of the specialists whose markers he held.

If he’d learned nothing else during the two years he worked with a foot in both camps, he’d learned that there was always the possibility of betrayal when you were dealing with other human beings.

He made another sweep of the room. The least little clue could be magnified by the right intelligence team and used to begin the tracking that would lead them to him.

He was just running his hand between the mattress and the box spring when the knock came at the door.

“We’re ready to go, Spencer,” a male voice said softly.

He looked around the room and nodded, satisfied that it was clean, then picked up his bag and his briefcase. He was ready.

They led him out of the hotel, a man on either side of him, two in the rear, one scouting a few feet in front.

He got into the rear of the limo, again flanked by two of the agents, and did his own survey of the street as the chauffeur looked right and left before pulling out of the drive. There was no sign of anyone from the Organization

No sighting didn’t mean that nobody was out there, it just meant they couldn’t be seen. Keeping his paranoia in place had saved his behind more than once, and he wasn’t about to give it up now. But the fact was, it worked in his favor if they had a man watching him now, someone who’d report back that he’d gone off with the WPP agents. The red herring.

At the airport, he picked up the ticket the agency had reserved in the name Stanley Springer, checked his bag through to Madison and moved purposefully toward the blue concourse. The five men circled him, keeping a watchful distance, but staying close enough to move in if he was targeted.

He nodded distantly at the agent near the water fountain and went into the men’s room. The cubicles were all empty. He chose the one farthest from the door, locked himself inside and opened the briefcase.

When he left the men’s room, he nodded again, but this time there was no recognition in the agent’s eyes. The agent was merely responding politely to a stranger’s passing nod.

He went to the Western Airline counter, picked up a ticket in the name of Sam Spalding, checked the briefcase through to San Francisco, and then left the terminal through the sliding glass doors.

The car, stashed in long-term parking, was covered with dust. He drove to a self-serve car wash and hosed it down. Then, making sure there was nobody lurking around to observe his actions, he got a tool kit out of the trunk and removed the plates, replacing them with another set he’d lifted from a junkyard and kept for just such a purpose.

There was a suitcase in the trunk, as well. He slipped out of the coveralls he’d donned in the men’s room at the airport, took off his suit coat and tie and put on a cardigan sweater from the bag. Last he threw the blond wig, fake mustache, baseball hat and horn-rimmed glasses he’d been wearing into the trunk and slammed it shut.

He was back on the highway seven minutes after he’d pulled into the car wash.

It took him five days to get to his destination, five days in which he barely slept, ate only fast food picked up at drive-through windows and made countless out-of-the-way detours to obscure his route. Outside a small town called Widow’s Peak, located at the top of a hill that looked out over the Atlantic Ocean, he put the car in drive and gave it a shove, watching as it rolled down the hill facing away from the town. The car careened into the gorge below and then, after only a moment, exploded. He waited until he was sure the fire had consumed all but the steel chassis, now charred almost beyond recognition, tossed a duffel bag over his shoulder and proceeded on foot into town, where he caught the Greyhound bus that was just boarding passengers on their way back to the Midwest.

* * *

CARA DUNLAP put the car in gear and rolled out of the driveway without starting the engine. When the car rolled onto the asphalt road, she started the engine and turned in the direction of the highway. Forty minutes to Boston, she figured, and then she’d leave the car and find other transportation. Boston might be a good city to get lost in, but it was too close to home. No, if she was going to do this, she was going to have to do it right. And that meant getting as far from Greensville as possible, and as quickly as possible. Once she got to Boston, she’d have to decide where to go from there.

By morning they’d have discovered she was gone, and found her note. She prayed her mother would let her go, wouldn’t try to find her. But her only hope for avoiding discovery, just in case, was a good head start—and not knowing where she was going herself.

In Boston she left the car on a side street, hailed a cab to the Greyhound station and bought a ticket for the next bus leaving the terminal.

She caught the bus just as the driver had loaded the last passenger and was locking the baggage compartment at the side of the bus.

“No luggage, miss?” he asked.

“Uh-uh,” she said, out of breath from running through the terminal. “Just this.” She held up a gym bag that contained a couple changes of clothing and a few personal items. The bag would fit under her seat or in an overhead compartment.

“Okay. We’re all set to roll, then.”

There were no single vacant seats. Cara sat down next to a man who wore a slouch hat pulled low over his eyes and appeared to be sleeping. She took a couple of deep, calming breaths before closing her own eyes in sheer exhaustion.

San Francisco, a big city, and one far enough away. About as far as you could get from Greensville, Massachusetts, without leaving the country. She’d have to find a job, a place to stay. Could she do that without identification?

She didn’t think she’d need to prove her identity to a landlord, but sooner or later an employer would ask for a social security number.

She wriggled in her seat, uneasily aware that she might have done better to plan ahead, lay some groundwork, before taking off. But then she would have been at greater risk of discovery. She’d watched enough TV, read enough books, to know that too much planning was usually what got people caught. Spur-of-the-moment was best. She had enough cash in her bag to buy a small working wardrobe, pay a couple of month’s rent and keep herself in bologna sandwiches and soft drinks until she had a job.

The man beside her snored softly and then made a little whimpering sound as he twisted slightly in his seat. She opened her eyes and gave him a sideways glance. His hat had fallen forward even more, and his head was now tilted in her direction. She wondered if she should take his hat before it fell off completely. But then she might risk waking him.

She eased over a little, hoping he’d slipped as far to her side as he was going to. She shut her eyes again, willing sleep to give her a few hours without the stress of her thoughts.

She was in a light doze when her neighbor’s head fell with a soft thud against her shoulder. Instantly awake, she craned her head to look down at him without moving her body.

Just as she’d thought, his hat had fallen off, rolling from his lap to the floor. Without it she could see, in the dim light cast from the low-wattage overhead bulb, that he had thick dark hair, a short beard, long black lashes that swept high cheekbones and a soft-looking full mouth that made him appear vulnerable in sleep.

In the small, enclosed space, she detected a hint of aftershave or hair cream, a popular masculine fragrance that had a clean, sharp tang to it. He gave another soft snore, and she noticed that his breath was warm and sweet.

There was comfort in his solid weight, in the feel of his curls just touching her neck; she could pretend that she was not alone, friendless, cast homeless into an unknown future. If he awakened while lying on her shoulder, she could always pretend she had been asleep and wasn’t aware he’d slumped against her.

She closed her eyes, and in moments she, too, was sleeping.

* * *

THEY AWAKENED simultaneously. Sunlight streamed in through the bus windows, making Cara blink in astonishment.

The man next to her sat up and frowned. “Sorry,” he muttered. “I have a tendency to do that on buses.” He felt around and then leaned forward to rescue his hat.

“S’okay,” Cara mumbled, looking away in embarrassment now that broad daylight exposed them so ruthlessly to one another.

He was terribly handsome, with dark blue eyes and a short growth of beard, and he was older, she realized, than he’d appeared while sleeping. But something about him seemed out of sync. It dawned on her that he didn’t seem the type to ride the bus. For some reason, he struck her as more of an executive type than a working stiff, despite his blue jeans and brown leather jacket.

She glanced down at his hands, which were busily trying to reshape the felt hat, and saw that they were long and well shaped, with blunt, clean fingernails. If he’s a blue-collar worker, he does his work with gloves on, she thought.

Cara peered past him to the scenery beyond the window. Farmland. But there were a lot of billboards whizzing by, an indication that they were nearing a town. She wondered what time it was, how far they were from their final destination.

Her neighbor started to rise. “Excuse me,” he said. “I need to stretch my legs.”

Cara stood up to let him into the aisle. She could see from his height that his legs must indeed have been cramped. She was tall for a woman, five foot eight, and he was about six inches taller.

He went back to the rest room, and she smiled to herself, thinking he’d used the euphemism to spare her embarrassment. She leaned across his seat to see out the window better, and his scent assailed her senses once again. She saw a sign that boasted a full-service rest stop and felt the bus slow down as it prepared to turn onto a wide blacktop drive.

Her seatmate returned just as she was rising to join the other passengers for the rest stop. “I guess we’re stopping for breakfast,” she said.

“Looks that way.” He stood back to let her get out and precede him off the bus.

In the restaurant, Cara went straight to the ladies’ room, thankful to find there wasn’t a long line in front of the cubicles. She washed up as best she could with the public amenities and ran a small purse-size brush through her red-gold hair. Her curls had begun to tangle from sleeping on the bus, and it took her a few minutes to get the brush through the mess. She retucked her white linen blouse into her khaki skirt and straightened her collar.

When she returned to the café area, she saw her busmate sitting alone in a booth near the windows with a plate of food already in front of him. On impulse, she decided to join him.

“Do you mind if I sit with you?” she asked, standing beside the booth.

He gestured to the other bench. “I guess it’s the least I can do, after using your shoulder for a pillow all night.”

He barely glanced at Cara as she ordered coffee and toast from the waitress, but when they were alone, he said, “I don’t remember you being on the bus when I fell asleep.”

She shook her head, smiling. “You were asleep when I got on in Boston.”

He nodded and resumed eating.

“You must have been on the bus quite a while before I got on,” Cara said, making polite small talk.

“Why? What do you mean?” the man demanded.

Cara blinked in surprise. There hadn’t been anything offensive in her remark.

“Oh, look,” the man said, running his hand across his jaw. “I’m sorry I snapped liked that. Sleeping sitting up always makes me a little cranky.”

“That’s all right,” Cara said, “I was just making friendly conversation.” As if to confirm that, she added, “As long as we’re seatmates, we may as well introduce ourselves. I’m Cara D—Davis.”

“Bill Hamlin.” The new name came easily its first time on his lips, but he hadn’t missed the girl’s hesitation over her own last name. Now what could that be all about? She seemed too old to be a runaway, and yet he had a gut feeling that she was on the run. Maybe it takes one to know one, he thought, or maybe it’s a case of thinking everyone’s tarred with the same brush you are.

“Going to San Francisco?”

Bill nodded. “I guess.”

“You guess?” She put her cup back in its saucer and stared at him. “Don’t you know?”

He recovered quickly. “You thought I said `guess’? I said `yes.’”

She nodded, but there was a skeptical gleam in her eyes.

Bill mopped up the last of the yolk on his plate with a piece of biscuit and popped it in his mouth. A whole week of fast food had made him greedy for the taste of something real. It was almost worth the long, uncomfortable bus ride to have a chance to eat something a little closer to homemade at the various stops along the route.

Sated at last, he took a final swig of coffee and then concentrated on the girl, whose attention was now absorbed by her own meager breakfast.

Her hair was a blaze of colorful curls, and he remembered that when he awakened, his first sense had been that he smelled something wonderful. He realized now that it had been her hair. Every time she moved her head, the light, spicy scent wafted toward him. Her hair was her most arresting feature. Her eyes were brown, and she had a dusting of freckles across her nose and cheeks that precluded any chance of her ever being considered glamorous. But her smile revealed fine, even white teeth and a dimple in her right cheek. In a flash of insight, he realized that she was the kind of woman who would become really beautiful in the close-up lens of a camera, or in the eyes of someone who saw her day after day.

She ate slowly, breaking the toast in bite-size pieces with her fingers. He found himself mesmerized by the ritual. When she looked up and saw that he was watching her, a slight blush rose to her cheeks and her eyes lit with humor.

“Have I got butter on my chin?” she asked, smiling.

“I’ve never seen anyone eat toast like that,” he answered.

She laughed. “It lasts longer this way, and makes less of a mess.”

He wondered why she wanted to make it last, but didn’t ask.

When she looked at her check, he saw that she counted out the exact amount of her bill from a little change purse that she held close to her chest.

So, she had limited funds and she was on the run.

Ordinarily, he would have been intrigued by the mystery; it was, after all, his life’s work to solve the puzzles of human behavior. But he was through with all that now and didn’t dare risk any kind of involvement with strangers that might eventually lead his enemies to him.

No, not enemies. Enemy. Just one. One man in the whole world who had the power, even from behind the locked bars of a maximum-security prison, to snuff out his life. As long as Franco Alvaretti was alive, “Bill Hamlin” would be forced to live the half life of those who went underground.

It was war. And the whole world was mined with explosives. One wrong step, and it was all over.

Automatically he raised his hand to feel his beard, reassured when he felt its soft downiness. A couple more days and the beard would be as full and natural-looking as if he’d had one for years.

As they left the café to reboard the bus, Bill took sunglasses from his jacket pocket and put them on.

When he offered her the window seat, telling her he’d had enough of rolling scenery, Cara took the inside seat and thanked him.

Bill read for a while, forcing himself to concentrate on the pages of a book written by an agent he’d once worked with in the Middle East. The joke in the Service was that old agents didn’t die, they went to press. The book was good, unfolding an espionage tale that might well have been taken from the very records Bill himself had once helped compile.

He kept his place in the book with his finger and closed his eyes, his mind drifting back of its own accord.

“We need you back home, Spence. There’s an opening in Alvaretti’s organization, and if you move fast and with the right credentials, we can do what we’ve always wanted—get a man inside to overturn Alvaretti’s operation.”

He’d had the right credentials. Alvaretti had taken him on after only a couple of days of consideration, and he’d became privy to the legitimate books in Alvaretti’s accounting department—but not the books that the FBI, the CIA and the IRS were panting to uncover. That had taken time. He’d had to find a way to get into the man’s good graces before he was trusted with the other side of Alvaretti, Inc.

It had taken eighteen months. During that time he’d been tried by fire more than he cared to remember, once by being forced to stand by with his mouth shut while members of Alvaretti’s goon squad worked a man over until he was nearly dead.

When he was finally allowed into the inner sanctum of the organization’s workings, he’d thought it was merely a matter of photocopying the evidence and getting out. He had never anticipated the end result—that the agency would have to bury him, that from that moment on, Alvaretti wouldn’t rest until he got his revenge.

His superiors had talked about plastic surgery, a faked death, the Witness Protection Program. The WPP seemed the least drastic, in Spence’s mind, and he had determined then not to relinquish control of his life to anyone else. He knew now that the government had deliberately used him in its frenzy to get Alvaretti, and that once he’d done the job he was no longer of any use to them.

I should have realized up front that there was no other way out once I went in, he told himself for the umpteenth time. He ground his teeth and clenched his fists. The worst of it was that he really missed his job; it was work he’d known he wanted to do since he’d been a schoolboy. There was pain in recognizing how much he’d lost. He took a deep breath to push away the ache.

Cara felt movement beside her and drew her attention from the passing scenery to glance sideways at Bill. “Are you all right?” she whispered, seeing the devastation on his face, his rigid body language.

He blinked, forced himself to relax and nodded, a tiny line of sweat beading his forehead. “Yeah. Fine. Don’t worry.”

Cara wasn’t so sure. He looked sick, as if he were about to have a seizure or something, or as if he were experiencing incredible pain. “I’ve got some aspirin in my purse,” she said softly. “Would that help?”

He shook his head and then leaned back against the headrest. “No, thanks. I think I just need to sleep for a while.” He closed his eyes.

Cara turned back to the window but couldn’t get this last image of him out of her mind. It brought to mind news clips of the hostages just released from years of incarceration in the Middle East. But he was none of her business, after all. She’d offered her help, and she’d been refused. She had enough troubles of her own without adding his to her list.

Nevertheless, when they pulled into a bus station for their lunch stop, she suggested they eat their meal together.

He looked hesitant at first, but then shrugged, as if to say “What harm can it do?” For some reason, Cara found that gesture strangely disturbing. It made her feel insignificant; though they were only strangers passing a day and a night together by accident, she felt as if she would have liked to make a better impression on him.

Bill told himself that this interlude for the brief time they were travelers together couldn’t lead to anything dangerous. The girl was good company. She didn’t chatter away, as some travelers did, and yet she was friendly and open.

Well, not entirely open. There was that business about her name. And he’d noticed that whenever they came to a town, she put her hand up along the side of her face that was nearest the window, as if she were afraid someone in one of those towns would recognize her.

In the station coffee shop, Cara ordered a small dinner salad and iced tea, while Bill took the waitress’s recommendation of the blue plate special.

“How do you keep your figure, eating like that?” Bill asked, gesturing toward Cara’s tiny bowl of salad.

“This is how I keep my figure,” Cara said with a grin.

But when she ordered the same thing at the supper stop, Bill thought again that Cara must be short on funds and unable to afford a complete meal. It made him nervous to eat with her, and he couldn’t help but worry about her health. Wouldn’t she get sick if she didn’t get some real food into her?

He told himself that his only reason for being concerned about her was that her getting sick would draw attention to him, since they were seatmates and had taken all their meals together.

He ordered two roast beef sandwiches, an apple and a carton of milk to go. “I get hungry during the night, and we don’t stop again until morning,” he told Cara, who was looking askance at him, because he’d just stowed away a large steak, a double order of hash browns, salad and dessert.

An hour later, as darkness was beginning to creep across the highway, Bill nudged Cara. “I don’t feel so good. I think maybe it’s something I ate.”

“Probably all that fried food,” Cara said, nodding.

Bill reached down for the bag he’d placed at his feet. “Listen, I don’t think I’m going to be able to eat this, and I hate to see food go to waste. Do you think you could at least eat some of it?”

“You might feel better after a bit,” Cara said. She didn’t take the bag.

He pushed it into her lap. “Please. I have a real horror about waste. I’ve seen too many kids starving all over the world.”

Cara gave him a suspicious look, but then opened the bag and looked inside. “Well, all right, maybe I’ll eat part of a sandwich and drink the milk.”

She ate daintily, but he could see she was really hungry. When he saw how eagerly she drank the milk, he wished he’d bought two cartons.

“You’ve been all over the world?” Cara asked, as if his comment had just now registered with her.

“Yeah.” Bill shifted uncomfortably in his seat. This was exactly why it was so dangerous to get next to people—the unthinking way information just popped out of one’s mouth.

“Like where?” She took another bite of sandwich, and a tiny bit of mayo stuck to the corner of her mouth. Bill looked away, uneasy about his desire to reach over and lift it off with his finger. When he looked back, Cara was dabbing at her mouth with a paper napkin.

“Do you mind if we don’t talk right now?” he said, dodging her question. “I’m really tired.”

He hated the hurt that appeared in the girl’s eyes. Hated that he cared whether he hurt her or not. If he was going to stay alive, to outsmart Alvaretti, he’d have to play by Alvaretti’s rules. And the first one was, take care of number one and don’t give a damn about anyone else.

He crossed his arms over his chest and closed his eyes, feigning sleep. After a few minutes, he dozed off for real.

* * *

THE IRON DOOR clanged shut with a threatening sound as Deacon Avery entered the small barred room where he was to meet with his client. There was a scarred rectangular wooden table with a chair at each end in the center of the room. Other than an ashtray in the middle of the table, there were no amenities in the space allotted for lawyer-client visits.

Deacon hated the room, the prison, the trips upstate. But when Franco Alvaretti sent for you, you didn’t argue and you didn’t delay. Even though Franco was in prison, he was still a formidable enemy.

He took out a cigarette and then put it back, remembering that Franco had hated smoking ever since he, himself, had given up the expensive cigars he once smoked endlessly. Deacon went to the window and winced at the barren scene below: a huge concrete-walled exercise yard that seemed to exemplify—even more than the barred doors and windows—the emptiness of prison life.

He stroked his cigarette pack and hoped this meeting would be brief. He wondered what could be keeping Franco.

As if in response to his thoughts, he heard the now-familiar sound of a key grating in a lock, and then a door on the opposite wall opened to reveal Deacon’s client and, behind him, an armed guard.

“You got ten minutes, Franco,” the guard warned, in a pleasant voice. Deacon knew instantly that this was one of the guards who were now on the Alvaretti payroll.

“Deke, good to see you, old friend,” Franco called out, holding his arms open to Deacon.

They hugged briefly in the traditional manner, and then Deacon went to the table and lifted his briefcase onto its surface. “We don’t have much time, Franco. Maybe you want to get right down to business.”

Franco put his hand out to prevent Deacon from opening the case. “This is a different kind of business, Deke. You won’t need anything in there.”

Deacon let his surprise show in his expression. He had assumed this was going to be a discussion of the business and the delegation of authority during Franco’s incarceration.

Franco shook his head. “This is personal, Deke, and I figure you’re indebted enough to me that you’ll carry out my orders.”

Deacon shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I’ve always followed your orders, Franco, you know that.”

“Good,” Franco said with a nod. “Then let’s cut right to the chase, as they say. Where is Bill Spencer?”

Deacon blinked and stared at Franco, aghast. “Why would you think I’d know that, Franco? We know he must have gone underground, probably with the WPP’s help, but I certainly have no knowledge of his location.”

“Then find out!”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said, find him. And do it now! The longer you delay, the more apt you are to lose him for good.”

“But why would—?”

“I want him wasted.”

Deacon blanched and gripped the table edge as a dizzy spell threatened. “Franco...it’s over... Why don’t you just forget—”

The other man leaped to his feet, knocking the chair over. “Don’t tell me to forget, Deacon. You’re not the one stuck in this place for the next twenty years, with nothing to do but remember your enemies. Or maybe,” he began, leaning forward and grabbing Deacon’s jacket lapel, his face just inches from Deacon’s, “you’re one of them?”

“No! No way, Franco, you know I’m with you...all the way, Franco.”

Deacon could feel the sweat forming on his face, behind his ears, under his arms and between his thighs.

As quickly as he’d lost his temper, Franco’s good humor was restored. He picked up his chair and sat down, smiling at Deacon.

“Good. Now, use all the people you need to locate Spencer, and then, when that’s accomplished, get in touch with me.”

“You want me to send out an...enforcer, Franco?”

“No. Just find him. I’ll tell you what to do once I know you’ve got him in your sights.”

He stood up and reached across the table to pat Deacon’s cheek affectionately. “Don’t get your marbles in an uproar, Deke. I’m not going to make you pull the trigger.”

His laughter echoed back to Deacon long after the guard had led Alvaretti out of the room. It took Deacon a few minutes to wipe the sweat from his face and stop his hand from shaking so that he could press the buzzer to summon a guard to let him out.

Chapter Two

Cara finished the food in the bag while Bill slept. It was too dark by then to see anything outside the windows, and she closed her eyes and thought about how lucky it had been that Bill felt too ill to eat the food he’d purchased. She had been so hungry, she’d been on the verge of feeling sick herself. But she had limited funds, and she had to make them stretch. She couldn’t afford to blow all her money on meals in restaurants.

When she got where she was going, and got her own place, she’d stock up on cheap things like bread and luncheon meat. She’d live on that just fine until she had money coming in. Maybe she’d land a job in a restaurant where they’d provide some of her meals.

A spasm of despair gripped her; all those years of working toward her M.B.A. and now she would be reduced to working as a waitress or something. She sighed. She couldn’t let herself suffer remorse now—she’d made her decision and followed through on it. This was no time to be feeling sorry for herself.

She glanced over at Bill Hamlin, hoping her restlessness hadn’t disturbed his sleep. His breathing was shallow and even, and his face was more handsome when he was at peace, not wearing its usual expression of wariness.

It occurred to her that they’d been on the bus together for about eighteen hours, and he didn’t look the least bit rumpled or disheveled. Maybe that was a trick a world traveler learned. Ruefully she looked down at her own outfit, which wasn’t holding up well at all. In the morning she’d go into the ladies’ room and change into one of her other outfits, though she suspected they’d be pretty wrinkled, too, from being folded in the gym bag.

Her reflection in the night-darkened window told her that her hair needed a good brushing and any sign of lipstick was gone.

Funny that a man who had traveled all over the world would end up riding on a cross-country bus, she mused, closing her eyes again. But then, she’d read about people who made treks on foot or by bicycle, sleeping in barns and hostels and living out of their backpacks. Maybe Bill Hamlin was one of those.

She took a deep breath. He sure did smell good. It couldn’t be aftershave, she realized, opening one eye to peek at him. He had a beard. Must be hair oil, or some kind of scented men’s soap.

It made her think of Doug, and she winced and folded her arms around her body. She didn’t have to worry about Doug anymore, or about her mother. Even if her mother should decide to hire someone to find her, she was pretty sure she could avoid discovery. When her car was found, they’d think she was somewhere in Boston.

A tiny prickle of fear shot through her. What if they thought she’d been killed? Her mother would never rest until her body was found and the murderer put in jail.

What body? What murderer? Giving a soft chuckle, Cara realized that scenario would never be played out.

And then, suddenly, humor turned to sorrow and, despite her determination to avoid self-pity, she began to cry quietly, missing her mother, her home, wishing things could have been different, wishing Doug had never come into their lives.

“Hey,” Bill said softly, turning his head to look at her. “Are you crying?”

“No.” She shook her head and dashed the tears from her eyes. “I thought you were asleep,” she said, her voice muffled, as she looked through her purse for tissues.

“I’m a light sleeper. When the person next to me starts to cry, I usually wake up.”

He handed her one of those small packages of tissue that were sold at checkout counters. Cara took one and blew her nose into it, handing the packet back to him.

“Keep it. I suspect the waterworks aren’t over yet.”

A fresh flood of tears proved him right. Cara leaned against the window and wept quietly.

Beside her, Bill Hamlin sat quite still, not touching her, not pretending to understand her pain or attempting to talk her out of her distress.

Cara wiped her eyes and nose and turned to him with a look of wry reproach. “You’ve done this before,” she said accusingly.

“You mean waited for some damsel in distress to get over the boo-hoos?”

Cara grinned in spite of herself and then nodded.

Bill stretched his legs, slouched on his spine and turned his head toward her. “If you ask a woman why she’s crying, she invariably either says she isn’t or that it’s nothing. If you try to comfort her, you can’t possibly find the words that will make any difference. And if you try to touch her, you either get shrugged off, punched, or drenched from the tears. I’ve learned it’s better to wait it out.”

Cara laughed. “Thanks.”

Bill smiled. It was a strangely gentle, compassionate smile, Cara thought.

“It’s okay. We all have periods when we want to go into a corner and bawl.”

“Not men,” Cara said firmly.

“Oho! You don’t know much about men, apparently.”

Cara studied her seatmate with renewed interest, her own loneliness forgotten. He certainly didn’t look the type to cry. But then, what would that type look like? Effeminate? The man beside her was hardly that.

“I ate all your food,” she said.

“I hoped you would,” he replied.

“It... I...”

“You were hungry.” Bill nodded. “It’s okay, I understand. I’ve been there a time or two myself.”

Cara was grateful that he’d relieved her of the awkwardness of having to explain her limited finances, but she didn’t want him to pity her, either.

“I could use my money for food, but I need it more for something else.”

Again Bill nodded. “Sure. Don’t worry about it. And if you’re a good seatmate and don’t snore while you sleep, I’ll buy you breakfast in the morning as a reward.”

“I don’t snore,” Cara said indignantly.

Bill folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes. “Good,” he said, smiling wearily. “Then you’re a shoo-in for the superdeluxe ranch steak and eggs special.”

Cara laughed and made herself as comfortable as she could beside Bill. What a nice man. And without any hint of flirtatiousness. He reminded her of her father, though he was younger than her father had been when he died. Come to think of it, he must be about Doug’s age, halfway between her mother and herself.

But she mustn’t think about the people at home; if she did, she’d start crying again.

She decided to think about breakfast with Bill, instead. She smiled at the thought. She’d use the ladies’ room and change into jeans and her pink long-sleeved knit shirt. Jeans held up better for travel. And she’d put on a little makeup and fix her hair. She wasn’t going to give him a single reason to regret inviting her to breakfast.

She was almost asleep when his head slipped onto her shoulder. Cara held her breath, her body rigid, but then relaxed. It was nice having him there, she decided; familiar and not at all threatening.

* * *

DOUG HARVARD fought for control as Beth Dunlap paced the floor, wringing her hands and weeping noisily.

“I can’t believe she just took off like that, sneaking away in the dark of night without even telling me she was leaving.”

“She did leave a note, darling,” Doug reminded her gently.

“Maybe I should notify the police, report her missing.” Beth’s voice had strengthened, the teariness giving way to resolve.

“Darling, the police would say she left on her own, that she isn’t really missing.”

“What about a private detective, then?”

It was time to bring Beth back under control. Doug went to her and enfolded her in his arms, holding her head against his chest, soothingly rubbing her back. “Listen, my dear, Cara is a grown woman, not a runaway child. Why don’t we give her time to get settled wherever she’s gone, and then, if we don’t hear from her in, say—oh, a month—we’ll talk about looking for her? Meanwhile—” he lowered his voice seductively and lifted her chin so that he could gaze into her eyes “—why don’t we take advantage of our newfound privacy and get married right away.”

Beth gasped. “Right away? You mean—?”

Doug nodded and gave her a practiced smile, heavy with promise. “I mean tomorrow. We already have the license, and with Cara gone, we don’t have any family to cater to. Let’s just go off by ourselves and exchange our vows privately.” He brushed her lips with his own. “It would be so much more romantic, my love,” he whispered.

“What about my friends?” Beth protested weakly. “They’ll be so disappointed.”

Doug’s hands moved from Beth’s back to just under her breasts. He held back a smile of satisfaction when Beth gave a tremulous gasp of excitement. “I’ll be even more disappointed if I have to wait one more night to make you my wife,” he said, making his voice rough.

“We don’t have to wait,” Beth said, moving closer, rubbing her pelvis against Doug’s. “I’ve always told you I’d be willing to make love with you before the wedding. After all,” she added archly, “I’m a woman of the nineties.”

Damned near, Doug thought. But he said, “No, darling, as I’ve told you so often before, I need to know you’re all mine, entirely committed to me, and I to you, before I can accept that last, most wondrous gift from you.”

He let his fingers graze her nipples, almost as if by mistake, and had the satisfaction of hearing her moan of desire as she ground her hips against him in desperation.

He drew away, his expression one of deep regret. “Don’t make me wait any longer, Beth darling, please. I need you so.” He put his hand to his fly and clutched himself in seeming pain. “Please, darling, say you’ll marry me tomorrow, and let’s start our honeymoon now, tonight.”

He could see she’d had all she could take of his sexual game of cat and mouse. His offer to put the honeymoon before the wedding was the clincher. She fell into his arms, almost tearing his shirt open, and agreed to marry him the next day.

Doug called on his favorite fantasy in order to prepare for the night ahead. Cara Dunlap might have gotten away from him in fact, but in his mind he could still have his way with her, and visualizing breaking her to his will was exciting enough to allow him to perform like a passion-crazed bridegroom.

Hours later, as Beth slept beside him, Doug lay in the darkened master bedroom and eased himself into sleep by working out the details for making Beth Dunlap’s fortune his own.

* * *

“WE’RE HALFWAY THERE,” Bill said as he slid into the booth across from Cara. “The driver says we’re right on schedule.”

Cara put down the menu she’d been studying. “Are you going to be staying in San Francisco for a while?”

Bill gave her a strange look. “No,” he said, in a tone that prohibited further questions.

Cara wriggled uncomfortably and frowned. “I just thought, since I don’t know anyone there, it would be nice...”

“Look, kid, when this trip is over, we’re history. I travel fast and I travel alone, and I don’t take on any cargo along the way.”

Cara flushed. “I’m not a kid, for one thing, Bill Hamlin, and I wasn’t suggesting you `take me on,’ so you can drop the Humphrey Bogart routine. I just thought it would be nice to know there was someone I knew in the same city with me while I’m getting settled.”

He hadn’t meant to snap at her like that, and he knew he’d sounded like a real jerk. But as the hours they spent together sped by, he was beginning to feel more and more at risk. There was something so compelling about her—a combination of vulnerability and recklessness. Something in him yearned to reach out and either shake her or grab her and hold her tight. And that was exactly the kind of emotional involvement that could make him lose sight of his own safety concerns, make him careless.

They had another day and a half on the bus, another night of falling asleep smelling her shampoo, her sweet, clean fragrance, feeling her arm against his, her leg brushing his when she turned to say something to him. He was, first and foremost a man, one who hadn’t held a woman in longer than he cared to remember. It might be years before it was safe for him to get involved again—if ever—but while they were traveling across the country, suspended in the limbo of continuous movement, he could almost pretend they were just two normal people who were on the verge of becoming friends.

“Order something filling,” he said gruffly to Cara. “And don’t be so thin-skinned. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

He hid a smile behind his menu. He could tell from the play of emotions he’d seen across her face that she was torn between indignation and hunger.

She ordered eggs and pancakes and a large glass of milk.

“That’s more like it,” Bill said, nodding in approval. “Now, let’s talk about you. What are you going to do in San Francisco?”

He had a day and a half in which to enjoy this young woman’s company. He decided that as long as he was on the bus it was safe for him to let his guard down enough to make it a congenial trip. She intrigued him, with her soft prettiness, her feisty temper, her hint of sad mystery. He would have liked to encourage her to reveal the source of that mystery but he knew that if he did, she’d feel justified in questioning him in return. He couldn’t have that.

Cara played with her cutlery and looked out the window of the café, staring off into the distance, where the desert met the horizon like a great sand-colored ocean.

“Look for a job, a place to live,” she said dreamily. “Start a new life.”

“Wipe out the old one,” Bill said, almost to himself.

“What?” Cara returned her gaze to Bill, startled by his remark. How could she respond to that? How could she tell a stranger about her mother’s obsession with a younger man whose own obsession was with her daughter? How could she explain the guilt, the shame, she felt every time she entered a room with her mother and Doug in it. And, worst of all, how could she explain how Doug had manipulated her with emotional blackmail, knowing she wouldn’t be able to bear to hurt her mother by telling her the truth about the man her mother loved?

“I...I just felt the need to try someplace new,” she said weakly.

“And you’re traveling clear across the country to find it?”

Cara nodded and returned her gaze to the window.

Doug was going to be furious when he discovered she’d finally found the courage to escape his advances. Would he look for her, risk losing her mother? She prayed that her opinion of Doug was correct, that he was just a bit more obsessed with her mother’s money than he was with Cara, that that little edge might keep him in Greensville, keep him from looking for her.

She pushed away the stab of guilt she felt over leaving her mother at Doug’s mercy. She’d turned the situation over in her mind, considered her options, made her choice. She’d live by it.

Their food arrived before Bill could ply her with more questions. Cara picked up her fork almost before the waitress set her plate down, glad for the diversion and for the bounty of food before her.

They were almost finished with the meal when the driver came in and called for everyone’s attention.

“We’re going to have a slight delay, folks. Nothing to worry about, but you’re going to have a couple of extra hours here, so take your time and enjoy the scenery. If you want to go for walks or look around the town, be sure you’re back by ten.”

“Oh, let’s go for a walk,” Cara said, excited at the prospect of seeing something of the countryside that was passing by her almost as soon as her gaze fell on it.

Bill studied her face, enjoying the flush of excitement in her cheeks, the shine in her eyes. Great eyes, he thought. Not just dark brown, but more the color of burned caramel. They glinted with golden lights every time her face changed expression.

He glanced out at the parking lot. Apart from three Greyhound buses, there was an eighteen-wheeler, a pick-up truck with a load of vegetables in the back, and two compact cars. He looked around the café. Nobody who could remotely be connected with the mob.

He looked back at Cara, whose smile was beguiling. “Okay, you’re on,” he said, rising and throwing a couple of bills on the food check.

But as they were strolling the streets of the small town, Bill was already beginning to question the reckless manner in which he was getting involved with this girl. Something about her tugged at him, at some long-buried part of him that preceded his years in the Service, his brief but disastrous marriage, even the pseudocynical years of college. She took him back to his true beginnings, to halcyon days of family and growing up in middle America with nothing to threaten the peace but the seasonal attacks of weather.

It was that life, hidden away from the rest of the country, that had made him want to make a career out of defending and protecting the things he loved and believed in.

“Look at that,” Cara said breathlessly, pointing to the mountain rise that suddenly appeared out of nowhere, making a magnificent backdrop for the row of low buildings they’d come upon.

“Makes a person feel...insignificant,” Bill said, absorbing the feeling as he stared at the mountain.

“Because it’s been there forever and will be there forever,” Cara stated solemnly. She turned from the awe-inspiring sight and looked up at her companion. “Doesn’t it make you want to stay right here and let it stand guard over your life?”

Bill glanced at Cara and then back at the mountain, shaking his head. “There are some things it can’t protect you from. There are people out there who would never stop to look at that mountain, never notice its beauty or its magnificence. People who wouldn’t hesitate to blow up the mountain if it stood in the way of what they wanted to achieve.”

Cara stared at Bill, aghast. She’d never heard such cynical talk before, never heard that note of utter futility in another person’s voice.

She would have liked to probe, to find out what it was that had made this man so bitter; it was a sharp contrast to the gentle, generous man he’d shown her.

But there was also a dark aspect to his nature, one that warned her that she must not overstep certain boundaries in their brief, temporary relationship.

“Even if all that’s true, it doesn’t keep us from enjoying the beauty,” she said, and turned away from the view. “It must be nearly time to head back,” she added quietly.

He fell into step beside her, and they remained silent, both lost in their own thoughts, on the walk back.

The silence continued, almost by mutual consent, for the next leg of their journey. When they stopped for lunch, Cara pleaded a headache as an excuse for not joining Bill in the café.

“Just bring me back some coffee, please,” she said, handing him a dollar bill.

He gave her a skeptical look, but didn’t argue. He just took her money and nodded.

Cara laid her head against the window and let her eyes close against the noon sunshine. Something about Bill Hamlin’s carefully guarded pain had struck a chord in Cara and made the reality of her situation all the more frightening. It wasn’t that she wasn’t capable of fending for herself or being alone. After all, she was an only child, whose parents had been loving and giving, but also very involved with one another.

Her father had become ill when she graduated from high school, and despite his protests, she’d put off going to college in order to spend as much time with him as his illness would allow. The shared nursing duties, plus the feeling of pending doom in the house, had brought Cara and her mother closer.

But after her father’s death, her mother had shut Cara out while she mourned the loss of her husband. And Cara had gone off to start her college years, feeling orphaned and lonely, so that even though she was a couple of years older than the other freshmen, she seemed younger, shier. It had taken her a full year to get past her own grief and begin to make friends and enjoy the campus ambience.

By the time Cara’s mother came out of mourning, Cara had already been in her last year of graduate school. A few months later, Doug had come into their lives.

No, the problem wasn’t encroaching loneliness—that was an emotion she’d lived with most of her life. It was more the reminder that she was leaving everything she’d considered safe and familiar and was about to enter a strange world without access to any of the comforts of her past, and where she couldn’t even use her given name. Could she carve out a niche for herself while living like an illegal alien? And was the sacrifice she was making worthwhile?

Because of her parents’ obvious closeness, she’d grown up believing that the biggest event in her life was going to be falling in love and becoming a wife and mother. Only in her case, she’d planned to love her husband and her children equally, so that none of them ever felt left out.

Was such a future possible for her now? Could she be legally married under an assumed name? And where would she meet the ideal man, if she was forced to take odd jobs that didn’t require references or close scrutiny of her qualifications?

Her reverie was interrupted by Bill’s return. He handed her a bag that obviously contained something more than the cup of coffee she’d asked for.

“You’ll feel hungry later,” he said, shrugging off her protest. “Did you take some aspirin for that headache?”

Cara nodded, avoiding his eyes so that he couldn’t see the lie. She was sure she could have told him the truth, that she had just wanted to be alone, but then he might have asked questions she wasn’t prepared to answer.

What would a man who was as obviously worldly as Bill Hamlin think of her sordid story? Would he believe she was an innocent victim, or would he think she’d come on to her mother’s boyfriend and invited his attentions?

“Better drink that coffee before it gets cold,” Bill said as he adjusted his seat to a reclining position.

Cara nodded and opened the bag to find it contained a sandwich and a banana, as well as a cup of coffee.

“You missed your calling, Bill.” She grinned over at him. “You should have been a nutritionist.”

He didn’t smile in response. His face was set in a hostile mask, and his voice held a quiet threat as he asked, “What makes you think I’m not? And what do you know about my calling?”

Cara might have snapped back at him, if just at that moment the bus hadn’t lurched to the side and then come to an abrupt halt with a terrible screeching of the brakes.

Chapter Three

The driver used his radiophone to call in the broken axle. Within thirty minutes, the motel in Mount View, the town they had just come from, sent out its minivan to start hauling passengers back. The local garage sent a tow truck. The driver announced that a replacement bus would arrive in the morning, and in the meantime the motel would put up the passengers at the bus company’s expense.

Cara was on the first trek the van made, and she waited in the motel lobby with the others until the entire busload had arrived and were assigned rooms.

She passed the time looking over the postcard rack in the lobby, looking for a card to send her mother, just to let her know that she was safe. After all, it wasn’t as if they were staying in Mount View. They’d be long gone before Beth Dunlap ever received the card.

She chose one with a picture of the mountains and wrote a brief message, saying not to worry, that she was fine and enjoying traveling around the country.

She then curled up in the corner of one of the couches with her journal and a cup of coffee and a doughnut and wrote down everything she was feeling in a sort of letter to her mother.

She had just tucked the journal back into her gym bag when the last of her fellow passengers arrived, with Bill in their midst.

There were a few questions and some grumbling from the other passengers, but most took the news in stride, enjoying the diversion of a little adventure and the prospect of a night’s sleep in a real bed. They lined up at the desk to get their keys in orderly fashion. Cara found herself beside Bill.

“How about a swim before dinner?” Bill suggested.

Cara’s face brightened, then fell. “I didn’t bring a suit.”

Bill nodded and looked away as the line moved.

“But if that’s an invitation to dinner, I accept,” Cara said, putting a hand on his arm to get his attention. She jumped back when something like a wave of electricity jolted up her arm. Bill seemed similarly afflicted.

“Sorry,” she muttered, “must be the carp—”

Simultaneously they glanced down at the red tile floor and then lifted their eyes, meeting query with confusion.

“I do like a woman with spark,” Bill said, in a near whisper. His eyes gleamed, and a little muscle twitched along his jaw as he gave his full attention to her face.

Cara could feel his roving gaze, like a warm hand lightly caressing her skin. Her own eyes were drawn to the angles and planes of his face, to the full curve of his lips, the hard edge of his cheekbones. When she tried to swallow, her throat felt dry.

The bus driver called out, “Keep moving, folks,” and Cara and Bill returned to the present.

Cara soon found herself at the desk, and had to think a moment when the desk clerk asked her name. She went through the business of registering, finding her room and unpacking her few items of clothing with a soft smile on her lips. She’d seen a liquor store at the other end of the street, across from the motel, and decided she’d spend a little of her nest egg to provide a bottle of dessert wine as a way of thanking Bill for the dinner and the other meals he’d provided her. She tried not to ask herself why this particular meal felt like a date, after all the other, casual meals they’d shared on the trip. Bill had certainly made it clear that his only interest in her was as a seat partner for the duration of the journey. For herself, she wasn’t even sure Bill Hamlin was the type she would have dated if she’d met him under other circumstances.

Yet the memory of that moment in the lobby, when they’d looked deep into one another’s eyes, still had the power to steal her breath away and bring heat to the surface of her skin. Her type or not, he was the most damnably attractive man she’d ever met, and for tonight, at least, she intended to enjoy the pretense that he was a real dinner date and that they were on the verge of something sweet and promising—not to mention something dangerous and compelling.

* * *

BILL WENT TO HIS ROOM, changed into swim trunks and headed for the pool. He’d always used swimming for his fitness regimen, since his career had entailed so much travel, and most hotels and motels had pools. This one echoed with the lack of bodies at this time of day, and Bill reveled in having the place to himself.

He dived in and then found that it took him a few minutes to get oriented. For some reason, the warm, silken water on his skin made him think of Cara. He’d never thought of swimming as an exercise in the erotic, but now he found himself wishing that Cara had been able to join him. He envisioned her long-limbed slenderness in a French-cut swimsuit, and the fantasy shortened his breath and made his limbs tense with desire. He could see her stroking beside him, her arms golden as they flashed through the water, her head tilted to the side as they stared into one another’s eyes.

He squeezed his eyes shut and forced his breathing into a rhythm his body could follow. He had no business thinking about Cara Davis in that way. For that matter, when had he begun to think of her as a desirable woman, rather than a casual traveling companion? It must have something to do with the fact that this was a sort of reprieve in the midst of his desperate journey. One night, suspended in time, to allow them to pretend they were normal people who’d happened to meet on a bus and were drawn to one another because they were young, attractive and available.

I’m not available, he reminded himself.

And it didn’t matter when his perception of her had changed. The point was that it was self-defeating to allow himself the diversion, and he was going to have to get control over such errant thoughts.

He did punishing laps for exercise and then leisurely breaststroked around the perimeter of the pool a couple of times. By the time he hoisted himself up onto the ceramic deck, his endorphins were humming and he felt physically better than he had in days.

He didn’t know why, but he felt safe here. Safe enough to look forward to his evening with his lovely traveling companion. There would be time enough tomorrow to restore the necessary status quo.

He whistled jauntily as he started down the carpeted hall to his room, and then he stopped dead in his tracks when he spotted Cara at the end of the corridor in front of the ice machine. She was talking to some man—a man Bill didn’t recognize from the bus—and the way they had their heads together, it was obvious to Bill that they were discussing something serious. Acting on instinct, he stepped back and flattened himself against the wall around the corner.

He waited a couple of minutes and then eased out to the edge of the wall and looked down the hall. Cara and the man were gone.

Bill took a deep breath and went on to his room. Okay, so his seatmate was talking to some guy. So what? She was a pretty girl; men were apt to notice her, hit on her. It was none of his business.

It made him uncomfortable to realize that if the man had been young and good-looking, what he was feeling might have been dubbed jealousy.

He made himself focus on their dinner date. He’d asked at the desk and been told there were actually four good places to choose from, since this was on a main route through the mountains, and many tourists stopped to enjoy the view.

He was dressed in record time, and too restless to wait in his room. According to his watch, it was a good hour before most dining rooms would open for dinner. He decided to let Cara know he was going for a stroll around the grounds and would meet her in the lobby in an hour.

* * *

THEY DINED at a table in the corner of the dining room of the Mount View Inn, which was large enough to allow them some privacy, though there were other dinner guests scattered throughout the room. Candles flickered, flowers scented the air, and soft music played through speakers strategically placed on each wall.

Bill and Cara faced each other across white linen, self- consciously holding large menus in front of them.

“You look lovely, Cara,” Bill said at last, setting his menu down with a sigh.

“I was just thinking that this room merits something dressier than a skirt and sweater,” Cara shyly replied, peeking around her menu.

“I think it’s more than just your outfit. I like your hair like that, by the way.”

“Thank you.” She’d pulled her hair up into a cluster of curls atop her head and used slightly more makeup than usual. “You look nice, too, Bill,” she said, and ducked back behind the menu as she felt a warm flush move up into her face.

Bill chuckled. “Must be the altitude,” he said.

“What?”

“This self-consciousness between us. Either that, or we’re just truck-stop people at heart.”

“I’d never been in a truck stop before I came on this trip,” Cara said. She didn’t add that dining rooms like this were much more in her league.

“No? Well, as a matter of fact, I’m more used to bistros and hotel dining rooms, myself.”

“Bistros. That would be Europe, right?”

Bill appeared to weigh his answer before nodding.

“Yeah. Mostly.”

“I’ve never been abroad, but I always knew I’d get there someday.” Her face fell. “Maybe not now.”

“Why not now?”

Cara shrugged. “I guess I just see a different kind of future than I used to expect.”

The waiter came to their table just then, and they both ordered the crab legs. Bill ordered a sauvignon blanc to go with their meal, and Cara smiled inwardly, pleased to discover that he liked wine.

“You like crab legs, too,” Bill said.

“Mm-hmm.” Cara sipped from her water goblet. “I’m a true New Englander.” That raised a question she couldn’t help but ask. “Where are you from?” The look on his face caused her to amend her question hurriedly. “I mean originally.”

She watched the play of emotions alter his face, and she thought he must be considering how much he could tell her.

She could see he was telling the truth when he finally answered, “A small town in the Midwest.” It wasn’t much, but it was a start—an opening-up to her, which he’d obviously been avoiding.

“Small towns are nice,” she said, reaching for a roll just to have something to do with her hands.

“They are. There is something so rich about life in a small town.” His voice and eyes became dreamy. “People really live with one another, really share their lives. In big cities, people just live side by side, their lives not really touching.”

“That’s...profound, Bill. And very true, I think.”

She concentrated on buttering her bread for a moment before asking, “Do you get home often?”

“Home?” Bill busied himself with a roll of his own. “There is no home any longer. My family was small and short-lived and—” He shifted in his seat, obviously uncomfortable. “Listen, do you mind if we change the subject?”

“No, of course not, Bill. I’m sorry.” She frowned and looked away.

She jumped and turned back when she felt Bill’s hand close around hers, where it rested on the table.

“Hey, darlin’? Don’t take my bad manners so personally, okay?” His eyes beseeched understanding, and his hand was warm on hers. She fought the impulse to turn her hand so that their palms touched.

She sought a new topic of conversation, instead. “This town reminds me of one of my favorite movies.”

“Oh? Which?”

“Continental Divide.”

“Ah, John Belushi and Blair Brown.”

Cara’s hand turned of its own accord.

“You know the movie?” She felt their palms meet and started to draw away, but his fingers closed around hers.

Bill grinned. “It’s my secret vice. Movies. And that was a favorite of mine, because of the ending.”

“I thought the ending was a little disappointing.”

“You didn’t think it was a happy ending?”

“Yes and no. It didn’t really let you know how they were going to live out their lives, when her work kept her in the mountains and his kept him in the city.”

“You like every t crossed and every i dotted.”

Their hands seemed to have acquired a life of their own. It was almost as though their hearts were beating in unison, right there between their palms. “It’s not that,” she said, reaching for her water glass with her free hand. She took a nervous gulp. The glass wobbled as she set it on the tabletop again. “It’s more a need to know that the hero and heroine are going to make it.”

“There’s more than one way to make it,” Bill said, leaning forward, his voice hushed and slightly husky. “And that’s what that movie says, and why I liked it.” The candlelight was reflected in his dark blue eyes, and it softened the planes of his face. Cara felt the pulse in her throat begin to quicken.

“Salads, sir?” The salad cart bumped against their table, and Bill and Cara jumped apart.

“Yes, th-thanks,” Bill stammered. Cara was delighted to discover that her sophisticated traveling companion was capable of being rattled. It gave her a slight edge, she thought.

It was an argument about white hats and black hats that brought them back to reality. “No, it’s not always like that,” Bill said, when Cara insisted that the white hats were always the good guys and always won. “At least not in the real world.”

He seemed to lose some of his energy after that and when he signaled for the bill, Cara didn’t protest.

They were silent on the way back to the motel. I don’t want it to end, she thought. But she knew it had to, had known all along that this was never going to last beyond tonight, or at the most beyond their arrival in San Francisco, when they would go their separate ways.

But tonight wasn’t really over, she reminded herself as they passed the now-darkened liquor store. She’d surprise him with the wine she’d purchased earlier, and maybe they could recapture some of the good feelings they’d shared during dinner. They could talk all night. It didn’t matter. They could sleep all the next day on the bus.

They were just entering the lobby when the elevator doors opened, revealing a lone man within the car.

It was the man from the ice machine. Cara started to raise her hand, but the man looked startled to see them and quickly jabbed the button that caused the elevator doors to close.

“What was that all about?” Bill asked, a frown creasing his forehead.

Cara shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “I guess he thought this was his floor.”

“Do you know him?”

“Know him? No. Why would you think that?”

“Oh, no reason. I just thought you looked like you recognized him.”

“Oh. Well, I did talk to him briefly at the ice machine. He needed directions.”

“Funny, he didn’t seem anxious to recognize you just now.”

“Well, I only talked to him for a moment. Maybe he didn’t recognize me.”

“Maybe.” But Bill looked dubious. Cara might have questioned him, but she decided what she wanted most was to restore the mood they’d shared earlier. Just then the elevator car returned to the main floor and the doors drew apart. This time the car was vacant.

“I enjoyed dinner, Bill,” she said, as they entered the elevator.

“Yeah, that was fun. I’ll have to thank the desk clerk for suggesting the inn.”

They got off on the third floor and walked down the hall to Cara’s room. Bill waited while Cara got her room key out of her purse and unlocked the door. She turned around and smiled. “See you later, Bill, and thanks again.”

“Sure. My pleasure.”

He hesitated a moment, and Cara thought he was going to kiss her. Her hand grasped the edge of the door nervously. But he merely nodded and turned away, headed for his own room.

Cara went inside and closed the door. She’d give him a few minutes to get settled and then surprise him with the wine.

* * *

BILL WAS JUST PACKING his sport coat when a knock came at the door. He stood at the door and breathed deeply before asking, “Who is it?”

“It’s me, Bill. Cara.”

He opened the door.

“Cara.” He stared at her, clearly shocked.

She lifted her hands and he saw that she was holding an ice bucket in one hand and a brown paper bag in the other. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

“Cara...do you think this is a good idea? I mean...”

Cara laughed. “Gosh, Bill, you don’t have to look like I’ve come to strip you of your virginity. Here, I bought this earlier, thought we could extend the evening a little with a nightcap.” She moved past him, set the bag down on the desk and pulled out the wine.

He should have been impressed that she’d made such a gesture. Instead, an image of Cara and the stranger came into his mind, followed by an image of himself drunk and Cara and the man bending over his helpless form.

His mind went into overdrive. She was taking glasses from the tray on the desk, putting ice into them, and her back was to him.

Swiftly he pulled his belt from the loops of his pants and banded it around Cara’s upper body, imprisoning her arms at her sides. The element of surprise kept her silent long enough for him to gag her with a washcloth. A moment later, he had her in the desk chair and was using his tie to secure her ankles to the chair legs.

She attempted to speak, but the gag stifled the sound, and Bill kept working methodically, ignoring her pleas.

She must have been a plant, he told himself. Al- varetti’s people must have somehow located him and sent her to make sure. The guy in the elevator was probably her contact.

Bill’s hands trembled as he made one last knot. He hadn’t even been on the run a week, and already they’d found him. Alvaretti’s posse would probably be showing up next. He wondered how much time he had.

He got to his feet and looked down at the girl. Her eyes were wide, dark with pleading. He forced himself to look away. “Sorry, darlin’, but better you than me.”

He was packed and out the door in minutes, grabbing Cara’s room key off the desk, where she’d set it down when she started to fix the drinks. There’d be something in her things to show him who she really was, who her contact was, what their plans for him were. Something to show him what his next move should be.

He made a rapid, efficient sweep of her room...and found nothing.

Nothing but a journal. He opened it to the last entry, planning to read back as far as he needed to find out the truth. He read the letter to her mother.

He sank to the bed as he read of Cara’s dilemma. Of the way her mother’s fiancé kept coming on to her, of how she loved her mother and couldn’t bear to see her hurt. He read that she’d threatened to tell her mother the truth about Harvard and that he had warned her that he would say she was lying, speaking out of jealousy, that she was the one who wanted him. Cara’s mother would believe her fiancé, because she was so enamored of him and since she was already angry that Cara didn’t seem to approve of their upcoming nuptials.

He felt numb as he replaced her notebook in the small gym bag, noticing how pitifully few things she’d taken away with her. He was going to have to go back and untie her, explain why he’d gone nuts like that.

But he couldn’t really tell her everything. She might be exactly what she appeared to be—a kind of heroine who would sacrifice her own life to spare her mother’s pride—but he couldn’t confide in her. For one thing, it would only put her at risk to know the truth. If Alvaretti’s people connected him to her and began to question her, she’d be less of a threat if she knew nothing.

Maybe he’d do better to just move on, leave her where she was. The maid would find her in the morning. It wasn’t like she was in danger. She’d be a little uncomfortable for a few hours, but that was all.

He slipped down the hall, staying in the shadows, and eased out the back door. Once outside, he headed for the saloon across from the motel, going around back, where the parking lot was located. He’d find a truck, get in back, and hitch a ride without the driver knowing he had a passenger.

There were no trucks back there, but it was early yet. By midnight the place would be jumping, and there were bound to be a couple of truckers among the revelers.

He huddled near the Dumpster behind the bar, trying to keep warm.

He must have dozed off. Male voices startled him into awareness. He smelled the unmistakable fragrance of marijuana smoke and heard one of the men inhale deeply and then exhale raggedly. “Don’t hog it all,” one of the men said harshly.

Bill was afraid this was going to turn into a long, drawn-out affair, but after a little conversation and a lot of smoke he finally heard the screeching sound of a metal door opening. For a moment, the noise in the bar could be plainly heard in the dark, otherwise silent night. And then the door clanged shut, and Bill knew he was alone again.

He was about to climb into the back of a semi when a vision of Cara snaked through his mind. Had he tied her too tight? He hefted one leg up onto the floor of the trailer, then hesitated. What if she got thirsty with that terry-cloth rag in her mouth? He hoisted his body up and turned to make sure no one had observed him getting into the truck. By morning she’d be really cramped from sitting in that chair all night. He stood up and started to slide the door shut.

He could see her face as clearly as if it were there in the darkened truck with him, the eyes so frightened they’d become dark as night.

* * *

BILL’S HEART thumped wildly as he tore across the street and ran through the lobby of the motel, not caring what others would think of his mad dash. He didn’t know how he was going to explain his behavior to her, or what he’d do if she threatened to call the cops, which she had every right to do. He had to chance it. He just couldn’t leave her tied up like that.

He didn’t wait for the elevator, but took the stairs two at a time.

He felt as if the floor had dropped out from beneath his feet as he came to a panting halt in front of the open doorway to his empty room.

The chair where she should have been held captive had been replaced at the desk, and as his eyes scanned the room, he saw that his belt and necktie were neatly placed across the pillows on his bed.

Still disbelieving, he cautiously made his way into the room and crept over to the bathroom. Nothing. The room was neat as a pin, with no evidence of his earlier crime. The girl was gone, along with every sign that she’d been there. Even the two glasses she’d filled with ice were replaced on the tray on the desk, and the bottle of wine was gone.

He made the trip down to her room far more sedately than he’d reentered the motel. When he came to her door, he wiped his brow with the back of his arm before knocking.

He was prepared for anger, prepared for righteous indignation and outrage. He was even prepared for the cops to be lying in wait for him.

“Come in,” a pleasant voice called out. “It’s open.”

He stood in the doorway and looked across the room to where she was seated at a table in front of the window, a floor lamp casting a soft glow across her hair and face.

She had a plastic glass of wine lifted to her lips. A crossword-puzzle book lay open in front of her.

“Hi, Bill,” she said calmly.

“I...I...”

“You’re just in time. Do you know a six-letter word for dangerous?” She picked up a pencil and held it poised over the puzzle page, an expectant look on her face.

“I’m...sorry.”

She shook her head, and her silky hair flowed around her chin. “That’s only five letters.”

He cleared his throat. “I mean, I’m sorry, Cara. Honest to God, I’m really so sorry.”

“Well, let’s see,” Cara said, meeting his pleading eyes with a steady look, “you attack me in your room as I’m attempting to pour us a glass of wine, and then you tie me to a chair and gag me, and then you go off and leave me there with no way to call for help. Did I miss anything?”

He didn’t—couldn’t—reply.

“No? Okay. Well, I guess that’s everything. And now you say you’re sorry. I’m sure you are. And indeed you should be,” she said, in that same restrained manner.

And then, suddenly, she jumped up from the table, knocking her chair over, and ran at him.

“I thought you were some kind of perverted rapist, you big baboon!” she screamed, hitting him on the chest with both fists.

He barely felt the impact of her punches, so amazed was he by the amazing array of her emotions. This was no shrinking violet, no helpless little mama’s girl, this...this woman.

It hit him with greater force than her fists. Cara Davis, or whatever her real name was, could be anything—a spy for Alvaretti, a government agent, a Sunday-school teacher, a runaway teenager. Anything she chose to portray, she could carry it off with aplomb. It wouldn’t make it easier to trust her, but, by God, it certainly made it mandatory to respect her.

He grabbed her wrists, only to put an end to the chaotic melodrama. She couldn’t get away, but he could feel how strong she was as she worked to break free of his greater strength.

“I thought you were on their side!” he yelled, shaking her slightly.

A sob caught in Cara’s throat, and she stopped struggling. “Th-their side? Who are they?” The sob became a hiccup.

Bill opened his mouth to tell her and then realized he was right back where he’d begun. He couldn’t tell her. He dropped her wrists.

“I can’t explain. I just wanted you to know it was a mistake on my part and that I was only trying to protect myself.”

She stared at him, squinting. “Protect yourself from me? Did you think I was going to poison the wine?”

“What?” He had to laugh, despite the seriousness of the situation. “No. Not from you. I mean, not from the wine. Well, yes, I guess I thought you were trying to get me drunk so you could...”

“Could what? Have my way with you?” He had to laugh with her at that. The eruption of laughter felt good.

It took a moment to remember their situation.

“Look, let’s drop this. I can’t tell you anything more, and I only came back because I thought it was wrong to leave you helpless like that.”

Cara stepped back and grinned, holding her wrists up. “Helpless? Me? Ha!”

She marched back to the table, plunked down in her chair and picked up her wine. “Think again, big guy. Just because I’m having a few problems at home and I’m short on funds, that doesn’t mean I’m some helpless little wimp. I can take care of myself—and, for that matter, I could probably do a better job of taking care of you than you’re doing.”

“What does that mean?” Bill demanded. What did she know? Who did she know?

“I mean, you seem to think that being a loner is the solution. I say, whoever they are, they’re looking for a loner, a man on his own. With me at your side, you’re part of a couple, and they aren’t looking for a couple, are they?”

It was Bill’s turn to stare. He went over and sank down on her bed, staring at her with his mouth ajar.

“A couple,” he said, his voice heavy with awe.

“Right. Like a disguise. We’d be a disguise for one another. My people won’t be looking for a couple, either.”

Bill ran a hand through his hair and then shook his head, trying to clear it. The problem was that she made some sense, and that made no sense.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Less than an hour ago you thought I was a rapist—and, in fact, I did attack you and tie you up. Why should you trust me now.”

And for that matter, why should I trust you? he thought.

“Or why should you trust me?”

“Are you a mind reader, too?”

Cara shrugged and shot him a complacent grin. “Isn’t the enemy you know safer than the one you don’t know?”

He had to grin, too, at her ridiculous logic. “I think I need that wine now.”

He didn’t wait for her response, but got up to pour it himself. With his back to her, he tried his thoughts out loud. “You’re right about one thing—they know there hasn’t been a woman in my life. They wouldn’t expect me to be involved with anyone this quickly.” He tilted his head back and drank some wine.

“For that matter... Wait a minute.” He spun around. “Are you talking about a permanent arrangement?”

“Define permanent.”

“Like for...weeks, months...whatever.”

She nodded. “Wouldn’t renting an apartment as a couple, looking for work as a couple, be good cover?”

Now he nodded, his expression thoughtful. “We’re talking...um, separate bedrooms, of course.”

“Of course.”

“And you’d be willing to tie yourself down to me for the duration?”

“Better than you tying me to the nearest chair!”

Bill flinched, and Cara immediately regretted her sarcasm. “Sure, I’d trust you, Bill. You had second thoughts and came back to let me go, didn’t you?”

Bill nodded and took a big gulp of wine. “Let me think this over.”

He went to the door. “I’m going out to get us some coffee. I’m going to need a clear head to give your idea close consideration.”

While he was gone, Cara peered through the drapes, waiting to see him emerge from the front of the motel. Her suggestion had been made out of the blue, without a lot of thought on her part. She really didn’t know anything about him except that he was in terrible trouble, a lot worse than the trouble she’d run from. And she didn’t even know if he was on the wrong side of the law. But even if he was, he meant no harm to her, she was sure, or else he wouldn’t have come back to free her.

He came through the front door just then, and she looked down at the top of his head. Nice hair. And he had good carriage, the sort of thing her mother always noticed in people. She liked his easy stride and the natural way he stopped to look up and down the street. A casual bystander wouldn’t guess he was checking to make sure it was safe.

Altogether, an attractive man, in a dark and dangerous way. Had she jumped from the frying pan into the fire? She remembered then the way her hand had felt in his, and the easy comfort of the hours they’d lingered over dinner...and she knew it was too late to change her mind.

Chapter Four

They were on their way to Santa Cruz.

“Close your eyes and point,” Bill had ordered, holding a map of the Bay area in front of her.

It seemed a good omen that she’d hit on Santa Cruz. She’d become friendly with a woman on the bus who had a small baby. The woman had mentioned Santa Cruz in casual conversation. Cara wondered if she’d somehow been drawn to that spot on the map by suggestion, as if it were a kind of psychic magnet.

But, of course, she didn’t share that thought with Bill. She was learning to guard her wayward thoughts from him. Words like friend, for example, seemed to have an adverse affect on him. The man trusted no one. Not even her, really. One wrong word or gesture and he became hostile and suspicious.

It was going to be interesting trying to live with a man who would find hidden meaning and threat in a wrong-number phone call or the need to run out for milk at eleven at night. Still, she was sure she was right about the situation being mutually beneficial for both of them, and now she could hardly wait to get there, to find an apartment and a job.

She glanced over at him, half hoping she’d catch a glimpse of a similar expression of excitement on his face. He had a great profile—strong, virile, resolute. But there was no sign of excitement. His jaw was set, and his eyes squinted slightly as he concentrated on the road.

Would it be possible to find a way to bring a little fun and fantasy into this guy’s life? Cara mused. Right now, he was all mystery and menace, but she was sure that once they settled down and he felt safe from whoever “they” were he’d relax and show more humor.

Then her mind flashed back to the incident in San Francisco, and she knew Bill wouldn’t find much humor in the secret she was harboring.

She’d had to wait for him at the Museum of Natural History while he took care of some mysterious business elsewhere. He had told her he was going to buy a car, among other things, so that they could drive to Santa Cruz.

She’d wandered from exhibit to exhibit, but she’d found it hard to focus on anything, when her imagination was so preoccupied with Bill Hamlin and his “business.”

She came to the earth and shake hall and debated going in to try the “shake table,” which simulated the feeling of an earthquake. She’d decided against it, thinking it made no sense to anticipate the worst. Anyway, she’d had a feeling that living with Bill Hamlin would cause her as much quaking as a woman could handle.

She didn’t know how long she’d stood just inside the doorway, trying to decide whether or not to enter the hall, but when she went back around the corner to leave, she’d bumped right into the man from the motel in Mount View.

“Hello again!”

The man had acted as if he didn’t know her. He’d seemed both shocked and embarrassed when she persisted.

“Don’t you remember? The motel in Mount View. We met at the ice machine in the hall, and you asked me if I knew where—” She took a deep breath. “And by the elevator. You were already in it, and we were...”

“Yes. Yes.” He’d almost run from her. She’d furrowed her brow as she watched him retreat, almost running down the hall.

And then she’d stood there, thinking, Bill is going to find this one coincidence too many.

But the more she thought about it, the more convinced she was that, except for the coincidence of having run into him again, there was nothing sinister about the man.

For one thing, he was way too attractive to be some kind of thug. And for another, both here and in the elevator of the motel, he’d seemed more frightened than frightening.

Still, she knew she should tell Bill, let him be the judge. But then, when he showed up with the car, she’d been so excited at starting the last leg of their journey that the meeting with the stranger had gone clean out of her head.

She’d given no further thought to the coincidence—until now. And now she knew that if she mentioned it, Bill would be furious with her for waiting so long.

“We’ll stop up there at that café,” Bill said, pointing over the steering wheel to his left, up ahead. “I’ll bet you’re hungry by now.” The roadside café was lit up like a Christmas tree, beckoning to all the traffic trudging up the mountain.

“Oooh, that looks great!” Cara sat forward to get a better view of the place.

Bill glanced over at her and grinned. “You please easy, don’t you?”

“I guess I do,” Cara admitted. “But isn’t that better than being a malcontent?”

“Who? You mean me?”

“Boy, you really are paranoid. No, I don’t mean you, I mean in general.”

Bill was in line behind another car, waiting for an opening to make a left-hand turn. He barely muttered his response.

Cara turned the sun visor down to look at herself in the mirror. She could use a bit of freshening up, she decided. A flash of red beyond her reflection caught her eye. She moved her head and saw a red car about two cars back. She was just about to fold the visor back in place, when she glimpsed a face on the passenger side of the red car that seemed familiar.

Was it the face of the bus driver who’d taken over when they left Mount View on the replacement bus?

“Bill?” She put her hand on his arm, but he was still concentrating on crossing the road.

“Hmm?”

“Bill, I think that’s...”

“Damn!” Bill slammed on the brakes as the driver of a blue pickup changed his mind about letting him pass in front.

Cara grabbed the dashboard for support and then sat back with a shaky laugh when Bill turned to make sure she was all right.

“Sorry,” Bill muttered. “I thought the guy was slowing to let me cross.”

“It’s okay,” Cara said, pushing her hair back behind her ears.

Suddenly Bill grinned at her.

“What?”

“You look a lot younger today. Like a teenager.”

“Is that a compliment?”

His grin hung on. “I don’t know, that depends. What kind of a teenager were you?”

She gave him an impish grin. “Adorable.”

He laughed softly, and their eyes clung for a moment. A moment in which they both suddenly found the interior of the car way too confining and their proximity far too stimulating.

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