Heart of Gold

ONE

“MAMA, WHERE DO babies come from?”

Faith stopped in her tracks on her way across the spacious old kitchen. Her gaze shot first to her daughter, Lindy, who sat on the floor pretending to feed her doll from a toy baby’s bottle, then lifted skyward. “Couldn’t she have waited another year or two?” she whispered urgently.

Lindy looked up at her expectantly, her warm brown eyes shining with love and trust.

Faith tugged a hand through her mop of curls, a gesture of frustration that only added to their disarray. Loose spirals of dark honey-blond shot through with tints of red tumbled across her forehead. She blew at them as she searched frantically for an answer that would satisfy a four-year-old’s natural curiosity.

In some distant part of the house a doorbell chimed.

Smiling lovingly at her daughter, Faith breathed a huge sigh of relief. “I have to get the door, sweetie.”

Lindy had already lost interest in the conversation. She was all wrapped up in putting her doll to bed in the little toy cradle Mr. Fitz had found for her in one of the attics. Faith started for the front of the house, trying to determine which of the doorbells was ringing.

The house she had purchased to renovate and open as a bed-and-breakfast inn was actually a complex of several houses. The builder, an eccentric sea captain named Argyle Dugan, had added one house onto another over the years as his fortune from his shipping business had increased. The end result after fifty-some years of work was an architectural monstrosity.

The main building was a three-story Victorian mansion, complete with a widow’s walk. The front side of the house was graced with a large porch and ornately carved double doors flanked by etched glass panels. These were the doors Faith went toward, following the impatient sound of the bell.

Who could be in such an all-fired hurry, she wondered. It had to be a tourist. No one from Anastasia would be that anxious about anything. She swung back one of the heavy doors, and everything inside her went still.

Elegance was the first word that came to her mind. The man standing on her porch seemed to radiate it. Odd, she thought, because he wasn’t dressed in formal attire. He wore black trousers and a dark gray shirt with a black tie. His long gray raincoat hung open, the collar turned up against the brisk wind coming in off the ocean. Still, as he stood there in the late afternoon gloom, with the fog bank for a backdrop, there was a sense of elegance about him. Elegance and danger.

Faith’s gaze darted nervously to the suitcase on the floor of the porch, then back up a good six feet to the man’s face. He was handsome. No one could have argued that fact. His was a lean, angular face with high cheekbones, a bold straight nose, and pale gray eyes that stared down at her with wary disdain. There was something of the arrogant aristocrat in his looks, and something that wasn’t quite civilized in his cool silver eyes. The wind ruffled his night black hair, which was cut short on the sides-for practicality rather than fashion, she guessed.

He looked like a no-nonsense sort. A no-nonsense sort with no sense of humor.

“I’m sorry,” Faith said at last, a thin nervous tremor in her voice. The fingers of her right hand automatically went to the necklace at her throat, sliding the heart medallion back and forth. “We won’t be open for business for a few more days. I can give you directions to-”

“Are you Faith Gerrard?” His low voice made her think of whiskey and smoke and rumpled sheets.

“Kincaid,” she corrected him, swallowing hard. Heaven help her, the man had a bedroom voice. Tingles raced over her skin like hedonistic fingers. She felt as if his voice had reached out and touched her intimately. Knock it off, Faith, she told herself, this is no time to fall into a romantic fantasy. “Umm-Faith Kincaid. Yes, I am.”

He reached into an inside pocket of his overcoat and extracted what looked to Faith like a wallet, but when he flipped it open, there was a gold shield inside, as well as an identification card. His photograph frowned out at her with the kind of brooding quality that made GQ models rich.

“Shane Callan. The Justice Department sent me.”

“Ah.” Faith nodded, one hand gripping the door for support as her knees quivered. In spite of his heart-stopping looks, she should have recognized the glower. The people she had encountered in her dealings with the Justice Department had all been similarly humorless. With good reason, she supposed. Well, Mr. Callan’s humor wasn’t likely to improve when he heard what she had to say.

Outwardly she appeared calm and collected. She even managed a perfectly pleasant smile. She had learned that kind of control as a tool of self-preservation during her marriage to Senator William Gerrard. In truth her heart was racing and her hands were clammy. Just do it, Faith, she told herself as nerves scrambled around inside her stomach like crabs on the beach.

“I told Mr. Banks it wasn’t necessary to send you.” The words came tumbling out of her mouth, defying punctuation. “I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing, Mr. Callan. You’ll find a hotel in Anastasia. Good day.”

Shane stared in disbelief at the door that had just been shut in his face. This wasn’t quite the greeting he had imagined receiving from Senator Gerrard’s ex-wife. But then, he admitted, he hadn’t imagined the senator’s ex-wife would be running around in a worn-out Notre Dame sweatshirt and faded old jeans that lovingly molded her curvy little figure either.

He could easily call to mind every detail of the photographs he had casually glanced at when going through her file. Silk and mink. Hundred-dollar hairstyles and flawless makeup. The woman who had answered the door had looked more like a maid than the owner of the Keepsake Inn.

Pretty, he noted, then stubbornly ignored the sweet ache of physical attraction. It didn’t make a bit of difference to him that she had the kind of feminine appeal that made the average man’s blood heat to the boiling point. His blood was only just simmering, and he was in complete control of it.

Faith Gerrard, or Kincaid, or whatever the hell she wanted to call herself, was no woman to get tangled up with. Senator Gerrard had found her angelic expression and sparkling dark eyes irresistible too. Now the senator was under indictment for bribery, racketeering, and conspiracy to defraud the federal government, and Faith was lolling her days away under protection of the Justice Department-probably because she had cut some kind of deal for herself.

He punched the doorbell again, irritation rubbing against his raw nerve endings. He didn’t need this. He didn’t need this wimpy assignment, didn’t need the headache a woman like Faith was bound to inspire. But orders-no matter how distasteful-were orders. Banks had sent him there to do a job. No delectable little slip of a woman was going to keep him from doing it.

When she swung the door back on its hinges this time, Shane snatched up his bag and stepped inside in a move more graceful than any door-to-door salesman had ever mastered.

“Oh dear,” Faith murmured, wide-eyed. Agent Callan looked awfully determined to stay. The prospect sent another flurry of tingles down her limbs. “Umm-Mr. Callan, I don’t think you understand. It’s like I told you-”

“I know what you told me,” Shane said, staring down at her. Annoyance scratched at his temper when he realized his gaze was being drawn to the O of Notre Dame on her sweatshirt, where the letter distinctly outlined her nipple.

He cleared his throat and glared at her as if her body’s involuntary response had been planned deliberately to distract him. “Now let me tell you a thing or two, Mrs. Gerrard. Mr. Banks believes you need protection. I take orders from Mr. Banks. When the Justice Department sends an agent to look after you, you can’t just say no thank you and slam the door in his face. That may work with encyclopedia salesmen, but it doesn’t work with me.”

Faith stared open-mouthed at him for a full thirty seconds before she could scrape together a response. With her small chin set at a mutinous angle, she decided to fight arrogance with arrogance-provided she could fake it. Arrogance wasn’t high on the list of things this man was making her feel.

“The last I knew the United States was a democracy, not a police state,” she said in her most businesslike tone. “My taxes pay your wages, Mr. Callan. That makes me your boss.”

Immediately her imagination raced to consider the possibilities of having this government hunk at her beck and call. Her skin heated.

“That’s an interesting theory,” Shane said, successfully suppressing a chuckle. She was a feisty little thing… but that didn’t interest him in the least. In an effort to keep his eyes off her breasts, his gaze wandered lazily around the spacious entrance hall, taking in the heavy mahogany reception desk, the polished walnut wainscoting, and the freshly papered wall above it. “Maybe you should join a debate club.”

Faith cast a longing glance at his shins, wondering what the penalty would be for giving a federal agent a good swift kick. Her thoughts segued quickly into speculation about what his legs looked like under his fashionable trousers. Probably muscular, probably hairy, prob-

With a little gasp of surprise at the suddenly sensuous bend her mind was taking, she snapped her gaze back to focus just to the right of his handsome face.

“I really don’t appreciate your attitude, Mr. Callan,” she said primly. “You’re awfully snippy.”

Snippy? Shane had to rub a hand across his mouth to hide his amusement. He’d been called a lot of things in his day. Snippy was not among them. Damn, she was cute… but it wasn’t his job to think so.

When his gaze swung back to her, it held the sharp glint of steel. “Mrs. Gerrard, the federal government is willing to spend time and manpower protecting that pretty little fanny of yours. The least you could do is cooperate.”

“All I’ve done from the start of this nightmare is cooperate,” Faith insisted, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the fact that he’d commented on her derriere. She crossed her arms in front of her to keep from running her hands over the seat of her jeans. “I’ve been a veritable paragon of cooperation.”

“Mama?”

Shane watched with keen interest as Faith went to her daughter and knelt down. The little girl was adorable. Four years old, the file had said, a cherub with a heart-shaped face framed by red-gold waves. There was a smudge of flour on her button nose. Her eyes were the same sable shade as her mother’s, and they sparkled with curiosity as she peered over Faith’s shoulder at him.

“Who’s that, Mama?” she asked shyly.

“Nobody, sweetheart,” Faith said, trying nonchalantly to scoot around so Agent Callan wouldn’t be able to stare at her behind.

Shane scowled. Nobody, huh? The little one smiled sweetly and waved a chubby hand at him. Something caught hard in his chest. He tried to ignore the feeling as he awkwardly lifted a hand to return her salute and then self-consciously ran it back through his hair.

Rolling her eyes, Faith frowned at him, then turned back to Lindy. “Sweetie, it’s almost time for supper. Why don’t you take your baby to your room and put her to bed?”

Lindy shook her head, an impish smile curving her mouth. “She’s not sleepy.”

“She will be by the time you get to your room,” Faith assured her. She pressed a kiss to her daughter’s forehead. “Go on now. Be a good girl.”

Tossing Shane a heart-stealing smile, Lindy snuggled her doll, then turned and headed back down the hall. Faith remained on her knees for a moment, watching her daughter walk away. A day didn’t go by that she didn’t thank God for Lindy. When everything else in her world had seemed bleak and hopeless, Lindy had unfailingly provided her with sweetness and light. She was doing it still, Faith realized as she rose and turned to face Shane Callan once more.

“I imagine we can clear all this up with a phone call,” she said pleasantly. After all, she’d been raised to have good manners. And she had learned to deal with all sorts of people during her twelve years in Washington.

Of course, none of them had rattled her the way this man had. Not even the Arab sheik who had offered her former husband nine camels for her.

She could feel Callan’s gaze as he followed her. Electricity ran down her back in warm rivulets. Beneath her sweatshirt her nipples were tight knots. She became suddenly, acutely aware of her rear end. He must have been staring at it, the infuriating man. She tugged her sweatshirt down and tried not to wiggle as she led the way down the hall.

The inn’s office was a small room, neatly kept, but crowded with a walnut desk and a four-drawer filing cabinet. The wallpaper was feminine and flowery with a background that women probably called mauve, Shane thought.

He shook his pounding head in disgust. Lord, he was losing his edge, going on about wallpaper. But then he had known he was losing his edge. He had just spent a week in a hospital nursing a bullet wound that proved it. Now Banks had stuck him on this glorified guard duty. After three years spent in undercover work, this was probably just the kind of assignment he needed, but that didn’t make him like it any better.

He leaned against the doorjamb in a negligent pose as Faith went behind the desk. All he wanted right now was a hot meal and a soft pillow. The thought of a hot, soft woman was judiciously edited from the list as he dragged his gaze from Faith for the hundredth time. He was nursing a major case of jet lag and the remnants of a hangover. For two cents he would have bid this assignment adieu and gone south for some sun, but it was too late for that.

To escape his own introspection, Shane forced himself to study Faith with the cool, impersonal professionalism he was known for. A frown tugged at her mouth, but it wasn’t petulance. She looked upset as she sat in the old swivel chair behind the desk and dialed the phone number from memory. While she waited for someone to pick up on the other end of the line, she studiously avoided looking at him. The fingers of her right hand toyed nervously with the small pendant that hung on a chain around her neck.

Nice neck, he thought, his mind drifting traitorously. It was a sleek ivory column that was mostly exposed because her dark blond hair had been cut into a mop of unruly curls. The smooth, soft-looking skin beckoned for the touch of a man’s lips. Unconsciously he ran his tongue over his, then ground his teeth at the surge of desire that stirred in his loins.

“Mr. Banks, please,” Faith said to the receptionist on the other end of the line.

Her eyes darted to the man filling her office doorway. When she met his cool appraisal, her gaze dived to the ink blotter. Lord above, the man was a hunk!

She scolded herself for thinking about that. What did it matter to her that Shane Callan’s looks could have put any Hollywood star to shame? It didn’t. What did it matter to her that this gorgeous tower of masculinity found her fanny fascinating? It didn’t matter a bit. She reminded herself he was thoroughly irritating, and as soon as she spoke with Mr. Banks, he was going to be gone.

“I’d like a tour of the house right away,” Shane said, a smug smile tilting the corners of his lips.

Faith sat back in her desk chair and gave him the most disgruntled look she could muster, considering she found his smile utterly sexy. She didn’t need sexy. She didn’t need Adonis lurking around her house, making her bones go limp every time she looked at him. How would she ever get any work done going around with limp bones?

But John Banks had just shown her that he was not only as emotionless as the Rock of Gibraltar, he was as immovable as well. He had told her in no uncertain terms that she was stuck with Agent Handsome, whether she thought she needed him or not.

“I don’t understand your attitude, Mrs. Gerrard,” Shane said, perching a hip on one corner of her desk. He folded his arms across his chest. “You’re being offered protection. All things considered, you ought to be grateful.”

“It’s not that I don’t appreciate the thought,” Faith said sincerely, her sable eyes begging for understanding. Her slim shoulders lifted in a shrug. “It’s just that I don’t need protection. You’ll be wasting your time.” And upsetting my hormones, she added silently.

“That’s not what Banks thinks. Your ex-husband and his pals have been making noises about you testifying in the DataTech trial next month.”

“I know William.” She winced a bit at the memory of the man she had once pledged to love until death. “He’s very good at threats, but I don’t think he has the guts to make good on this one.”

Doubt immediately surfaced inside her. She didn’t believe William would physically hurt her, but then she’d been wrong about William Gerrard time and again. There was a time when she hadn’t believed him capable of betraying his country either.

“It doesn’t take much in the way of guts to hire someone else to carry out threats,” Shane said softly, almost gently.

Faith refused to consider that possibility. It was too remote, too unreal, like something from a television crime drama. To reassure herself, she said, “He doesn’t have any idea where I am.”

Shane simply lifted an eyebrow as if to say that was a minor problem that could be easily solved.

Rubbing a trembling hand across her forehead, Faith heaved a ragged sigh. She didn’t want to deal with any of this. She and her daughter were building a new life there on the northern coast of California. She didn’t want William Gerrard to intrude in any way.

More than anything, she wanted to forget about the way he had lied to her, the way he had used her and Lindy. She didn’t want any memories of that tainting her new life. Shane Callan was a reminder that she didn’t have any say in the matter-at least not until the trial was over.

“That tour, Mrs. Gerrard?”

“Please don’t call me that,” she whispered. “I divorced William Gerrard ten months ago.”

“Just in the nick of time,” Shane muttered half under his breath as he rose and motioned for her to precede him out the door. It wouldn’t do for him to forget that she may well have played a role in her ex-husband’s scheme. He reminded himself of that and pushed away the foreign feelings of sympathy that had been niggling at him as he’d stared down into Faith’s fathomless brown eyes.

Faith just caught his comment and bit back a retort. What did she care what Callan thought of her? Why waste her breath telling Shane Callan that a charming politician on his way to big things had swept a naive girl from the farm country of Ohio off her feet, that he had wooed her with words of love because he had believed she would be an asset to his “down-home” image. What would a man like Shane Callan know of the heartbreak she had lived with bound to a man who didn’t love her by vows she felt she couldn’t break?

No, she told herself. She was stuck with Shane Callan. The best thing she could do would be to ignore him.

Pulling herself up to her full height, she tilted her head back and looked Callan in the eye. Heavens, he was tall-six feet four if he was an inch-and his shoulders seemed to take up half the room. There was an awful lot of him to ignore, and every inch was to-die-for handsome.

“I’ll show you around the house and give you a room, but I’ll ask that you stay out of the way,” she said primly. “This inn opens in five days, and there’s still a great deal of work to be done. I don’t need some brooding cop hanging around leaving the toilet seats up.”

Shane forgot himself and let go a rusty-sounding laugh. Damn, she had more spunk than he would ever have given her credit for. He had to force a frown; he wasn’t supposed to find her amusing… or cute… or alluring…

“Take your time doing the work,” he said as he followed her down the hall toward the central staircase. “You won’t be opening for business until after the trial.”

Faith wheeled on him with a stern look that brought him up short. “I most certainly will. I have guests booked. My friends have been staying here helping me get ready for the grand opening.”

“Friends?”

Shane stopped her on the stairs with a hand on her upper arm. Turning her around, his fingertips brushed the soft outer swell of her breast. The shock of the contact instantly derailed his train of thought. How would it feel to cup his hand beneath that firm, womanly globe of flesh? Heat surged through him in a wildfire of desire.

Locking his gaze on hers, he held his breath tightly in his lungs and willed his concentration back. The strain came through his sandpaper voice. “Nobody said anything to me about your having friends.”

“I don’t doubt the concept is foreign to you,” Faith said weakly, her breath running out of her in fluttering ribbons.

Her breast seemed to heat and swell at his touch. A burning sensation ran from her chest downward to pool and swirl in the most feminine part of her. Self-preservation made her jerk her arm from Shane’s grasp.

“Jayne and Alaina are out running errands for me right now,” she said, trying to turn her mind away from sex. To her dismay she found her mental power steering had gone out, and her thoughts kept veering back to the feel of Callan’s hand on her breast. It had been forever since a man had touched her, even accidentally. Stifling a groan, she cleared her throat and forced her thoughts back to the conversation. “I’m lucky to have such good friends. Setting up an inn takes a lot of work.”

And a lot of money, Shane figured, dragging his gaze off the well-rounded female fanny that was now at eye level three steps ahead of him. The cost of this property alone, which was in a prime location along the coast less than two hours north of San Francisco, had to be astronomical.

“A thrifty way to invest your divorce settlement,” he commented mildly as he joined her in the second-floor hall.

Faith’s dark eyes flashed. “The money I took from William in the divorce was for Lindy. All I wanted for myself was to get out.”

“Ah, well, what would you need with alimony when you no doubt had your cut of the money from the defense contracts safely stashed away,” he said, pushing his coat back and tucking his hands into his trouser pockets.

Faith sucked in her breath. She knew William had tried to implicate her in his scheme after the fact. She also knew that the Justice Department had found nothing to substantiate his claims. That Shane Callan nevertheless believed she was guilty hurt her pride. She might have told herself it didn’t matter what he thought, but that didn’t take the sting out of his snide remarks.

“I bought this inn with a bank loan and money invested by friends. That’s the truth. Believe it or don’t.” With that she turned on the heel of her sneaker and marched down the hall like a petite field general.

As she took Callan through the various floors and wings of the rambling house, she recited the history of the place in the manner of an uninspired tour guide. She hoped she was boring him to death. He was nothing but trouble, and she didn’t want him anywhere near her, she reminded herself, resolutely pushing the memory of the sensation of his fingers on her breast far, far away.

Setting a brisk pace, she led him down one hall after another. They passed through guest rooms and sitting rooms. On the main floor they wandered through a library and a room Lindy called the “Aminal Room,” where Captain Dugan had covered the walls with mounted heads of exotic beasts. They cut through the ballroom, where murals adorned three walls and a grand piano sat near an outer wall that was made almost entirely of glass.

Agent Callan didn’t seem to appreciate the high ceilings and polished wood floors or the antiques or the views of the ocean. As Faith took him from the Victorian section of the house to the smaller Italianate section, then back to the Cape Cod and the original two-room cottage, his mood grew darker than the beard that shadowed his lean cheeks. By the time they arrived back at their starting point, he was swearing under his breath.

“This damn place is indefensible,” he said, scowling at Faith as if it were her fault. “There are so many ways in and out of here, it would take an army to watch them all.”

Faith laughed. This situation was so weird it was funny. What did the man think, that she should live in a bomb shelter?

“Apparently Captain Dugan never considered the paranoid needs of the average G-man when he built the place,” she said dryly, then checked her watch and sighed. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Callan, I have to see to dinner.”

His scowl bounced right off her as she turned with her pretty nose in the air and headed for the kitchen. With grudging admiration Shane gave her points for standing up to him. She had a lot of sass… and a fabulous fanny.

“Ms. Kincaid?” His low, rough voice made her turn around in her tracks. “I need a room.”

Faith nibbled at her lip. Her first impulse was to stick him in the farthest corner of the house, but she doubted he would go for that.

“Which room is yours?”

Before she could catch herself, she looked right at the door to her bedroom, not three feet from Callan. Shane gave her a sly, sexy smile and checked the room behind him, the room directly across the hall from hers.

“I’ll take this one.” Before she could voice a protest, he picked up his suitcase and went inside.

The room was small but tastefully decorated with period antiques. A fancy reproduction of a hurricane lamp squatted on a square oak table that served as a nightstand. There was an afghan folded on the seat of a pressed-back rocker in one corner. A pitcher and bowl sat on an embroidered runner on top of the dresser. The decor was decidedly feminine. Tiny flowers and vines covered the cream-colored background of the wallpaper. Ruffles and flounces adorned the four-poster bed. Dried wreaths hung on the wall, and the scent of something sweet drifted on the air. There was a very homey feel to the place.

Shane frowned. Home. What would he know about it? It had been so long since he’d been home, the memory of it seemed unreal to him.

Going through a routine that was automatic, he popped open his suitcase and began to unpack. The first thing that came out was a book of poetry. The second was a sterling flask of Irish whiskey. He poured himself a shot and tossed back half of it. He needed it. His head was pounding, his shoulder hurt like the very devil, and a black mood was crawling around the edges of his consciousness.

Recruits were taught that agents didn’t drink on the job. Shane had been on the job long enough to know agents did whatever they had to do.

He unpacked his clothes and hung them neatly in the small armoire that stood along one wall. He hung up his raincoat as well, then carefully shrugged off his shoulder harness and placed his gun on the dresser.

Pain burned in his left shoulder as he gingerly rotated his arm and felt threads of scar tissue tear loose inside where the bullet wound was still healing. Kicking off his shoes, he bent and removed the.25 caliber pistol strapped to his ankle.

Finally he stretched out on the bed to allow himself a few moments’ relaxation. That elusive sweet scent-powder-soft, flower-delicate-drifted up from the pillow as he eased his head down. The image of Faith Kincaid filled his head.

She had surprised him, and dammit, he hated surprises. He had expected her to welcome the protection the government was offering her as a key witness in what the press called DataScam. Instead she had politely said no thank you and closed the door on him as if he were a Boy Scout selling magazine subscriptions. He had expected her to be decked out in designer finery, trailing a plume of expensive fragrance. Instead she looked like an ordinary housewife who’d been caught with no makeup on.

The lack of lipstick and eye shadow didn’t make her any less appealing. Lighting a cigarette, Shane ground his teeth at the memory of the way her backside filled out a pair of jeans. His fingertips had discovered some equally delectable curves hidden under her sweatshirt. He nearly groaned aloud at the memory of her soft, womanly fullness.

No doubt about it, Faith Kincaid was a lovely little package. Too bad there was a very good chance she was a scheming little backstabber as well.

“Arrogant jerk!”

Faith’s knife sliced down, viciously mutilating the head of lettuce on the chopping block. She needed to take her temper out on something. Better it be the salad she had to prepare for dinner than Agent Callan’s thick head. And it seemed infinitely safer to recall her anger with him than to recall such things as his rare sexy smile and the seductive undercurrent of attraction that ran between them like a billion watts of electricity. Under her breath she muttered a stream of uncomplimentary observations about the man as she threw the lettuce into a bowl. Errant shreds of roughage flew all over the blue-tiled counter.

Nothing, nothing galled her more than being accused of something she hadn’t done. She was a decent, honorable person, a woman of integrity. When she had discovered William Gerrard was involved in a scam to profit from defense contracts, she had gone straight to the authorities and told them all she knew. She had done the patriotic thing, and now she was paying for it by having to put up with a cynical cop who seemed to think she had masterminded the entire evil plan.

While she hacked up a stalk of celery, she tried her best to dismiss the incident on the staircase. Unfortunately the memory of that incidental contact was a stubborn one. She thought she could still feel the tips of his fingers pressing into her breast. A traitorous flush washed over her, and Faith cursed herself and her breast and Shane Callan and all men everywhere.

With brown eyes narrowed and sparking with anger, she planted a huge onion on the chopping block and bisected it with one violent slice of the knife. Little flecks of white exploded off the wooden surface as she chopped with a vengeance.

“Mama, can I help?” Lindy asked, tugging at Faith’s pant leg.

“No, Lindy, this is Mama’s work,” she said, dismissing her daughter and letting her mind turn back to nasty speculation as to the species occupying space in Shane Callan’s family tree.

“But I’m a mama too,” Lindy protested crossly. “I put my baby to bed, and now I have to make supper.”

“Not tonight.”

Lindy stamped her foot in a rare show of temper. “Yes!”

“Lindy.” Faith heaved an impatient sigh, put her knife down, and lifted a hand to push her bangs back from her forehead. Burning, stinging tears rose immediately in her eyes from the strong onion scent that drenched her fingers.

Biting her tongue on a string of curses, she grabbed a towel and sank to the floor with her back to the cabinets, feeling frustrated and defeated and tired and just plain mad. Lindy stared at her with wide, worried brown eyes.

“Don’t cry,” she said, her bottom lip trembling threateningly. “I don’t like it when you cry, Mama.”

Faith held her arms out to her little daughter and was immediately engulfed in a warm hug, the smell of baby powder and little girl washing over her. “I’m sorry, sweetie. Mama’s not having a very good day.”

Lindy hugged her tighter and patted her back consolingly. “Poor Mama.”

Poor Mama, Faith agreed silently, as she took comfort from holding her child. She had foolishly believed all her troubles had been left behind. The width of a continent separated her from the man who had imprisoned her in an empty, miserable life. But her problems weren’t over. There was one big, disgustingly handsome one right down the hall, waiting for her to call him to dinner.

“A mansion in the mist,” the man said softly to himself as he lowered his binoculars and sat back against the plush leather seat of the rented Jag. An evil smile turned his lips upward as he ran a loving hand over the gun that lay on top of a folder full of illegally reproduced Justice Department reports. Briefly he wondered how long it would be before anyone noticed that one lowly secretary had never returned from her hastily requested vacation. Just as quickly the thought was dismissed, and he stared once again at the inn perched at the cliff’s edge. “A mansion in the mist. How very Gothic. How very apropos. The perfect setting for a murder.”