Книга - Errant Angel

Errant Angel
Justine Davis


Dalton Mackay Was No Angel But Evangeline Law was - and she had never met a human she couldn't save.Dalton, with his devil-may-care swagger, would have been a challenge - if he were her mission. But Evangeline had her divine orders, and Dalton would have to fend for himself. Evangeline Law Was No Lady… There was something odd about Evangeline, but Dalton couldn't put his finger on it.He only knew he was crazy about her - or maybe just plain crazy. Because suddenly Dalton found himself believing in things he never had before. Impossible things - like heaven. And destiny. And love…









Errant Angel

Justine Davis











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


For the proprietor of Tom’s Garage…

The real angel in my life




Contents


Prologue (#u838c0316-0440-52d8-b1cb-d5fc923d99b1)

Chapter One (#u13bc194c-d677-5bd0-9f39-00c4d0c5231d)

Chapter Two (#uf5c32890-0976-5fe5-8d85-310c265f7c72)

Chapter Three (#uaa72da16-303e-5afa-818c-6547c5b09b99)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)




Prologue


“We have no choice.”

“We’re shorthanded.”

“She’s the only one available.”

The words were as gloomy as the clouds that swirled around them while the group sadly agreed. They turned as one to look at the boss, who let out a sigh. That alone told them he’d about reached the end of his rope, a rope pulled tight for too long and far too often by their errant problem child.

“Very well,” he answered at last. “We will try once more.”

“Maybe it will be all right,” someone else put in hopefully. “Somehow, even when she does things...differently, they seem to come out right in the end.”

There was a grumble of voices as they argued over that optimistic interpretation.

“She’s not that bad,” the hopeful one insisted. “You know her heart is true, she just gets...impulsive sometimes. And she was rather young when we recruited her. It’s not her fault that she didn’t have as much life experience as some of the others.”

The rest of the group snorted—as much as they were capable of—in disdain.

“Enough.”

They stopped, and turned their attention once more to the boss.

“Perhaps we’ve been going about this the wrong way,” he went on. “Perhaps in trying to control her, we’ve made a mistake. Humans are unpredictable.”

“Now that’s an understatement,” somebody muttered, earning an uncomfortable moment of the boss’s attention.

“I think,” he continued, “that this time we shall—how do they say it?—let her run.”

“I think they say,” somebody else muttered, “give her enough rope to hang herself.”

“Perhaps,” the boss agreed. “Or perhaps she will prove herself instead.”

“You mean you’re really going to turn her loose? No safeguards, no limitations?”

There was a pause before the answer came. “None except those necessary to protect her.”

A low, collective whistle rose from the group. Only once before had the limitations been suspended, and the result had been...well, unexpected, to say the least. It was the reason they were shorthanded now; they’d lost their very best, but they found it hard to mourn the loss when it had taught them much about human love and joy.

“If we’re going to do it,” the hopeful one said, “we’d better do it now. That child is headed for big trouble.”

“Yes,” the boss said, focusing on the hopeful one. “You’ll be her contact for this mission.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Everyone else seems to expect her to fail. That’s not what we’re about.”

A rustling rose from the group as the rest of them shifted uncomfortably; there was too much truth in the boss’s words.

“All right,” the hopeful one agreed, although they all knew she had little choice in the matter. And it was an honor, of sorts, to be put in charge.

Even if past history showed it might be somewhat like being in charge of an out-of-control circus.




One


What on earth?

Evangeline lifted her head, pressing one hand against her chest. What on earth, she repeated silently, was this odd feeling? This pressure, this constriction, this awful tightness?

In the depths of her mind, a memory stirred, but it was gone before she could put a name to it. The squeezing sensation increased, until she felt as if something vital would burst under the strain. She looked around her, but nothing had changed. She was still alone in the quiet, wet darkness of the little California town a few lonely miles over the hills behind Santa Barbara, on a midnight-deserted street where even the dogs had taken refuge from the rain.

Her fingers curled as she reached toward the golden chain around her neck. But before she could touch the oddly shaped pendant that hung from the chain, the distant mist in her mind parted, and she knew what the feeling was.

Pain. She was feeling pain.

She was so startled that she nearly slipped on a patch of rain-slick pavement. Pain?

“Impossible,” she murmured. She never felt pain. They’d made sure of that. Especially not this kind, the heart-wrenching, gut-level agony of emotions ripped to shreds.

She looked around again, but saw nothing unusual, no explanation for this unexpected sensation. The drugstore she stood in front of was dark. So was the café at the end of the block. The only sign of life at all was a light on upstairs over the auto repair shop across the street.

She tried to focus on the pain, tried to sense the source, but the feeling itself was so fierce, so strong, that it overwhelmed all else.

She reached again for the pendant that hung from the gold chain around her neck. It warmed in her hand, gave off an eerie golden glow, but nothing else happened.

“Great,” she muttered. “The line’s busy.”

She waited, not very patiently; it was hard, in the face of this unrelenting ache, to be stoical. At last the pendant thrummed gently. She nearly snapped the inquiry out.

What took you so long?

The answer formed chidingly in her mind. Tut, tut, my dear, it wasn’t that long.

Easy for you to say. I’ve got a problem here.

So we sensed. Whatever is that odd sensation?

It’s pain, oh mighty one.

Sarcasm does not become you, Evangeline. Besides, that’s impossible. You know you can’t be injured.

Not physical pain. This is different. Emotional.

Oh?

Interest filtered through. The concept of emotional pain, of pure, human heartache, had always fascinated her bosses, since they never experienced it themselves. It had been a very long time since she’d felt that kind of pain, but she remembered, and the memories were more vivid than any recollection of mere physical discomfort.

She tightened her fingers around the pendant as she went on.

I can’t find the source. It’s so overpowering, I can’t even determine a direction.

You’ve always been very sensitive in that area.

Her brow was furrowed now.

I still can’t pin it down. How can I accomplish my mission if I can’t even find my mission?

She could have sworn she heard a sigh. Hopefully not the same way you usually do.

She would have blushed if they hadn’t removed that capability, as well. She knew they were referring to her sometimes reckless approach, and tactics that had caused them much stress on more than one occasion. Then, before she could come up with a suitable—or even unsuitable—comeback, they gave her an answer that puzzled her.

Actually, you shouldn’t be sensing pain from your target. He’s not feeling pain right now, emotional or otherwise. The boy is much too angry.

Then what am I getting? It’s awful. Like someone whose soul is caving in on him.

Him?

She hesitated before going on.

Yes, it is a man. I can tell that much. He must be my mission. He’s in agony.

No. It’s the boy. You know that, we sent you all the information.

I know, it’s just that—

No, Evangeline. Please, for once, tend to business.

But—

No.

It was flat, it was determined, it was an order, and if she hadn’t known it was impossible for them, she would have said they were tired. She gave up for now.

I understand, she sent.

The connection faded. Quickly. Maybe they were tired, she thought. Of her, she added glumly. As if it was her fault people sometimes didn’t react the way she thought they would. Well, if they didn’t like the way she did her job, then they could fire her. After all, she hadn’t asked for this, they’d come to her. Of course, she hadn’t had many options at the time....

Now that the communications link was gone, the pain came rushing back. It seemed to roll over her from her left, and instinctively she looked in that direction. And saw again the single light glowing in the window over the repair garage.

She had taken several steps before the stern order she’d been given brought her up short. She stood there in the dampness, not really feeling the chill. It didn’t take her long—it never did—to rationalize it out. She obviously couldn’t function through this haze of pain, so she had to find the source, didn’t she? Maybe it was something she could fix quickly, and then get on with her work, as ordered.

She started off again, then hesitated again. They had been angry with her, the last time. She’d half expected them to pull her after that one. Not that it had been her fault that dying little girl’s brother had been so awful. And she’d thought the punishment she’d doled out to him moderate enough—why shouldn’t he spend a week hearing in his head what everyone was thinking about him? Besides, it had all come out right in the end.

And she couldn’t bear this. She truly couldn’t. Besides, she hadn’t really said she’d give it up. She’d said only that she understood they wanted her to. She started toward the light.

Three Oaks Garage.

She stood looking up at the faded lettering over the high, roll-up door. The place looked old, as did most of the buildings of this small business district that was centered around the plaza where the three spreading old trees the town had been named for stood. She had no doubts now that she was in the right place; whoever was sending off those waves of anguish was here, close by. No doubt in the room with the light; no one who was feeling like this would be sleeping much.

She tilted her head back, staring up at the rectangle of light. She spared a second to hope that the bosses weren’t monitoring her power usage, then closed her eyes and concentrated.

The darkness behind her eyelids seemed to swirl, then lessen, fading to gray. Slowly the image formed, wavered, then settled.

It was a small room, teetering on the edge of shabby. There were few furnishings; a narrow, neatly made bed against a far wall, a single armchair in front of a small television, on top of which was the only new touch in the room, an inexpensive VCR. Across a side wall was a sink, a small two-burner stove, and a waist-high refrigerator. Next to that was a door that led to a tiny, pocket bathroom.

The carpeting was worn to the threads in spots, and the curtains that hung at the single bank of windows were old and faded by the sun. Yet the room was painfully clean and tidy, with none of the clutter of day-to-day living. No dishes, no glasses, no newspaper casually tossed after reading. The atmosphere of the room was beyond austere, it was almost Spartan.

This visualizing was the hardest of her powers to maintain, and she knew she would be drained if she kept it up much longer. Still she concentrated, raising her fingers to her temples and pressing in a way she’d found helped her sharpen the images.

She sensed him then, sitting at a plain wooden table against the wall beneath the windowsill, and she shifted her concentration. She saw his hands first, strong, work-roughened hands with long, supple-looking fingers curled around the pen he held, an end gripped in each clenched fist. Gripped so tightly, as he stared at the sheet of paper in front of him, that his knuckles were white with tension.

Even as she watched, the plastic of the pen gave under his fierce grasp, snapping in two with a sharp, cracking sound. His head came up then, and he stared at the ruined pen in his hands with eyes that were full of rage, pain and, oddly, resignation. It was a combination so powerful she had to suspend the vision for a moment, for fear the pain would swamp her.

Resignation. The thought came to her suddenly: as if he’d expected nothing less from his own hands than destruction. And for the first time in longer than she could remember, she couldn’t tell if the flash of intuition had come from the outside, as usual, or from within her. It had seemed different, but she hadn’t had to rely on her own instincts for so long, she wasn’t certain she would recognize them anymore.

Just as she wasn’t certain about the odd feeling that flooded her as she looked at the man whose suffering had drawn her here. His hair was dark, long enough to brush over his shoulders, and somewhat shaggy. It gleamed in the light of the single lamp, as meticulously clean as the room he sat in. His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, and he looked a bit too thin for his size, although there was no lack of muscle in the arms bared below the rolled-up sleeves of a faded chambray work shirt.

She looked again at his face, at the lean, strong jaw, the high, almost aristocratic cheekbones, the straight line of his nose. And she saw the scar, although it was nearly concealed by the thick fall of his hair over his forehead. It was a jagged, wicked mark, running from his right temple up into the hairline above his right eye.

Those eyes. She made herself look at them again, bracing herself for a flood of that incapacitating pain. There was so much darkness around this man that it almost startled her to realize his thickly lashed eyes were green, shadowed now, but a vivid green nevertheless.

The image shifted, wavered, and she knew she was going to lose it. She saw him throw down the broken pieces of the pen, saw them roll across the paper on the desk, coming to a stop below the scrawled salutation that was the only thing written on the page. He reached out and crumpled the paper into a shroud for the destroyed pen, and tossed them both into a metal can on the floor.

And the pain faded away. As if he’d tossed it into the can, as well.

With the loss of the pain, her focus shattered and she was once more out on the rainy street, staring up at the rectangle of light.

And she was exhausted. She always was, when she tried to use that particular talent for too long. She’d heard that some of the others found it easy, and she envied them. Nothing seemed to come easily for her.

But at least she could think now, of something other than that awful pain. She could go on and, as the bosses had said, “tend to business.” Yet she stood still, heedless of the rain that was becoming heavy again.

Who was Linda? That had been the name he’d written at the top of the page. “Dear Linda.” Then he’d stopped. Because the pain had started? Was she a lover, lost to him, this Linda who caused him such agony?

She felt an odd pang at the thought, a faint echo of the ache she’d sensed before. But again, she couldn’t be sure of its origin, if it had indeed been his pain, or her own.

She nearly laughed at herself. Of course it wasn’t her own pain; she never felt pain. But she did get tired, and she was tired now. That had to explain why she was suffering from this odd confusion. A little rest and she’d be fine. She’d better be, she had a lot to do tomorrow. In fact, she had more to do tonight, if the people whose lives she was about to drop into were going to accept the persona she was to present to them. It was time to get started.

But as she turned away, she couldn’t help but look back at the window above her.

It was dark now.

* * *

“I don’t know about you guys, but I think this textbook is as dull as dishwater.”

Twenty fifteen-year-olds gaped at their new teacher, then turned heads to stare at each other in astonishment.

“So,” Evangeline went on, “we’re going to do this a little differently. History from a book is fine, but it’s dead. History was made by living, breathing people, like you, and that’s how it should be taught. So this—” she held up the heavy, ponderous text and grinned “—is history.”

She dropped the book into the cavernous bottom drawer of the desk at the front of the room and slammed the drawer shut. A cheer went up from the room.

“Ms. Law?”

Evangeline nodded at the wide-eyed, concerned-looking girl who sat in the front row. “Yes, Karen?”

“What will we study, then?”

“Who cares?” came a voice from the back of the room.

Jimmy, she thought. Jimmy Sawyer. Her mission.

His slouched, careless posture trumpeted his disinterest, not only in school but in life in general. Thin and gangly, he wore ragged, baggy jeans rolled up above heavy, black combat boots, a T-shirt with the logo of one of the more rancorous rock bands, and a denim jacket with the sleeves cut out. His sandy brown hair hung long over his right ear, but was cut short on the left side, no doubt purposely, to draw attention to the dangling silver skull earring that pierced his left ear.

And anger radiated from him, until Evangeline was amazed that one so young could contain it all. His foster parents must be at their wit’s end with him. But he had every right to be angry at life, she thought. His entire family—parents and a brother and sister—had been wiped out six years before, in the crash of a plane en route to the funeral of his grandfather, a plane he hadn’t been on because he’d been sick and had to stay at home with a neighbor. The report from the bosses had been strictly factual, but the starkness of it only added to the poignancy; because he’d missed one funeral, he’d been the only one left to go to all the others.

Knowing the battle for the boy’s future had begun, she echoed his question. “Who cares?”

“Yeah,” chimed in another student. “At least we don’t have to read that boring stuff anymore.”

The cheering erupted again, this time threatening to get out of hand. Evangeline lifted her eyes and scanned the room, giving each of the rowdy students a full second’s look. They settled down, even as they looked around suspiciously, as if not sure themselves why they were being so cooperative. Even Jimmy straightened a little, although he didn’t look happy about it.

“True, you won’t have to read ‘that boring stuff,’” she explained. “But you will learn. You’ll learn not only what people did, but why. You’ll learn what they felt, what drove them to do what they did.”

Their cheer started to fade a little. She paused, looking out over the class again, stretching her senses, processing the information they brought her.

“How would you feel,” she said casually, “if I told you the government has decided to put a tax on, say, music, but only for kids? Adults won’t have to pay it when they buy a CD or a tape. Just kids. And not because they want the money—but just to show you who’s in charge, who has the authority, just to remind you that you’re only children, and they’re the boss.”

There was an instant of silence, then an outburst of outraged discussion.

“That wouldn’t be fair,” Karen protested from the front row.

“What would you do about it?”

“Fight it!” the girl exclaimed.

“Quit buying tapes,” a boy beside her put in.

“Jimmy?” Evangeline lifted a brow at the boy. “What would you do?”

He seemed surprised to be called on. The bosses had told her that the previous teacher had been glad the boy was usually content to be sullenly silent. The older man had been intimidated by Jimmy’s appearance and his attitude. But surprised or not, the boy had a seditious answer ready on the tip of his tongue.

“Screw ‘em,” he said. “I’d smash their stuff and send it back to them in pieces.”

Cheers and shock seemed to be about evenly spread throughout the room.

“Well, Jimmy,” she said, grinning, “that is exactly what the men of Boston thought the night they dumped the East India Company’s tea into Boston Harbor.”

The boy looked startled, then embarrassedly pleased as cheers rose from his classmates. Evangeline felt a spurt of relief; if the boy could still be pleased at the approval of his peers, then he wasn’t beyond redemption. Maybe, just maybe, this job would go right.

* * *

“She’s kinda cool, really. Nobody’s cut class for a week now.”

Dalton MacKay glanced at the boy, hiding his surprise. Cool was not a word Jimmy often used in reference to school. He straightened up from under the hood of the old truck and looked at the boy, who was fiddling with the chain on his rather distinctive bicycle, a conglomeration of brightly colored parts that Dalton wasn’t sure he wanted to know the origin of.

“Hand me that spark plug socket, will you?” he said. Jimmy hesitated, then reached into the open drawer of the big toolbox. When he handed him the right socket, Dalton gave the boy a smile as he fastened it on the ratchet. “Good. You remembered. So, why is this new teacher cool?”

Jimmy smiled almost shyly at the acknowledgment that he had remembered what Dalton had taught him last weekend. Then he shrugged. “She just is. I mean, instead of makin’ us read that junk, and then just memorize a bunch of dates and stuff that don’t mean anything, she...she makes it seem real. Like it was real people, who were pissed off and did something about it.”

Dalton reached down to yank the next spark plug. “It was real people.”

“I know, but it never seemed like that before. She makes you think about how they felt, you know? Like we talk about something that’s a big deal today, and she gets us all going, and then shows us how what we feel is exactly what they felt, back then.” The boy grimaced. “It’s hard to explain.”

“I’d say you explained it just fine,” Dalton said. “Hand me that box of new plugs, will you?”

Jimmy scooped up the small carton from the neatly organized workbench and handed it to him.

“You’d like her, too,” Jimmy said.

Not likely, Dalton thought. It had been a long time since he’d liked anybody. He only tolerated Jimmy hanging around all the time because he reminded him so much of himself at that age, full of anger and putting up a tough front to hide hurt feelings he wouldn’t ever admit to having. He knew the boy had been orphaned young, had lived in foster home after foster home since, and he couldn’t help the stirring of empathy he felt, despite his vow never to feel anything resembling closeness to anyone again.

Jimmy was looking at him expectantly and, trying to hide the weariness of another near-sleepless night, Dalton asked the question Jimmy was expecting.

“What makes you say that?”

“Well,” Jimmy drawled, not disguising the bantering note in his voice very successfully, “it could be because she’s really awesome-looking. And she’s not married.”

Dalton winced inwardly at the unsubtle words. But he didn’t react outwardly; he remembered enough about being fifteen to know that any reaction would just egg the boy on.

Then, as if puzzled at himself, Jimmy added, “It’s weird, though. I always thought blondes were the best looking, but she’s got this hair that’s like...like those trees up in the mountains, that change color this time of year, you know? Kind of red, brown and gold all mixed up together. And big brown eyes, all soft and gentle, like that fawn that came out of the hills last year.”

Dalton blinked; for Jimmy, the description was tantamount to poetry. As if he realized that, the boy instantly lapsed back into insouciance. “She’s kind of little, but she’s built, too—long legs, nice little butt, great ti—”

“I get the idea,” Dalton interrupted.

“Well, she’s no older’n you are, and there aren’t any single women as old as you around here—”

“Thanks,” Dalton said dryly. “That’s what I get for turning thirty.”

“I just meant—”

“I know what you meant,” Dalton said, more kindly this time.

After all, he thought as he bent over the fender of the old truck to begin installing the new spark plugs, how was the kid supposed to know that the absence of available women—or anyone else his age—was one of the attractions this little, out-of-the-way town held for him? People were abandoning small towns like this in droves, but he had searched this one out, looking for peace, not to forget, but to remember.

“I like things just the way they are, okay? The last thing I need is some woman cluttering things up.”

Especially some long-legged woman with a nice little butt and brown eyes like Bambi.

“Yeah,” Jimmy said, grinning widely now, “but this one drives an absolutely cherry ‘57 Chevy.”

Dalton straightened up, curious now. “A what?”

“You heard me. It’s red and white, in primo shape, and is it hot!”

“Two-door?”

“You got it. Bel Air hardtop.”

One corner of Dalton’s mouth quirked upward. “Two eighty-three, V-8?”

Jimmy’s smile faded. “I...don’t know. I mean, it sounds hot, but I...”

His voice trailed off in uncertainty, and Dalton remembered how hard it was at that age, when you’d worked so hard at that “cool, don’t care” attitude, to admit there was something you didn’t know.

Dalton shrugged easily. “That’s why you’re here, right? To learn?”

The boy’s expression brightened. “I told her I liked cars, that you were teaching me about them, so she let me look at it this afternoon.”

The boy seemed suddenly embarrassed, and Dalton felt a flash of trepidation.

“And?” he prompted.

“I...”

“Jimmy,” he said warningly.

“I sort of...invited her over here today. I thought you’d like to see the car.”

Dalton smothered a groan. He’d had a feeling he’d regret the day he let Jimmy start hanging around. He’d come here to be alone, not have everybody in town casually dropping by.

“Damn it, Jimmy,” he began, but when he saw the boy’s face change, when he saw the flash of fear in his eyes before that uncaring facade snapped back into place, he bit back the rest of his exclamation; it was like looking at an image of himself at fifteen, all the walls already in place, hiding the fear that had filled him. By twenty, those walls had been nearly impenetrable. If Mick hadn’t come along—

He cut the thought off swiftly, with the ease of long practice. He heard the sound of a car approaching—one that obviously, from the healthy sound of the motor, didn’t need his attention—but ignored it for the moment. Jimmy, he thought. Concentrate on Jimmy. He hadn’t meant to scare the kid.

“Never mind,” he said. “It’s okay. I just had a lot of work to do today.” He shrugged. “But it’ll be here tomorrow. And how often does a guy get a chance to look at an ‘absolutely cherry ‘57 Chevy’?”

Jimmy brightened up, and the practiced facade of indifference fell away. For a moment he looked like an average, excited fifteen-year-old boy. The boy Dalton had seen glimpses of, the boy the rest of Three Oaks would swear didn’t exist. They saw only the troublemaker, the tough-talking, rough-dressing kid, and they shook their heads and muttered about what was wrong with kids these days. Just as, in another town much like this one, adults had once shaken their heads and spoken as if the words Dalton MacKay and delinquent were inseparable.

“You’re not really mad, then?” Jimmy asked.

“No. Not really.”

“Good,” the boy said with relief. “Because here she is.”

He turned, realizing he should have guessed what the source of that healthy thrum was. He couldn’t help smiling when he saw what looked indeed like an “absolutely cherry” ‘57 Chevy, with the distinctive tail fins and the inimitable styling. The red-and-white car came to a halt, and the rumble of the powerful motor stopped. Dalton felt his smile widen; he’d always had a weakness for beautiful machinery, and this classic was all of that—perfectly straight, sleek and utterly spotless.

Then the driver’s door opened, and a pair of legs that seemed to go on forever swung out. A woman stood up, a sweep of burnished auburn hair with golden highlights that danced in the sun falling forward as she tugged down a skirt that wasn’t that short to begin with, but seemed that way because of the length of the shapely legs beneath. A gold shape he couldn’t discern from here glinted against the skin below her throat.

Besides the legs and that incredible hair, the rest of her seemed to live up to Jimmy’s advance billing, as well; she was petite, barely five-three, he guessed, but the womanly curve of hip combined with an eminently cuppable derriere was a potent combination. And speaking of cuppable, Dalton thought a little numbly, aware he was staring but somehow unable to stop, her breasts were more than nice, they were—

They were none of his business, he snapped at himself, straightening the fingers that had involuntarily started to curl at his thoughts, angry at his unexpected reaction. But she was, as Jimmy had said, awesome-looking.

Then she raised her head, looked straight at Dalton, and his heart slammed to a stop as his gut contracted fiercely. This was no fawn-innocent woman, despite the huge brown eyes. Those eyes had seen much, and held a bone-deep wisdom and gentleness he’d seen only once before in his life, in the eyes of the man who was the closest thing he’d ever had to a father. The man he’d killed as surely as if he’d taken a gun and blown his brains out.




Two


It was him, Evangeline thought, her breath stalling oddly in her throat. He seemed to be as stunned as she was. The moment their eyes had met she’d felt a rush of reaction from him, so confused and powerful she hadn’t been able to sort out the emotions. Then he’d shut himself off, and she hadn’t been able to read anything. Or perhaps it had been because she’d been dealing with an unexpected response of her own.

She didn’t understand it. She shouldn’t be reacting this way. Her vision that rainy night had been quite clear, so why was he so much more...more everything, in person? And why did she feel this strange sensation in her chest, as if her heart had suddenly lost its rhythm and was trying madly to find it again?

He was taller than she would have guessed from what she’d seen that night, his dark hair not as shaggy-looking now that it was neatly combed, and he didn’t seem quite so thin now that she was standing face-to-face with his leanly muscled body. But those incredible green eyes were unmistakable, although they were shuttered now, unreadable, even to her. This man had had a lot more practice than Jimmy at putting up walls.

When the boy had first mentioned Dalton MacKay, she’d thought it must be the man she’d seen; he did live over the garage, after all. And when Jimmy had told her more about him, she’d been nearly certain.

“About the only guy between eighteen and fifty in the whole damn town,” the boy had said. “It’s weird that he wanted to come here. Everybody else bails out of this pit stop as soon as they can.”

Just like I’m going to.

The boy hadn’t said the words, but he hadn’t needed to; the words, the need, were clear in his eyes. As, she realized, was the hero-worship. She’d noticed it the first time the boy had begun to talk about Dalton MacKay.

It was the boy’s talk about cars, and about the man whose name had once been known by thousands, that had prompted her to decide on the classic car. The quickest way to the boy’s heart, she’d told the bosses. They had, somewhat to her surprise, agreed rather easily and produced the replication.

She’d known it was the right move the moment Jimmy had seen the Chevy; he’d lit up at the sight of it. His uncaring facade had fallen away, and he’d become uncharacteristically voluble in his enthusiasm. Then he had launched into extolling the virtues of the local mechanic—who was, it appeared, much more than he seemed.

“He drove at Indy, in the 500, can you believe it? Nearly won it as a rookie four years ago, and held first place up until his engine blew ten laps from the finish the next year. If it hadn’t been for that crash...”

“Crash?” she’d asked, remembering the scar she had seen on the forehead of the man whose pain had overwhelmed her on that rainy night.

“Yeah. In the 500, two years ago. Dalton was hurt, and couldn’t race anymore. It really stinks, because he would have won, I know he would.”

And if he had, she thought as she looked at Dalton now, what were the chances that he’d be here, in this quiet little town, to become the idol that kept one angry teenage boy from blowing up entirely?

She knew the answer to that: zero.

She glanced at Jimmy; the boy’s gaze was flicking from her to Dalton, somewhat uneasily.

“Er...Dalton, this is Ms. Law,” he said finally, awkwardly. “The teacher I was telling you about.”

Evangeline felt a tiny spurt of triumph. If the boy had been talking about her to his idol, then she was getting through. She hadn’t expected results so quickly.

“I gathered,” Dalton said.

Her breath caught again at the sound of his voice. And she didn’t understand that any more than she did her other reactions to this man. In all her years in this work, nothing like this had ever happened to her.

“Isn’t the car great?”

Jimmy’s enthusiasm bubbled over, and satisfaction rippled through Evangeline at his innocent delight. This had been the right approach. The car had gotten her close to the troubled boy faster than anything else could have. Maybe at last she was getting the hang of this work. Maybe she could avoid a stern lecture on her sometimes chaotic methods this time.

“Yeah,” Dalton agreed, turning his attention to the car. As she watched him, Evangeline was sure she had only imagined that sensation of relief as he had turned away from her. She had to have imagined it, because if she hadn’t, then she was stuck with the problem of determining which of them it had come from, and she was having a little problem with that at the moment.

She heard Jimmy’s excited chatter about the car, but her attention was fastened on the man beside him. She stared at him, reaching out with her senses; she had to know if he meant well by Jimmy, or had some ulterior motive for letting the boy hang around all the time. It was something she’d sadly learned over the years, that ulterior motives were often the norm rather than the exception, and she didn’t like the idea of anyone using an already troubled boy—barely more than a child, really—for some reason of their own.

It wasn’t working. She was blocked. She couldn’t get through his formidable defenses, not from this distance. Those walls of his were too high, too thick; it was going to take more to read him. She was, she thought, sucking in a quick breath as the realization came to her, going to have to touch him. Only then could she find out what she needed to know. The idea disturbed her, and she wasn’t sure why. But she knew it was the only way.

She moved toward them.

“...love the red-and-white tuck-and-roll. And wait until you see the motor,” Jimmy was saying, running around to the front of the car and moving as if to reach for the latch.

“Jimmy,” Dalton said warningly, glancing at her.

The boy looked blank for a moment, then color tinged his cheeks. “Oh. Sorry.” He looked at Evangeline, his eyes pleading. “Can I show him?”

“Of course you can.” Good Lord, she thought. The town mechanic teaching the wild boy manners. Much of her wariness about the man’s motives faded, but she still needed to be sure. She came up beside him as Jimmy fumbled with the hood latch.

Concentrating on thinking only of Jimmy, to screen the information she would get, she casually, as if accidentally, brushed against Dalton’s arm. Her breath caught as skin touched skin; something seemed to leap between them, something hot, vivid and alive. For an instant she felt him stiffen, then, as casually as she had, he moved away. But it had been long enough.

For a moment the flood of images confused her; she thought by some glitch she was getting Jimmy directly instead. It seemed altogether too possible that she’d messed it up, as much trouble as she was having getting Dalton MacKay out of her thoughts. Then she realized it was only that the situations had been so alike—a temporary home with frustrated foster parents who were spread too thin and an abandoned boy who hid his fear behind a front of anger and sullen indifference.

She knew in that instant that Dalton MacKay had opened a tiny gap in his solid protective walls for no other reason than to try to help a boy whose feelings he understood all too well. And she knew, as well, how very hard it had been for him, to open up even that little bit.

But underlying everything she’d picked up from him was a vicious, draining sense of guilt, so powerful she could feel it tugging at her even now, after the contact had been broken. It almost overwhelmed the memory of that odd, electric little jolt that had raced through her at the touch of his skin against hers. Shaken, she had to turn away for a moment. Then Jimmy managed to release the latch, and she automatically looked up, following the movement as he lifted the hood.

She saw Dalton’s eyes widen, and a low whistle escaped him. “Factory fuel injection!” he exclaimed. “These are really rare.”

“I told you it was hot.” Jimmy was grinning again.

Dalton glanced at Evangeline, hesitated, then asked, “The tranny’s a four-speed close ratio, then?”

She saw the flicker of doubt and guessed he wasn’t sure she could answer the question. She gave him a wry look.

“Yes. And it’s all mine,” she said. “Not borrowed from some husband or boyfriend back home.”

He blinked, startled, then had the grace to look chagrined. “Sorry. I didn’t think I was being that obvious. And I didn’t mean to assume.”

“That where there’s a hot car, there’s got to be a man involved?” Dalton shifted uncomfortably, and she relented. “It’s okay. I’m used to...being different.” If you only knew, she added silently.

“She likes baseball and football, too,” Jimmy proclaimed, watching Dalton. “I told you she was cool.”

Something she didn’t recognize came into Dalton’s gaze then, and incredibly, she felt heat rise in her cheeks. She was so startled she almost reached for the pendant, to ask what on earth was going on. She never blushed. It took emotions she wasn’t supposed to have to blush.

“Yes,” Dalton said slowly, answering Jimmy but looking at her. “Yes, you did.”

A feeling she had never known filled her as she met his eyes—a sudden urge to run, to flee, to escape whatever was happening here. And she couldn’t explain the impression she got that he was feeling the same way. Like two people who had opened doors on opposite sides of a room, to find the room in flames, she thought, wondering where the image had come from. But all that really mattered was this need to back away. Quickly.

“I—I have to go,” she said. She sounded peremptory, she realized, and she hadn’t meant to. Another oddity, she thought; she usually had complete control over her presentation; it was a necessity for her work. “I’m glad you like the car,” she added lamely.

He looked as if he were about to say something, then stopped and merely nodded. He turned away, his expression showing her that her words had been a dismissal much sharper than she’d meant them to be. An awkward silence reigned as Dalton walked back to the truck he’d been working on without another word. He picked up a socket wrench and went back to work under the hood of the old truck.

“Uh,” Jimmy began, obviously aware of the tension but uncertain—as she was, Evangeline thought—of the exact cause, “maybe you could bring it by again sometime. Dalton’d probably like to look closer at the motor, wouldn’t you?”

He ended on a rising note, looking over at Dalton. The man merely shrugged, not looking up. Evangeline winced inwardly at the crestfallen expression that slipped over Jimmy’s face.

“Maybe I will,” she reassured the boy.

As she drove away she looked in the rearview mirror, seeing the two of them, together, yet as alone as any two people she’d ever seen.

And she wondered what on earth Dalton could possibly have done that could make him feel so much guilt it was nearly smothering him.

* * *

Are you guys doing something weird up there?

Whatever do you mean?

I mean, I know you aren’t real happy with me, but if you’re going to change the rules on me, I wish you’d at least let me know.

There was a moment of silence from them. She always thought of it as talking to “them,” even though there was only one doing the actual communicating; it must be that ridiculous royal “we” they insisted on using. But she knew they were all listening. Especially when it came to her.

Evangeline tightened her grip on the pendant as she sat curled up in the big, overstuffed chair that took up one corner of the bedroom she’d rented from Mrs. Webster, mainly because it was across the street from the house where Jimmy lived. She waited, imagining them discussing what to tell her.

The answer came at last.

We told you that you had full freedom on this case.

That’s not what I meant—not that it’s not great, by the way, zipping that car up was the perfect way to get Jimmy’s attention. But I meant the other stuff.

What...stuff?

All the feelings.

Feelings?

Yeah. They’re really getting in the way. Besides, you guys promised I wouldn’t.

Wouldn’t what?

She was really trying to be patient, but they didn’t seem to understand. She explained again.

That I wouldn’t feel anything. It’s really very distracting.

Evangeline, you can’t be feeling anything. You know we took care of that. You’ve had the latest and best adjustments in that area. We’ve come a long way recently. And you’ve never had a problem before.

Well, I have one now. It makes it hard to concentrate, and you know you always say that’s my big problem.

We don’t always say that. It was gently remonstrating.

Well, almost always. When you’re not reading me the riot act because I turned left when you wanted right.

She sent it somewhat mutinously; she never had understood why they got so upset that she took a different route, if the destination was the same.

We’ve been through this before, Evangeline. Now, what is this about feelings? You know you don’t have them, except for—

My sense of justice. I know. Then what are all these crazy sensations I’ve been having? Ever since that first night, everything’s been confused.

A quiet rush of air came then, as if they had jointly sighed. Things tend to be that way around you, you know.

“Only from up there,” she muttered out loud this time. Then, returning to the connection, she tried to explain.

This is different.

How, dear?

Evangeline grimaced. Ever since this patient female had become her contact, she’d felt like she’d been talking to a benevolent maiden aunt. But she was so determinedly optimistic that this mission would succeed without any of the problems of past ones, Evangeline felt guilty every time she did anything that she knew they might not approve of.

It’s really strange, she sent at last. The pain was bad enough, but all this—

Oh, my, you haven’t gotten involved with that man you sensed, have you? We told you he was off-limits, that you were to stick to Jimmy Sawyer’s problem.

I know, but—

No buts, Evangeline.

She couldn’t believe they didn’t want her to help him.

But he’s hurting so much, she sent protestingly.

No. The benevolence was gone, the message stern. You simply must behave this time.

The “or else” was implicit. She was walking an even finer line than she’d thought. She wondered if this was her last chance. If she messed up—according to their standards—again, if it really would be all over for her.

She knew then that she didn’t dare turn to the bosses for an explanation of what was going wrong. They would no doubt just chalk it up to her lack of discipline again. And maybe they were right. Maybe she had just let that horrible blast of pain unbalance her.

All right, all right. I’ll be good, she promised.

And, she added to herself when the connection was broken, I will not waste any more time wondering about Dalton MacKay. He doesn’t seem to be in that horrible pain any longer, anyway. Or perhaps he was just managing to hide it behind those formidable walls that were stronger than any she’d ever encountered before.

That doesn’t matter, she told herself, echoing the sternness of her boss’s command. Jimmy is my mission here, my only mission, and I’m going to concentrate on him from now on.

That decision firmly, solidly and irrevocably made, she climbed into bed, pulled the thick, bright yellow comforter over her shoulders, and settled down to sleep.

And in the morning she told herself she couldn’t be held responsible for what she dreamed, even if those dreams involved a lean, dark-haired man who looked at her with eyes so haunted that her heart—which was supposed to be immune—ached for him.

* * *

Dalton rubbed at his weary eyes, groaning at the brightness of the sunlight streaming in through the windows across the room. If he had gotten even two hours of sleep, he’d be surprised. Dawn had been brightening the sky when he’d at last dropped off. If Mrs. Webster wasn’t bringing in her car—if you could call that behemoth of hers a car—for an oil change this morning, he’d roll over and go right back to sleep.

There had been a time when he’d been able to sleep only in the daylight, but he’d made progress since then. Sometimes he even managed to go a couple of nights in a row without dreaming. And sometimes as long as a week without shoving that damned tape into the VCR.

But last night he’d done both. He’d been so restless, felt so distracted, that he’d known it was coming. And it had come, the dream, and even more vividly than usual. So vivid that only the tape, the grim reality, could counteract it, and he’d spent the darkest hours of the night watching it, over and over. It never changed, but he kept on, repeating it, as if he could somehow etch it into his subconscious and erase the dream. He’d rather dream the horror than the miracle; waking up to find the horror was the reality was too devastating.

He knew what had rattled him so, even though he didn’t want to admit it. It was that woman, that teacher, the one Jimmy had brought over. Why couldn’t she have been like that sour-faced, prune-souled woman who was the principal, the woman who sniffed disdainfully every time she saw him, the woman who personified almost every teacher Dalton had had in his life? But no, Ms. Law—had Jimmy ever mentioned her first name?—was no more like that than a go-cart was like an Indy car. And even though Jimmy had told him she was a looker, he hadn’t expected what had climbed out of that classic Chevy.

A classic beauty, he thought as he rolled over and sat up, propping his elbows on his knees and cradling his head wearily in his hands. Although she wasn’t, really, he supposed. Her mouth was a little too wide for classic beauty—and too soft and full for his comfort. Her nose was turned up a bit too far—and too sassy for his gloom. Her eyes were too big, too dark—and far too deep and wise for his peace of mind. Too wise for anyone as young as she appeared to be. Those huge, dark brown eyes were almost eerily penetrating, as if she saw much more than anyone thought they were letting be seen.

God, you’re tired when you start fantasizing like that, he muttered inwardly. You’ve got no business thinking about her at all, or any other woman for that matter. You’re out of that race, for good, and you’d damned well better remember that.

That’s what you get, he lectured himself, for letting that kid get close. You should have kept the walls up. Once you let one person in, they start dragging in others. Well, it wasn’t too late. He might have let the kid in, but he could throw him right back out again. So Jimmy’s got problems. Don’t we all? Let him deal with them. Nobody ever gave a damn about you, and you survived. He’d better learn to survive, too, because nobody was going to help him. And he’d better start learning now.

Dalton stood, rubbing at the scar on his temple, and feeling the ache in his right ankle where more metal than bone held the joint together. He welcomed the pain. It served as a reminder of why he was here, of what he had done. And it was only physical pain, a hell of a lot easier to stand than the other agony, the one that ripped at his insides like the jagged pieces of a race car had once ripped at his flesh.

He strode toward the bathroom, with each step forcing his right foot down harder, heightening the pain. He knew it was the only way to get past it, to work it out. It was also no more than he deserved.

And as he stood beneath the flow of steaming water, he found himself flexing the aching joint fiercely, hoping the ache would be enough to drive the memory of a pair of huge brown eyes out of his mind.




Three


Evangeline smiled at the waitress as she accepted the mug of coffee. The small restaurant was less busy now as patrons hurried off to work, and since her first class wasn’t until nine, she decided she would take this chance to speak to the woman.

“You’re Mrs. Kirkland, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” Weary blue eyes sparked with interest as the woman looked at her. “I’m Maggie. You’re Ms. Law, the new teacher, aren’t you?”

Evangeline nodded. “And I live across the street from you, I think.”

“At Lilah’s. Yes, I know. I’ve been meaning to come over and thank you.”

“Thank me?”

The woman nodded. “In the two years Jimmy Sawyer has lived with us, he’s been trouble from morning to night. Angry, bitter...we can’t seem to get through to him at all.”

“He is very angry,” Evangeline agreed.

“He sneaks out at night, to hang around with those awful friends of his, older kids, real troublemakers. Lord knows what kind of things they’re up to. I know they’re the ones who set that fire at the high school last year. I think Jimmy was with them, but he didn’t get caught. If he had, he could have wound up in juvenile hall.”

“He’s been through some tough times,” Evangeline said carefully.

“Yes, I know that. It’s awful, what that child has been through. That’s why Bob and I took him on. We have no kids of our own, and we thought...well, we wanted to help. You know, an older child, who probably would never get adopted. But we got more than we bargained for.”

A hopeful smile curved the woman’s mouth, brightening her weary expression for a moment. “But he hasn’t cut class since you came. And the other night he stayed home. He was actually reading a book. For your class, he said.”

Evangeline smiled. “I’m glad.”

“I’ve never seen him reading anything that didn’t have comics or cars in it.”

“Well, there’s a lot of wonderful art in comics, you know, and there’s nothing wrong with cars. They can be a very healthy hobby, compared to some.”

“I suppose,” Mrs. Kirkland said. “And I must say, it’s been a lot more peaceful at my house since Jimmy started hanging around that garage after school these past few weeks. He doesn’t see quite as much of those other boys, thank goodness. I’m not sure about that man, though.”

Evangeline went still. “Dalton MacKay?”

“Yes. He’s...strange.”

“Strange?”

“Oh, not like dangerous, but...unfriendly, I guess.”

“I got the impression he was more...detached,” Evangeline said neutrally.

Mrs. Kirkland considered that. “Yes, I suppose that fits. I mean, he’s lived here for over a year, but he’s not really part of the town. And that’s odd, in a small place like Three Oaks.”

“Yes, I suppose it is. But I imagine he has his reasons.”

“My husband says he was famous, a couple of years ago. Some kind of race car driver or something. I don’t follow that kind of thing, so I wouldn’t know. But I suppose that’s why Jimmy’s so fascinated with him.”

Or perhaps the boy just senses a brother under the skin, Evangeline thought as memories of those painful images came back to her.

“He’s a good mechanic though,” Mrs. Kirkland said. “He’s kept our poor old station wagon going long after the dealer in Santa Barbara said we should buy a new one. And he doesn’t gouge us with high prices, either. Barely charges for his labor, just parts. In fact, if he didn’t live in that old room over the garage, I don’t know how he’d get by.”

“He’s generous, then.”

Maggie looked puzzled for a moment. “Yes, in that way, I suppose you’re right. And we’re glad to have him, really. That old garage had been empty a long time before he came. It’s wonderful not to have to drive twenty miles to have work done, or pay to have your car towed.” She smiled slightly. “Mr. MacKay makes house calls. He doesn’t even seem to mind, no matter what time it is.”

He doesn’t care enough about anything to mind.

The instinctive knowledge leapt into her mind fully formed, making her wonder if the bosses had developed some new way of sending information. But they would hardly be sending her anything on Dalton MacKay, so she didn’t know where this was coming from.

It wasn’t until the woman had gone to serve a late customer that Evangeline realized that once again she’d been diverted, that when she’d meant to find out more about Jimmy, she’d wound up spending almost the entire time talking about Dalton MacKay.

* * *

“Jimmy? Can I see you for a minute after class?”

The boy turned red at the chorus of hoots and howls that met her request. But he stayed behind as the rest of the students filed out. They’d had a raucous day; their role-playing as the rebels and Tories of the American Revolution had been lively enough, but when she had stopped the debate and made everyone switch sides, things had nearly gotten out of hand because the two sides knew each other’s position well enough to attack with devastating accuracy.

It had taken her nearly the whole class period to get them to see they also knew each other’s position well enough to understand each other. In the end, she’d gotten her point across; knowledge was power, however you used it, and neither side was fully right or fully wrong.

“You didn’t seem to be with us today, Jimmy,” she said after the others had gone, hurrying now that classes were over for the day.

The boy shrugged carelessly. For the past two days—ever since the morning after she’d gone by the garage, in fact—he’d slipped back into his old ways, his attitude bitter, his answers sarcastic and his expression sullen. He was hurting; she didn’t need any special powers to see that. He was also tired, yawning throughout the class, and she sensed he was back to sneaking out with his friends at night.

She sat back in her chair, studying him for a moment.

“What is it, Jimmy?” she asked gently.

“Nothin’.”

She reached out to him. “You’re obviously upset—”

“I’m not,” he snapped, backing away.

“All right,” she said after a moment. Then she stood to gather her things. Jimmy lingered, as if uncertain whether or not he was free to leave. Or as if he wasn’t sure he wanted to. As she picked up her jacket, she asked, “Can I give you a ride to the garage? I have to stop at the drugstore on my way home.”

His eyes lit up at the thought of a ride in her car, but an instant later the sullen expression was back.

“Nah. I got my bike. Besides, I don’t hang around there anymore. It’s stupid.”

Stupid. It had been the only bright spot in his young life two days ago, but now it was stupid.

“Mr. MacKay will miss you, don’t you think?”

Jimmy swore out a negative answer, a crude oath that she sensed came more from pain than the usual teenage desire to shock. “He’s the one who threw me out.”

Evangeline blinked. Dalton had thrown the boy out? That didn’t fit at all with what she’d picked up during that brief but unforgettable contact.

“Jimmy, are you sure?”

He snorted. “He told me to leave him the hell alone. Yeah, I’m sure.”

“Maybe he just...”

Her voice trailed away as she realized the boy wasn’t hearing her. She probed gently, and although his protective walls were substantial—not nearly as tough as Dalton’s, however—she finally got it. He’d expected this. To him, everyone in his young life had rejected him sooner or later, his parents by dying, then his grandmother, who had also died shortly after rather dutifully taking him in, and then his other foster homes, by sending him back because he was too much trouble.

And she also got the memory of last night’s activities, and had the answer to the graffiti that had appeared overnight on the gymnasium wall.

“I gotta go now, okay?”

It was a measure of respect, she supposed, that he had asked rather than just gone. She had sensed, too, that she was the one remaining light flickering in a world that was rapidly going dark for Jimmy Sawyer.

As the boy walked away, swaggering the moment he got through the door and out where others could see him, Evangeline felt an odd tightening in her midsection. It took her a moment to recognize it, it had been so long. Fear. Astonished, she sank back down in her chair. She was afraid. Afraid she wasn’t up to this. Afraid she would let Jimmy down, that she wouldn’t be able to turn his life around.

She wasn’t supposed to be afraid. Or confused. Or anything else. Even in her disagreements with the bosses she had never been afraid. Nor had she ever been on any of her assignments, even that one with the pilot who had wanted to take himself out and didn’t much care if he took his planeload of passengers with him. This kind of work would be near to impossible without an unshakable confidence and utter lack of anxiety. Purposely put in situations of great stress, operatives would be worn out in weeks if they had to go through the ups and downs of normal human emotions.

Nor had she ever doubted that she would succeed in her task, only that she would manage to irritate her bosses in the process. She supposed they had given her that, along with everything else. So why had they apparently taken away that insulation now?

Her hand rose to the pendant at her throat. She hesitated, loathe to subject herself to another lecture on Dalton MacKay. Especially when she’d been behaving herself, staying away from him, and trying very, very hard not to think about him. But how was she supposed to get this job done without thinking about him, when he seemed to be smack in the middle of it? At first she’d thought him an ally, but now that he’d destroyed what little enthusiasm Jimmy had for anything, he was hardly that.

The more she thought about it, the madder she got. In some distant part of her mind she acknowledged that she wasn’t supposed to be feeling anger, either, except that which the bosses had finally had to concede went hand in hand with the sense of justice. But that expression on Jimmy’s face made her furious at the man who had put it there. Her hand moved away from the pendant and she quickly stood, picked up her books and papers, and strode purposefully out of the classroom.

* * *

Dalton heard the rumble of the car long before it pulled into the driveway. He knew who it was; the tap-tap of solid lifters was distinctive. He didn’t look up, didn’t even move when the car door slammed, just continued to fiddle with the butterfly on the old carburetor that sat in the pan on his workbench.

Swift footsteps approached him. The feminine sound of high heels echoed oddly in the cavernous garage. High heels. He knew he didn’t want to look up now; the memory of her legs, exquisitely long and curved, was emblazoned too vividly in his mind. It’s your imagination, she’s too small to have legs that long, he’d told himself over and over again.

“Just what the hell is your problem?”

It wasn’t the opening he’d expected, and his head came up sharply as he looked at her in surprise. And knew immediately he’d been right to be wary; the skirt of her yellow linen suit, which beautifully set off her burnished hair and the golden gleam of that pendant she wore, was shorter than the one she’d worn the other day. Short enough to show shapely knees and tease him with a glimpse of equally shapely thighs.

She wasn’t too small, after all, he thought wryly. She was perfect.

Silently he reminded himself of all the time he’d spent trying to chase her out of his mind since her appearance here the other day. Out loud, he asked “Problem?”

“If you want to shut yourself off from the whole world, to hide from everything and everyone, that’s your business, but—”

She stopped when he straightened, his face going rigidly still. She’d hit a nerve he’d thought deadened beyond response. He had long ago instinctively sensed that his personal hell took him to the limit of his endurance; the world had to be kept at a distance. He didn’t like the fact that she had somehow guessed that.

“Yes,” he said, his voice soft, “it is my business.”

“I said it was,” she went on, her chin coming up as if to show him he couldn’t intimidate her despite the fact that, even with her in heels, he towered over her. “If you want to build walls around yourself as high as these hills, fine. I know you have your reasons—”

“You don’t know a damn thing about my reasons.”

She drew herself up even straighter. There was nothing of the fawn in her eyes now; they were dark and fairly glittering with anger.

“Nor do I care,” she snapped. “If you want to hide here and nurse your guilt for the rest of your life, that’s fine with me.”

Dalton went very still. He’d met this woman once, for all of five minutes, never mind that she’d haunted him ever since. Where the hell had she gotten this idea? Did she know who he’d been, what he’d done? When he spoke, his voice was even softer than before, with an undertone many had once recognized as the prelude to an eruption. He doubted he was capable of that kind of emotion any longer, but this was as close as he’d come in a long time.

“Guilt?”

She looked oddly abashed for an instant, as if caught doing something she shouldn’t have.

“Or whatever it is that’s eating at you,” she said hastily. “I told you, I don’t care. But I do care about other people getting hurt. You can’t let somebody in, just enough to start to care, then slam the door on them!”

To start to care? Dalton’s heart slammed in his chest, startling him into wondering if his emotions were as dead as he’d like to believe. Had that five minutes of their first meeting been as indelibly carved into her mind as his? Had she been haunted by it as he had?

Stop it, he ordered himself. Even if she had, it meant nothing. He wouldn’t allow it to mean anything.

“He’s just a boy, Mr. MacKay. A very troubled boy.”

Jimmy, he thought. This was about Jimmy. God, MacKay, you’re a fool.

“The last thing he needs,” she was saying vehemently, “is the one adult he thought was his friend turning his back on him.”

Dalton fought off the twinge her words caused. “I didn’t turn my back on him. I’m just not used to having a kid around all the time.”

“So tell him you’re busy, to come back tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s not going to be any better.”

“Nice philosophy. And now you’ve got Jimmy believing it, too.”

“I can’t help what he believes.”

Her eyes widened. “You don’t honestly believe that, do you? He idolizes you! You could make him believe whatever you want.”

“Idols,” he said flatly, “usually have feet of clay. He might as well learn that early.”

She studied him for a long moment. “Did yours?” she asked softly.

Caught off guard by the unexpected question, the answer slipped out before he could stop it, a harsh whisper that was barely audible.

“No.”

He backed up a step, unable to bear the gentle understanding in her eyes. That was three times now she’d gotten to him, gotten through to a part of him buried so deep it should have been impossible. It was as if she could read his mind somehow, as if she knew his deepest thoughts, things he rarely dragged out into the light himself.

“Who was he, Dalton?”

His entire body tensed. He wasn’t sure if it was because she was treading ground upon which he never let anyone walk, or if it was something much more primitive, much more elemental: the sound of his name in that low, soft voice. The only thing he was certain of was that this had to stop. Now.

“None of your business,” he said harshly.

“I see,” she said in that same gentle tone, and he had the oddest feeling that it was literally true, that she saw everything, clear down to the twisted, shriveled darkness of his soul. Pressure built up inside him as the threat closed in. This woman, and the boy she was so valiantly fighting for, could make him lose sight of why he’d come here. He couldn’t let that happen.

“Look,” he growled, “I don’t have time for this. And I don’t have time for that damn kid hanging around and asking questions all the time, let alone having him drag in everybody else in town.”

It was a moment before understanding dawned in her eyes.

“You mean me, don’t you?” Astonishment echoed in her voice. “You’re angry at Jimmy because he brought me here? And you’re making him pay for my intrusion? Of all the misguided— How dare you?”

He’d known she was angry when she’d first come in, but there was little doubt that now she was furious. He’d never known brown eyes could be icy, but these were.





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