Dream maker
by
charlotte douglas

Dear Reader, Welcome to Intrigue!

A new trilogy by popular author Amanda Stevens begins this month,
GALLAGHER JUSTICE.  In The Littlest Witness we meet the first of the
three Gallagher brothers, all raised to uphold the values of honour and
integrity.

In this month's LAWMAN LOVER, For His Daughter, Officer Lee Garvey has
some protecting to do---his daughter and the woman he loves are in
danger.  The pressure is most definitely on.  Strange things are
happening in Dream Maker--Jared Slater's dreams are coming true.  But
when his lovely research assistant is murdered in one of his dreams,
Jared knows it's time to get to the bottom of his nightly adventures.
And in the first of our AMNESIA mini-series, One Texas Night,
Lieutenant Grady Sloan's key murder witness has amnesia .  and the most
beautiful eyes he's ever seen!

Come back next month for another four thrilling romantic suspense
novels.

All the best, The Editors

CHARLOTTE DOUGLAS

SILHOUETTE INTRIGU[

DID YOU PURCHASE THIS BOOK WITHOUT A COVER?

If you did, you should be aware it is stolen property as it was
reported unsold and destroyed by a retailer.  Neither the author nor
the publisher has received any payment for this book.

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the
imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone
bearing the same name or names.  They are not even distantly inspired
by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents
are pure invention.

All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in
part in any form.  This edition is published by arrangement with
Harlequin Enterprises H B.

V.

The text of this publication or any part thereof may not be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
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Silhouette and Colophon are registered trademarks of Harlequin Books
S,4.  " used under licence.

First published in Great Britain 2000 Silhouette Books, Eton House,
18-24 Paradise Road, Richmond, Surrey

TW9 1SR

Charlotte H. Douglas 1996 ISBN 0 373 22380 3

Printed and bound m Spam byLitografia RosSI Baelona

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Charlotte Douglas has worked as an English tutor, an actress, a
journalist and even a church musician, but what she enjoys most is
creating romantic mysteries packed with suspense.  She lives with her
husband and two cairn terriers in a small town on Florida's west
coast.

Prologue

Jared Slater bolted upright in the darkness with a scream on his lips
and blood thundering in his ears.  Another dream.  Cold mountain air
struck the perspiration bathing his bare chest, while his senses reeled
from the horror his mind had painted.

He fumbled for the switch on the bedside lamp, but its soft glow
brought no comfort.  Blackness hovered in his memory, and although the
red digits of his radio winked two a. m. " he knew sleep would elude
him for the rest of the night.

After pulling on sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and thick crew socks, he
sprinted down the narrow flight of stairs and flipped on the lights in
the great room, the scene of his nightmare.  The tranquil setting, with
its deep leather chairs, massive fireplace rimmed with mountain stone,
and timbered cathedral ceiling, contradicted his dream.  Every piece of
furniture stood in its place, the door remained securely locked, the
ceiling-high windows that overlooked the valley glistened whole,
unbroken.  And the braided rug in front of the hearth-He shook his head
in an attempt to clear the image of a young woman sprawled there, a
bloody gash marring the smooth perfection of her high forehead, and her
eyes, the color of mountain mist, stating sightlessly at the ceiling.

Forcing himself across the braided rug where her body had lain in his
dream, he removed a pad and pencil from his desk and carried them into
the kitchen, where he turned on the coffeemaker before trying to
capture the details of the horror that had awakened him.  The insidious
nightmare coiled like a python in his brain, strangling all thoughts
except the visions from his dream.

The woman had seemed familiar--he had experienced an overwhelming
affection for her--but awake, he had no idea who she was or why she had
been there.

A shudder racked his body.  Even with the central furnace pumping warm
air into the room, he couldn't shake the chill.  He poured steaming
coffee into an earthenware mug, carried it to his chair in front of the
fireplace, and then touched a match to logs and kindling.  In a few
minutes, a cheerful blaze crackled and hissed in the stillness.

Pictures hovered in his head of the woman who had died--a small-framed
woman in her twenties, with long black hair, gray eyes, a heart-shaped
face and a clear complexion.  She'd been determined, independent,
good-natured, and incredibly beautiful.

"I loved her."

His words echoed back from the high ceiling, and the grief that had
seized him in the dream refused to release him.  Anguish skewered his
heart with a numbing, intimate despair.  The woman in the dream hadn't
been a stranger he'd never known, would never know; he had loved her.

Images from his nightmare replayed in his mind: the beam of sunlight
that had turned her hair to glistening jet as she entered the room
through the front door, calling him by name; the glimpse of
rhododendron blooming on the mountainside; the stack of mail she had
sorted before extracting a priority envelope with a look of pleased
anticipation; the force and direction of the explosion as it had
knocked her off her feet.

Exhausted from reliving the woman's death again and again, Jared
drained his cup, padded into the kitchen for a refill, and tossed
another log onto the fire.  Then he settled into the leather depths of
his chair again.

The dreams had begun two years ago.  He'd considered the first one
merely a creation of his sleeping brain until he read in the newspaper
that the woman he'd dreamed about had died.  When the second horrible
vision visited him in his sleep, he'd worked frantically to identify
the woman in order to save her.  He had discovered her identity too
late.  Now, already faced with the death of a third victim, the doom
of a fourth woman had been thrust into his consciousness.

Was fate playing some horrible practical joke, showing him the future
while denying him the ability to change it?

Or was this latest dream a sign that he could finally make a
difference?  The woman had been in his house, his living room.  To
keels her safe, all he had to do was deny her entry.  If he couldn't
save the others, at least he could save her.

For the first time since awakening from the grisly vision of the
woman's death, the tension eased from his muscles.  Jared laid his head
back against the soft cushion and stared at the flickering flames.

The fire burned low, and bleak predawn light tumbled through the high
windows before he finally drifted back to sleep.

Chapter One

Tyler Harris shivered in the freezing wind, tugged her jacket tightly
around herself, and paced the pavement of the almost deserted service
station.  The only other customer, a burly man, turned up the collar of
his black leather topcoat and stared at her from beneath the raised
hood of a black Blazer, parked in the repair bay.  Under the pale
sodium lights that had been activated by the storm's encroaching
darkness, his life less eyes glistened like pools of stagnant water in
a face as hard and chiseled as the granite of the surrounding
mountains.

With a nervous shudder, she turned from his disturbing scrutiny to the
elderly attendant who had just filled her tank.

"I'm headed for the Slater place at Lake Toxaway.  Is this the right
road?"

"Well, missie, it is--and it ain't.  Ice storm's blowing in across the
mountains.  Weather bureau's just issued travelers' advisories."  The
grizzled old man counted out her change and pointed across the
highway.

"You could put up at the motel there.  It's right clean and not too
pricey.  That fellow with the Blazer's already reserved his room."

The thought of being snowbound with the Blazer's menacing owner
repelled her more than the sleeting rain that stung her cheeks.  She
slipped into her car and consulted the map folded on the seat.

"I'd better get moving.  I can reach Lake Toxaway within the hour.  If
I delay and the roads ice up, I could be stuck here for days."  The
attendant's kindly face fell.

"Suit yerself."

"Brevard's a lovely town," she said, attempting to salve his
disapproval, "but I'm reporting for a new job today, and I don't want
to make a bad impression by arriving late."

The attendant moved away, but before she could raise her window, the
man with dead eyes appeared beside her car.

"You'd better stay away from Slater's place."

She shivered at the threat in his voice.

"What do you mean?"  His shrugged his leather-clad shoulders.

"People around Slater keep turning up dead."

She forced herself to meet his lifeless gaze.

"What people?"

"Good-looking women, like you."  He eyed the UNC-Chapel Hill parking
sticker on her windshield.

"If I were you, I'd turn around now and head back where I came from."

She searched for meaning in his blank expression,

but his rough face told her nothing.

"Do you know Jared Slater?"

"I

wish to God I didn't.  " The man turned abruptly and paced across the
pavement toward the garage without a backward glance.

"Just drive careful, missie," the attendant called as she pulled away
from the pumps.

"Those mountain curves are treacherous in the best of weather."

She closed her window against the icy blast and turned up the heater.

In an attempt to regenerate her excitement over her new job, she
dismissed the stranger as a crank.  For all she knew, the man didn't
know Slater at all.  He looked like the type who would get his jollies
from frightening women with his sullen looks and threats.

"A nut case," Tyler decided as she pulled back onto the deserted
highway.

She refused to consider that Jared Slater might be dangerous.  That
fact would throw a major kink in her well-laid plans.  Only two weeks
ago, she had discovered an ad posted in the main staff lounge oof the
university library.

Wanted immediately--full-time research assistant for freelance writer.
Must be willing to're locate to Lake Tbxaway, N.

C.

" and occasionally travel.  Salary negotiable.  Room and board
provided

Jared Slater's name and E-mail address were at the bottom of the ad.

She had completed her research, tracking down every tidbit of
information she could glean about Jared Slater before composing a
response.  She'd al most given up hope of landing the job, when three
days ago his acceptance of her application and an irresistible salary
offer had arrived in her electronic mailbox.

The position made her dream of independence come true.  She welcomed
the opportunity to earn her own living and at the same time escape the
velvet clutches of her darling, but overprotective, grand mother.  The
wind buffeted her car and blasted rain across her path as she headed up
the steep grade, lighted only by the high beams of her headlights.

Other travelers must have heeded the weather advisory and taken shelter
from the sleeting rain, for she passed only a large tractor-trailer
truck, easing its way in low gear down the mountain.

While concentrating on the slippery road, she considered what she'd
uncovered about the man she would meet within the hour.  Jared Slater
had become a man of mystery.  Born in Virginia to a family that had
made their wealth through tobacco, he'd had a brief but stellar career
as an investigative journalist in Washington.  After recovering from a
life-threatening illness, he'd resigned from the Post and disappeared
into seclusion in the North Carolina mountains.  No one seemed to know
what he'd been doing since.  If he'd been writing freelance, as his ad
stated, she could find no trace of his work.

She'd studied the grainy photo that accompanied his last article,
completed just after his illness.  Wide- set eyes softened the
Hollywood ruggedness of his square jaw, patrician nose, and strong
brow.  Those eyes had reflected a strange, haunted look, possibly the
result of his earlier brush with death, but a latent kindness had shone
there, too.  A good thing, since it would be just the two of them
working alone each day in his mountain retreat in the back of beyond.

She pushed aside her niggling doubts and the stranger's bizarre warning
and wondered why a trained investigative reporter would need his own re
searcher and what he was working on, hidden away in the Smokies.

The storm's intensity increased, and by the time she reached the
turnoff to Lake Toxaway, her hands were cramped from clutching the
steering wheel, as if the force of her grasp would hold her car to the
treacherous road.  Her head pounded from straining to see the highway
through the freezing rain and darkness.

She pulled into the parking lot of a small grocery, the only commercial
building in sight, extracted a penlight from her purse, and reviewed
the map and directions Jared had sent.

"Why didn't he just say the middle of nowhere?"  she grumbled as she
threw the car into gear again.

She re-entered the deserted highway and searched through the blackness
for the church he had specified.

"I hope your directions are good, Jared Slater," she muttered through
clenched teeth.

"I don't fancy spending the night lost on this mountain in an ice
storm."

She found the turnoff at the church and the first and second forks, but
when her odometer indicated she'd gone too far since the last fork, she
knew she'd missed Slater's driveway.  She turned around in from of a
summer cottage, shuttered against winter storms, and eased her way back
down the road.

A blowing evergreen branch had obstrncted Slater's sign on her first
pass, but this time she located his driveway and headed up the gravel
road, longing for a cup of hot coffee and a roaring fire.  In spite of
the heat blasting from her defrosters, her windshield iced as the
temperature dropped.  Water had crystallized on the trees and shrubbery
lining the narrow drive.  She jumped at the gunshot crack of a limb,
broken by the weight of its frozen burden, that scraped the trunk of
her car as it fell.  Through leafless trees, a building loomed in the
darkness on the mountaintop, like a setting for a Gothic horror film.

Light from its tall windows glittered dimly through the dangerous
storm.

Inching her way forward over the icy road, she focused on the narrow
strip ahead, all too aware of the dark ravine on her right.  Should her
car slide, there was no barrier to prevent a plunge down the
mountainside.  When she reached the entrance to Slater's house, the
cramping in her fingers had spread to every muscle of her body.  She
parked in front of the garage doors, left her bags in the car, and,
slipping and stumbling, managed to reach the front door without
falling.  When she banged the massive brass knocker, the howling of the
wind muffled its pounding.

Ice coated her jacket and hair, and cold bit into her bones while she
waited.  Just as her teeth began rattling the door swung open, and
Jared Slater glowered down at her.  Shocked recognition flashed in his
eyes, which seemed odd, since she'd never met him.

"Good God, woman, are you lost?"  He hesitated, then opened the door
wider and with an air of reluctance pulled her inside.

"I w-was, but th-then I" -Her chattering teeth made her words
incomprehensible.

After he stripped her sodden coat from her shoulders, she maneuvered
close to the blazing fire, the only source of light in the dim, aver
nous room.

"Anyone else with you?"  he asked.

Afraid to trust her voice, she shook her head and stretched her frozen
hands toward the fireplace, conscious of her isolation on the
mountaintop with a man she knew nothing more about than the few facts
she'd gleaned from her research--and a stranger's dire warning.  His
movements sounded behind her, but she didn't shift her gaze from the
mesmerizing, flickering flames.  The sight of his disapproving eyes had
only increased her uneasiness.  Slowly warmth returned to her hands and
feet, and her teeth no longer clacked like castanets.

"You can't travel back down the mountain in this weather."  His rough
baritone blended with the screaming wind that buffeted the windows.

She jumped when he grasped her elbow, then flushed with embarrassment
at her nervousness as he guided her into a deep chair that enfolded her
like an embrace.

"Didn't you hear the travelers' warnings?"  Dis approval colored his
words.

"What are you doing up here in this godforsaken weather?"  She tore her
gaze from the flames and forced her self to study Jared Slater.

"Looking for you."

His deep brown eyes assumed a hooded look and his jaw hardened.  In the
fire's dancing light, his towering presence and stem expression
emanated a strong sense of menace.  Prickles of uneasiness crept along
her skin.  Maybe the stranger at the gas station hadn't been a nut case
after all, because the man before her, with his haunted eyes and lips
set in a tight, ominous line, looked capable of mayhem.

He sat opposite her and leaned forward, clasping the long fingers of
his strong hands between his knees.

"Why are you looking for me?"

Chills flittered along her spine from the roughness of his tone.  Why
had he offered her a job, then acted as if he didn't know why she was
there?  Anger dispersed her shivers.

"I'm reporting for work.  I'm Tyler Harris."

JARED FELL BACK in his chair.  The knowledge that she was Tyler Harris
hit him like a falling boulder.

"I'm sorry, Ms.  Harris, but the position is filled."

The lie roiled easily off his tongue.  He would lie-and more--to be rid
of her, the victim in his latest disturbing dream, who had appeared
just as he'd known she eventually would.  But the fact that she was
Tyler Harris stunned him.  He'd hired Harris as his research assistant,
assuming Tyler to be a man, specifically to avoid this situation.  But
fate had backfired on him again, proving that his nightmares and the
deaths of the women in his dreams would always come true.

Her gray eyes clouded, and with a trembling hand, she rummaged in the
depths of her black leather purse and withdrew a folded paper.

"I

don't Understand.  I have your letter of acceptance right here.  " He
would have a tough time getting rid of her, but he had no choice.

"Yes, well, there's been a terrible mistake"

"Mistake?  You offered me the job, I accepted, and I'm reporting to
work as instructed."  Her wide, in nocent stare pierced his
conscience.

He shifted his weight uneasily beneath her scrutiny and breathed
deeply, stalling for time.

"The offer was a mistake.  I can't hire you."

"Can't---or won't?"

"What difference does it make?  You can't have the job."  Knowing he
was acting like a cad lent a harsh edge to his voice.

She stood and paced before the fire, chafing her arms as if to warm
them, but the heat of her indignation reached all the way across the
room.

"I gave up my apartment and my previous job to come here, moved across
the state--and drove through an ice storm so I wouldn't report late.

Now you tell me the job is filled.  You'll have to do better than that.
"

Regret washed through him.  She surpassed the promise of her resume. 
In addition to outstanding ac- adernic qualifications; Tyler Harris
possessed the spark needed to tackle the puzzles confronting him.  But
hiring her would mean her death.

He steeled himself against her anger.  "

"You may be qualified for the job, but I chose you because I thought
Tyler Harris was a man."  Her arms dropped to her sides, her hands
balled into fists, and an angry flush darkened her face.

"You wanted a research assistant.  Male or female, what difference does
it make?"

Nothing.  Everything.

He focused on the fire, avoiding the pleasant spectacle of her glowing
cheeks, the tendrils of black hair clinging damply to the porcelain
skin of her forehead, the rosy softness of her lips.

"Neither your acceptance letter nor your application gave any
indication you're a woman.  Was that intentional?"

"Maybe it would have been, thirty years ago"

sarcasm laced her voice "--but we're out of the Dark Ages now.  Sexual
discrimination is against the law."

He sighed.

"You're right, but I still can't hire you."  Her eyes blazed like
burnished pewter.

"Is there something about this job that requires a man?"

Jared remembered his nightmare, but he couldn't admit he refused to
hire her because of a bad dream.

"Yes, the job's too dangerous.  You could get hurt."

"Doing research?"

He sensed her sudden stillness and glanced up to find her scrutinizing
him.  Her face spoke volumes, informing him she knew he lied.  He
levered himself out of his chair, crossed to the open kitchen, and
filled the coffeemaker with water.  Her footsteps followed, and while
he measured grounds into the basket, her stare stabbed between his
shoulder blades. Tension crackled like electricity in the confines of
the small kitchen, and after flipping the switch to begin the brewing
cycle, he turned to confront her.

She didn't retreat from his stare.  Her eyes widened and the soft wings
of dark eyebrows lifted above them.

"Are you afraid to work with a woman?"  He burst out laughing.

"Not at all."

"Then what is it?"

"I told you, there's risk involved."

"What kind of risk?"  Her expression mirrored her doubt.

"You could be killed."

Alarm flitted across her lovely features before she straightened her
shoulders and laughed.

"By what, a falling reference book?  I'm a researcher, for Pete's
sake."

He couldn't tell her the truth.  No one knew the whole truth, and he
had no intention of telling all to anyone except his research
assistant--and then, only if he was convinced the man could be
trusted.

The heady floral scent of her perfume blended with the aroma of coffee
brewing, provoking his senses.  She refused to believe she was in
danger, so he would try another tack that might seem more plausible.

"Okay, I confess.  We're miles from the nearest house, and people
around here are pretty conservative.  I don't want any scandal created
by working with a female assistant."

Her eyes narrowed.

"Lake Toxaway's a summer- resort town with a seasonal population.  Most
don't care who does what, as long as they're not affected."

Persistence might be an excellent quality in a're searcher, but in
someone he was trying to get rid of, it was a royal pain.

"Then let's just say I don't like women, don't want one hanging around,
and let it go at that," he lied.

He pulled a mug from the cabinet and slammed it onto the counter.  Damn
the woman.  If an ice storm wasn't raging, he would show her the door
and be done with her.

"No, I won't let it go.  You promised me this job, and I drove all the
way across the state to take it.  If you have a problem with that, Mr.
Misogynist, you'd better swallow it or I'll put the Equal Employment
Opportunity Commission on your case so fast, you won't know what hit
you."

His admiration of her gutsy stance dissolved into alarm.  A federal
investigation was the last thing he needed.  He couldn't allow anyone
to stop him from doing what had to be done.  And how could he explain
the real reason he couldn't hire her?  No one would believe him.  The
steely glint in her eyes, the jut of her jaw and the determined set of
her shoulders convinced him Tyler Harris didn't make idle threats.

He would have to find some way to placate her without giving her the
job.

Tyler turned on her heel, marched back to her chair in front of the
fire, and sank into it.  She grasped the leather armrests to hide the
trembling in her hands while she attempted to gauge whether he was
serious about the danger or just using it as an excuse.  She'd made the
break she'd needed from Gran and Chapel Hill.  If she crawled back now,
jobless and homeless, asking Gran for a place to stay until she found
work, she wolald be paraded before an unending stream of incredibly
bland and boring young men--the blue-blooded, spineless type Gran
wanted her to marry.  If Gran had her way, Tyler would spend the rest
of her days raising well-mannered children and prize roses and giving
insipid bridge parties, all from Gran's antebellum home in Chapel
Hill--and from under Gran's thumb.

But at least you would be alive.

A quiver of anxiety shook her as she considered her enigmatic host.  As
much as she wanted the job and its very generous pay, she had to
consider her safety.  She thought longi0gly of the snug little motel in
the valley.  She could spend the night there, then check with the local
authorities to learn more about Slater before pressing him to hire
her--or giving up and returning home.

She rose to her feet.

"Maybe we should talk about this tomorrow.  I'll come back" --- "The
roads are too treacherous.  You'll never make it down the mountain. Let
me pour you some coffee.  Then we'll talk."  She wondered if he'd had a
change of heart.  The tension in the room had eased once she'd
threatened to call in the EEOC.  Had he thrown in the towel, knowing
his statement about not liking women would be just cause for a lawsuit?
Or was he only biding his time until the storm ended so he could send
her on her way?

A blast of wind struck the house, rattling the windows and doors.  The
lights flickered, and Jared disappeared into a room off the kitchen.

When he returned a few minutes later, he carried two Coleman lanterns
and a handful of candles.  After depositing them on the table in front
of the sofa, he took brass candlesticks from the mantel and placed the
candles in them.

"If the ice continues," he said, "the weight of fro zen branches will
break the power lines.  I'll fix some dinner while we still have
electricity."

Without waiting for her response, he returned to the galley kitchen and
began removing items from the refrigerator, placing them on the counter
that separated the kitchen from the living room.  Silence thundered in
the room.  If they were to be stuck together until the storm passed,
she would hold her tongue about the job.  If he really was dangerous,
as the stranger had warned, she didn't want to antagonize him.  She
left her comfortable chair and perched on a high stool extracted from
beneath the counter's overhang.

He regarded her with a tentative smile, as if the expression was
foreign to his face.  Maybe he wasn't the ogre he pretended, but she
couldn't be certain.  She would wait for the wind to drop, then she
would leave, but in the meantime, she would play along.  She just hoped
she was doing the right thing.  The job had sounded so wonderful that
perhaps she'd been too hasty in her response.

"May I help?"  she asked.

He shook his head.

"It's a simple meal--just spaghetti and salad."

The green flecks in his brown eyes matched the jade of his cable-knit
sweater.  He pushed its sleeves toward his elbows, and the corded
muscles of his tanned forearms bulged as his long fingers coaxed the
cork from a bottle of Chianti classico.  Strong hands, strong enough
to---She thrust the gruesome thought away.  She would have to keep her
wits to determine the best time to leave.

He poured a generous amount of Chianti into two wineglasses and handed
her one.

"Cheers."  The wine blossomed on her tongue and warmed her going
down.

Jared's expression sobered as be touched his glass to hers.

"Long life."

Another blast of howling wind rocked the house, and she shuddered,
wondering if her uneasiness came from the storm or from the strange
look in Jared Slater's eyes.

He pulled a chopping board from beneath the counter and began slicing
vegetables for a salad, displaying his skill with a chef's knife.  The
sight of the gleaming blade reinforced her memory of the stranger's
remark that pretty women who spent time around Jared turned up dead.

Her nervousness deepened.

"Did you mean what you said about not liking women?"

He paused from slicing celery into julienne strips.  The silver blade
of the huge knife glinted ominously in the firelight.

"I meant what I said about not wanting a female research assistant."

"I was speaking in generalities," she said with a jittery laugh.

"Then, generally speaking, some of my best friends were women." 
Were.

Had he purposely used the past tense?  She'd read in a Richmond gossip
column about Jared's withdrawal to his mountain retreat after his
release from hospital.  Maybe he'd abandoned his friends entirely

But if so, why?  Or even worse, maybe his fe male friends were dead.

The man was a seething bundle of contradictions.  He'd advertised,
specifying an immediate need for a research assistant, but then had
rejected her, even though she was on the spot and ready to work, be
cause he didn't want a woman around.  Yet his demeanor aside from not
wanting to hire her, had been considerate, almost friendly---once she'd
threatened to file discrimination charges.  The man was hiding
something, and her grandmother's warning about working for a stranger
rang in her mind once more.

Gran.  She'd be worried sick about her granddaughter traveling in the
storm.  Tyler had declared her in dependence by moving away from the
only home she'd known since her parents' plane crash twelve years
before, but that independence didn't include thoughtlessness toward the
old woman who loved her.

"Mind if I use your phone?"  she asked.

"I want to let my grandmother know I'm safe."

Jared pointed with the knife.

"Top of the stairs.  While you're making the call, I'll pull your car
into the garage and bring in your luggage.  You Can stay until the
roads clear."

She would be leaving long before bedtime, but for now she would do as
he asked.  She handed him her keys, then climbed the steep stairs to
the loft.  Oppo site the half wall that overlooked the great room,
French doors provided a panoramic view of the valley and lake below.

Snow swirled in eddies across the balcony, sifting over glittering ice
that coated the balustrade and wooden decking.

She circled the bed to a small nightstand that held the telephone and
switched on the bedside light.  Next to the phone, bold, scrawling
words caught her eye.  And then, with horror, she found herself reading
a description of a woman's murder in graphic detail.  Beneath the legal
pad, she discovered a folder of glossy black-and-white photos of two
murdered women.  Newspaper clippings gave their names and the places of
their deaths and stated they'd been shot, but did not identify their
killer.

The hair on the back of her neck stood on end.  Were these women the
ones the stranger had meant?

Get a hold of yourself Jared was a writer.  He could be working on an
article or maybe even a true-crime novel.  She shoved the pad and
folder aside, reined in her galloping imagination, and dialed Gran's
number.

"Thank God you called," her grandmother drawled in her soft Southern
voice.

"I've been frantic with worry."

She pictured her grandmother, patting her smooth gray curls with
manicured fingers.  Gran was probably still dressed in the lilac suede
suit she'd worn that morning to the garden club.  Tyler anticipated a
wave of homesickness, but experienced only a strong affection for the
woman who had raised her.

"I'm fine, Gran.  Arrived safe and sound before the storm set in.  I
can't talk but a minute---dinner's almost ready--but I'll call again
next week.  We may lose phone lines that long because of the ice."

"And what about this Jared Slater?"

"He's different from what I expected."  Tyler grimaced at the
understatement.  No need to frighten Gran.

She chatted for a moment, then hung up the phone and studied the
bedroom, looking for some clue to her host's personality, but the
sparsely furnished loft, with its wide bed covered in a muted plaid
spread, and Shaker chair, revealed little.  A wall of doors concealed
closets on one side, and opposite them a door opened into a bathroom.

Utilitarian but comfortable, the room told her nothing about Jared
Slater's character.

She stood at the French doors and watched snow mounding on the balcony.
Unless it stopped soon, she would be stuck on the mountain overnight.
Time enough to convince Jared to give her the job.  Or time enough to
be in mortal danger if he really was dangerous, as the stranger had
implied.

She turned from the window and bumped into Jared.  Jerking aside, she
clutched her pounding heart.

"I didn't hear you come up."  He gazed past her over the valley
below.

"Beautiful isn't it?  Peaceful.  As if there isn't a trouble any where
in the world."

She bit back her reply.  She had a full load of trouble wondering when
the storm would end and how she could make her escape.  Jared stretched
and rolled his head on his shoulders as if awakening from sleep.

"I'll show you your room and where to wash up before dinner."

She followed him downstairs into a narrow hallway leading off the great
room.  His broad shoulders filled the passageway, but for a big man, he
moved with appealing grace.  Still, he was big enough to over power an
unarmed female.  She gave herself a mental shake, ff it hadn't been for
the crazy man's warning at the service station, she would have
considered Jared's size a turn-on, not a threat.

The first door he opened led to a gleaming bath room.  The next
revealed a bedroom with twin beds covered in cheerful red chenille
spreads. Plaid draperies were drawn against the cold.  Her suitcases
and laptop computer, a going-away present from Gran, lay on one of the
beds.

"Dinner's ready when you are.  I'll leave you to unpack."  He headed
back up the narrow hall toward the kitchen.

No need to unpack.  After seeing the pictures in his room, she was
fairly sure she no longer wanted the job.  She would only be there
until the storm ended, which she hoped would be within a few hours.

With relief she noted a key in the lock of the bedroom door.

At least, if she had to spend the night, she could sleep feeling
safe.

In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face and stared at her
reflection.  Her thoughts were as tangled as her hair.

"Tyler Harris, what have you gotten yourself into?"

The woman in the mirror stared back, silent.  She knew a loaded
question when she heard one.

After taming her hair, she returned to the great room but paused in the
doorway taking in the change in the room.  Jared had moved the coffee
table in front of the fire and flanked it with two large cushions.
Covered with a checkered cloth and Centered with brass candlesticks,
the table was set for two.

"Pull up a pillow," he said.

"I'll bring the food."  She sat cross-legged at the table as Jared
placed salad, breadsticks, and a steaming bowl of spaghetti in front of
her.  He smiled with a grin that cocked one corner of his mouth.

As if on cue, the wind slammed against the house in a brutal gust.  The
kitchen lights winked and went out, leaving only the feeble glow from
the fire, flickering candles, and the mysterious glitter in Jared
Slater's eyes to illuminate the room.

THE STRANGER BENT his shoulder into the wind and trudged through the
snowdrifts toward the lights that were barely visible ahead.  Stupid
Southerners.  They acted as if a little weather was eXcuse to shut down
everything, but it wouldn't stop him.  The Blazer's four-wheel drive
had brought him easily to the foot of Slater's driveway, and his
snowshoes would take him the rest of the way.

He could reach the house, kill Slater, and disappear.  The snow would
cover his tracks long before anyone discovered the body on the
mountaintop.  The cold bit through his leather coat, but the fire of re
venge in his belly kept him warm as he climbed the hill and maneuvered
toward the lighted window.

Two women had already died and Slater knew too much.  The man had to be
stopped.  The bulk of the stranger's magnum revolver lay heavy against
his chest.  He had shot and killed before, but that, too, had been a
necessity.  Only with Slater's death would the killing cease.  He hid
in the shadows beneath the eaves, out of the brunt of the north wind,
and observed the cozy scene before the flickering fire where the couple
sat, enjoying a meal and sipping wine like lovers.  The sight of food
briefly resurrected his appetite, but he ignored his cravings.

Time enough to eat when the job was finished.  In the meantime, he
would feast on revenge, the dish best served cold.

So, this was a girlfriend of Slater's.  With a keen eye, he observed
the look on Slater's face as he studied his dinner companion, whose
head was bowed over her plate.  Yes, Slater was a love struck fool. 
Pain welled in the stranger's heart--stabbing, twisting,

making him want to howl with the wind in his agony and rage.  Maybe
killing was too good for Slater.  Maybe Slater should suffer--suffer as
he'd been made to suffer by Slater's actions.  And what better way to
inflict pain on Slater than to make him witness the death of a woman he
loved?

The stranger yanked off his right glove with his teeth, slid the pistol
from its holster, and aimed.  Damn.  No matter how he aimed the gun
through the only uncovered window, the woman was aligned with Slater.
If his shot killed them both at once, his purpose was foiled.

But he was a patient man.  The woman had to move away, and then he
would kill her.  Maybe he would even wait for another day.  Either way,
Slater would grieve before he, too, died.

The stranger leaned against the building, tucked his hand, still
holding the pistol, inside his coat, and waited.

Chapter Two

Jared poured coffee into a thermos and added wood to the fire before
settling opposite Tyler.

"I'm surprised the lines held this long.

Luckily, I have a battery-powered radio to track the progress of the
storm.  "

He reached behind him to a shelf beside the sofa and flipped a
switch.

As he replenished her wineglass, an old Simon and Garfunkel ballad
filled the room.

"The atmosphere here may not be five-star," he said with a wry grin,
"but it ain't bad."

Tyler graced him with a nervous smile, twirled spaghetti onto her fork,
and took a bite.  Her eyebrows lifted in approval.

"You make great spaghetti."

They ate in a silence broken only by the screeching wind, the hiss and
crackle of pine logs on the fire, and the smooth sounds of golden
oldies.  A weather report roused Jared from his contemplation of the
woman across the table.

"Travelers' warnings are still in effect," the announcer drawled.

"Looks like we're going to be caught in this unseasonal May weather for
a while, folks.  Power crews are repairing lines, but for some remote
areas, power may be out for several days."  The folksy announcer
broadcast news of the devastating weather as calmly as if plugging a
Sunday- school picnic.

"Several days---damn!"  Jared tossed his napkin on the table and leaned
back against the sofa.

Tyler flinched at his outburst, then flashed him a wobbly smile.

"That anxious to get rid of me, are you?"

That, too, but he couldn't say it.

"I'm thinking of several days without computers and modems."

"Are you on some kind of deadline?"

His stomach clenched.  He had a deadline, all right, in the most
literal sense of the word.  Several days without access to the public
records and resources he needed.  Several days before he could hire
another assistant And God only knew how many days before that assistant
could report for Work.  Several days.  Less time than that had meant
the difference between life and death for Mary Stanwick.  He couldn't
afford such a delay again.

Tyler viewed the turmoil scudding like storm clouds across the sharp
angles of his face.

"Is it the murder story?"

"What do you know about that?"  His voice lashed at her with all the
fury of the wind beating against the timbers of the house.  Anger
glazed his eyes.

A flush crept up her cheeks.

"I couldn't help seeing the notes you left by the telephone."

He leaned forward, drilling her with his scrutiny.

"Tell me about yourself.  How'd you get a name like Tyler?  And why did
you choose library science as a career?"  His abrupt reaction piqued
her curiosity, and in spite of his obvious reluctance to discuss his
work, she refused to change the subject.

"I

thought all writers liked to talk about their work.  "

"I can't talk about it."  His words hung lifeless in the cooling air,
wrung dry of all emotion as he drained his wineglass with a gulp.

"I'm sure what you're doing is much more interesting than the story of
my life."  She paused, waiting for him to volunteer information, but he
sat stone- faced and silent, staring at her with eyes as deep, brown,
and unfathomable as the French Broad River.  A quiver of fear caused
her hands to shake, and she set down her unsteady glass and clutched
her napkin in her lap to hide her trembling.  Maybe he couldn't talk
about his writing because there was no book.  Maybe his gruesome notes
were something else al together.

She retreated to the safety of answering his questions

"Tyler was my mother's maiden name."

He relaxed visibly at her change of subject.

"Having a man's name must cause you problems."

"Only an abundance of junk mail addressed to Mr.

Harris or Dear Sir.  Until now.  You're the biggest obstacle I've
encountered because of it.  "

"I'd say our inconvenience is mutual."  He rose to his feet with
uncommon ease for such a large man and gathered dishes from the
table.

I'll wash these while the water's still hot.  "

Tyler scrambled to her feet, picked up her plate and glass, and
followed him into the kitchen.

"The fireplace knocks the chill off most of the year, but with
temperatures like they're predicting, it'll cool fast without electric
heat."  His chilly gaze raked her from head to foot before he ran water
into the sink, added detergent, and plunged the dirty dishes into the
suds.

"Hope you have some warm clothes in those suitcases."

"Of course, I do."  Cold air nipped through the thin silk of her blouse
as she cleared the remaining dishes and carried them in to be washed.

I'll dry.  "

He extracted a clean dish towel from a nearby drawer and tossed it to
her.

"You didn't answer my other question, about why you chose your
career."

"Why should I?  You didn't answer mine."  She shivered at her own
recklessness, then picked up a dripping plate and rubbed it
furiously.

Jared's refusal to hire her, his secretiveness about his work, the
stranger's warning, and the nasty weather gnawed at her nerves.

"Touche, Ms.  Harris."  An expansive grin softened the stony contours
of his square jaw.

"You certainly contradict the stereotype."

In spite of everything, she liked him when he smiled.  When he didn't,
he frightened her.

"What stereotype?"

"The mousy librarian in a drab brown dress, sensible shoes, hair pulled
back in a tight bun, and thick glasses."  She struggled to keep her
tone light.

"If I conform to that image, can I have the job?"

He stared at the woman beside him.  Even a drab brown dress wouldn't
conceal the soft curves of her hips so enticingly encased in gray
tailored slacks or the alluring thrust of her small breasts against the
shell-pink fabric of her blouse.  He doubted that even the tightest bun
would tame the rebellious ebony curls, and glasses would frame those
intriguing gray eyes like a work of priceless art.  She squirmed under
his inspection.

"Sorry.  I shouldn't have mentioned the job," she said.

He squelched his dangerous thoughts.

"You'd better put on warmer clothes.  If you get chilled, it may be
days before you warm up again.

I'll finish here.  "

When Tyler returned, she'd covered her silk blouse with a knitted
burgundy pullover and replaced her low-heeled pumps with thick socks
and running shoes.  She folded her legs beneath her in the corner of
the sofa nearest the fire and stretched her hands toward its warmth.

Desire washed over Jared in a torrent, and again he thrust the feelings
away.

"Humor me."  His voice sounded smooth and even, devoid of the turmoil
seething within him.

"Why did you become a librarian?"

She stared at the fire, avoiding his gaze.

"My parents died when I was twelve and my grandmother took me in.  I
was her only living relative, so her possessiveness was understandable.
She rarely allowed me out of her sight, but I had free run of both the
public and university libraries."

"You grew up in Chapel Hill?"

She nodded.

"That's where Gran lives.  Because of her over protectiveness I spent a
lot of hours reading, escaping into books.  Learning new things
fascinated me.  Becoming a librarian seemed the logical extension of my
childhood passion."

Her eyes sparkled with enthusiasm, exhibiting none of the artificial
guile of women he'd known in Richmond nor the tough sophistication of
his female counterparts in Washington.

"What about you?"  she asked.

"Why journalism instead of the Slater Tobacco Company?"

So, she'd researched him.  He settled back in his chair.

"I had intended to go into the family business, even started college in
business administration, but working on the school paper convinced me
to switch to journalism.  I learned I had a nose for news."

"Sounds exciting--and researching for stories is not altogether
different from what I do."

She shuddered with cold, and he retrieved an afghan from the back of
the sofa and draped it over her knees.  When she looked up and thanked
him, her face was only inches from his.  He caught the subtle fragrance
of her perfume and the scent of sunshine in her hair.  Reluctantly, he
returned to his chair opposite her.

"Journalism taught me a whole new way of looking at the world.  Until I
learned investigative techniques I'd accepted the tobacco industry's
standard line--that no proof links cigarettes with cancer and heart
disease.  It's an opinion still held by everyone in my family except
me.  After I'd gathered my own in formation and studied it carefully, I
could never work for my father.  It would be like selling death."

"Must make things tough for you at family gatherings."

"No problem--I don't go."

Her sympathetic smile caught at his heart.  It had been too long since
he'd had someone to talk to, to understand him; but for now, he
couldn't afford the luxury.  Not with this woman.

Tyler watched as he raked his fingers through his thick, dark hair.

His expression hardened once more, and reflected firelight danced in
his eyes.  So Jared had shut himself off, not only from his friends,
but his family, too.  But why?  She wanted this job in the worst way,
but alarm bells in the back of her mind warned there was much more to
Jared Slater than even her painstaking research had revealed, and that
something more could be dangerous.

She opened the thermos, poured hot coffee into a mug, and handed it
across the table to him.  When his fingers brushed hers, a shock raced
up her arm, and she jerked away.

"Sorry.  Static electricity," he explained.

She retreated into the corner of the sofa, tucking the afghan more
firmly around her knees.  The heat from the fire warmed her, and in
spite of the coffee she'd drunk, she felt drowsy and slightly woozy
from wine.

Relaxed, she blurted out the first question that entered her head.

"What happened to you two years ago?"

His strong fingers dwarfed the mug as he sipped his coffee.

"If you ever want to be a successful journalist you'll have to make
your questions more specific."

"I read you were ill and gave up your job at the Post."

"Was it only two years ago?  It seems like a him dred."  His eyes
clouded with pain, and he sat un moving, as if lost in thought.  Agn, a
gamut of emotions flitted across his face before his eyes focused on
her once more.

"It's a long story."

"I'm not going anywhere soon.  I have all the time in the world."  His
head jerked back as if she'd slapped him.

"All our days are numbered, Tyler."

She fidgeted, shaken by the veiled threat, uncomfortable under his
somber gaze.

"Will it take longer than a few hours?"

"What?"

"To tell me what happened to you."  Disregarding her question, he
stirred the ashes of the dwindling fire and heaped on more logs.
Uncomfortable silence swelled between them, growing and menacing.  She
couldn't spend the night here.  She would have to chance driving down
the mountain, even if the storm hadn't abated.

She shifted her gaze to the wall of windows.  A hulking black figure
dusted with snow stared back at her.  She screamed.

Jared whirled from the fireplace, temporarily blocking her view.

"What the hell?"

Unable to speak, she pointed past him to the win dow, but when he moved
toward it and out of her way, only a vast expanse of white filled her
vision.

"Someone was out there!"  she insisted.

He stepped closer to the window, peering out into the whiteness.

"There's no one.  You must have seen the shadow of a blowing branch, or
a reflection from inside the room.  Besides, only a maniac would be out
in this weather."

Her nerves had unraveled to the point where she could no longer trust
her own senses.  She had seen something, but had her hyperactive
imagination twisted a simple shadow or reflection into a looming
figure?  One thing was certain.  She couldn't remain another minute on
the mountaintop with Jared Slater and her suspicions.  Even if her host
was harmless, her own uneasiness would drive her stark, stating mad.

She tossed aside the afghan, retreated to the bed room, and returned
with her bags in hand and her computer carder slung over her
shoulder.

She dumped the load beside the door and tugged on her jacket.

"Storm or no storm, I can't stay here."

When she reached for the doorknob, Jared blocked her way.

"Are you crazy?  You can't drive in this weather."

She picked up her bags again.

"If I drive slowly, I'll be all right.

Now, please, get out of my way.  "

"Tyler."  The sound of her name on his lips caressed her ears.

"I feel bad enough about not hiring you, but I couldn't live with
myself if you drove your car into the ravine just to escape my poor
hospitality

She hardened her heart against the warmth that coursed through her at
his nearness and reminded her self that she was possibly in danger.

';I can't stay here.  "

He clasped her by the shoulders and stared into her eyes, as if
searching for something.

"You're afraid of me, aren't you?"  She dropped her gaze but did not
reply.

He grasped her chin in gentle fingers and tilted her head until her
eyeg met his once more.

"I promise you, Tyler Harris, I am not a dangerous man."

Unable to avoid his eyes, she met the full intensity of his gaze,
filled with warmth and an unmistakable pain--and she believed him.  She
had not a single rational motive for doing so, except the affirmation
in her heart as she faced him and felt the heat of his fingers against
her chin.

For a split second, she closed her eyes and considered her options.

She could plunge into the storm, where a faceless figure lurked and an
icy road could mean her death, or she could stay the night with Jared
Slater, enigmatic, troubled and frustrating, and possibly as dangerous
as the perils that awaited outside.  Some choice.  Her only recourse
was to listen to her instincts, and they told her to wait.

She hoped to God they were right.

I'll stay.  " She dropped her bags and set her computer on a shelf by
the door.

"But only until the storm eases."

Jared removed a down-filled parka from a peg beside the door, shrugged
into it and pulled gloves from the pockets.

"We'll need more wood before the night is over."

Uneasy with her compromise, she couldn't decide which was least
frightening--braving the elements or remaining inside alone.  The
elements won.  I'll help.  Two can carry twice as much.  " He opened
his mouth as if to protest, but said nothing and opened the door to the
arctic blast.  The force of the gust almost knocked her off her feet,
and she had to put her head down and turn her shoulder into the wind to
make forward progress.  Sleet stung her cheeks and eyes, and the
screeching wind made talk impossible.  The raw and hazardous weather
sup pressed any hope she had of leaving before morning.

Jared guided her down the steps, across the snowcovered lawn and around
the corner of the garage to a well-stocked woodpile.  Her foot slipped
on a patch of ice, and she would have tumbled had he not yanked her
back, slamming her against him to break her fall.  Through the down of
his jacket, she detected the iron strength of rock-hard muscles.
Whatever Jared had been doing the last two years, he hadn't sat around
going soft.  He had the muscles and reflexes of a ained athlete, and a
strength that could snap her in two.

"You okay?"  His breath warmed her ear.

She nodded and struggled to regain her footing.  Keeping her arm locked
tightly in his, he steered her to the edge of the woodpile, where he
stacked logs into her outstretched arms.  In spite of the cold, heat
prickled her nape.  Surely it was her imagination, but she felt as if
she was being watched.  Jared might not believe her, but she was sure
she'd seen something out here.  Someone.

"Too heavy?"  Jared called against the wind.

The look in his eyes dared her to say yes.  Maybe he was testing her
resolve.

"No!"  she yelled against the wind's roar, staggering under the
weight.

"Give me a few more."

A flash of admiration lit his face before he stooped, picked up some
sticks of kindling and added them to her burden.  Tucking his own load
of logs beneath one arm, he led her back inside.

The chilly house seemed warm after the freezing blasts of ice and snow.
Tyler unloaded her burden into the woodbox by the fireplace, removed
her sodden jacket, and waited for Jared to build up the fire.

As soon as he'd settled into his deep leather chair, her eyes flitted
anxiously toward the window.  Perhaps she'd seen an animal.  To get her
mind off the figure in the snow, she confronted Jared.

"Now, don't you have a long story you were going to tell me?"  The
first rule of survival was Know Thine Enemy.  She smiled into his
scowling face.

"I

love long stories before the fire.  " Jared grimaced at her.

"You never give up, do you?"

"One of my better qualities.  Makes me a helluva researcher."

"Or a colossal pain in the--neck, depending on your point of view."
Still frowning, Jared pulled himself out of his chair and headed for
the kitchen, returning with a bottle of brandy and two snifters.  He
poured the amber liquid into one of the glasses and offered it to her,
but she shook her head.  After the dinner wine, brandy would put her to
sleep, and she had no intention of dozing off before she heard what
Jared had to say.  Then she would lock herself in her room for the
night.

As if fortifying himself for an ordeal, he swigged down the contents of
the glass, then leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. 
Firelight played across the strong planes of his face, bathing them in
a glow that, combined with his unusual stillness, made him appear like
the golden statue of some ancient mythic god.  Only an occasional
tremor of pain rippling across his features indicated that he was still
awake.

She sat motionless, waiting.  If she spoke again, she might destroy the
effort he was building to divulge his story.  The fire burned low, and
she quietly added more logs against the encroaching cold.  When Jared
finally spoke, his voice startled her, ringing strongly in the
unnatural quiet of the spacious room.

"Two years ago, I was working on a story about gunshot victims in D.C.
I'd questioned the heads of trauma units in all the major hospitals in
the area but one, and I was anxious to complete that interview so I
could finish the story."

He glanced at Tyler, whose wide eyes locked on him like a laser, and he
guessed she would know if he lied.  He wouldn't change the truth, but
he didn't have to tell her everything.  No one except him knew
everything. Not even his doctors.

"I was waiting in the emergency room to interview Dr.  Gilleland after
he came off duty.  I have vivid memories of a man waiting across from
me.  His face had been slashed open from temple to chin, and he sat
there, holding a towel to stanch the bleeding and stating at me with
vacant eyes.  Then my head exploded with pain.  I must have lost all
consciousness, because that man is the last thing I remember before
waking up days later in the intensive-care unit."

A tremor shook his body.  Talking about it was harder than he'd
thought. He poured more brandy and bolted it down.  The heat of the
liquor seared his throat.

"An aneurysm had burst in my brain."  Tyler gasped.

"If you hadn't been at the emergency room"

"I'd never have made it.  Things were touch and go, as it was."  He
shifted in his chair, avoiding her probing gaze.  There had been many
times since, when he'd wondered if he would be better off dead, rather
than living with the hell that had followed his illness.

"I don't remember how long I was hospitalized, but when they finally
released me, I came here to recuperate.  Been here ever since."

"Did you ever write your story on gunshot victims?"

He nodded.

"Finished it while I was on sick leave.  As soon as I'd sent it to the
paper, I resigned."

"You had a job most journalists would die for.  Why resign?"  Because
he'd become a freak, a man unlike all others.  How could he function in
a world that reminded him every day of his own peculiarity?

"Grandfather Slater died before my rebellion against the tobacco
industry and left me a generous trust fund.  I'd always wanted to write
what I pleased, so I grabbed the opportunity

"If you had the trust fund all along, why work for the Post at all?"

"Experience."

That wasn't a total lie, but he'd planned on years more experience
before retiring to the mountains to write the "great American novel."

He studied Tyler regretfully.  The woman didn't miss a trick.  He
needed the assistance of a mind like that, but he had no choice but to
send her away to safety--and soon.

Tyler watched his eyelids flutter and close and heard his heavy, even
breathing.  He'd fallen asleep, sprawled in his chair.  She tiptoed to
her room, removed a blanket from one of the twin beds, then carried it
to the great room where she covered him against the cold.  Thick lashes
lay against his cheeks, and sleep softened the rugged contours of his
face, making him appear vulnerable--an enticing illusion;

since Jared Slater had the strength of three men.  She'd sensed his
power when he saved her from crashing to the ice outside.  A powerful
man with secrets.

She retreated to her corner of the sofa with a snifter of brandy.  She
could sleep now.  Jared had done his talking for the night, but he
hadn't told her the whole story.  Something terrible lurked in the
depths of his eyes.  Some pain too deep for words generated the wounded
look that frightened her and, at the same time, made her long to gather
him in her arms and comfort him.

She should lock herself in the bedroom to sleep,

especially since she still had the strange sensation of being watched,
but drowsiness overcame her.  She tugged the afghan around her and
nodded off.

THE BITING COLD awakened Tyler, and when she opened her eyes, gray dawn
illuminated the tall east windows.  Jared still slept in the chair
across from her, but the fire was almost out, and the room's
temperature had dropped.  Careful not to awaken him, she shredded
newspapers, laid kindling and logs, and soon had the blaze roaring
again in the massive stone fireplace.

In the morning light, she laughed at her nervousness and fantasies of
the night before.  Jared Slater hadn't murdered her in her sleep--he
hadn't even snored.  The figure she'd seen outside was surely what
Jared had said it was--nothing more than shadows.  She didn't think the
weather had improved enough for her to travel.  Maybe, she thought,
glancing at Jared, she no longer wanted to.

She performed her morning ritual in the bathroom, yearning for a hot
shower, but making do with icy water splashed on her face and hands.

She had just rinsed her mouth after brushing her teeth when Jared's
agonized cry pierced the morning silence, making her blood run cold.

She rushed down the hall to the great room.  He sat upright with a wild
look in his eyes, and, in spite of the room's chill, sweat beaded his
broad forehead.  "Jared?"

Ignoring her, he bolted from his chair, folded back the doors beneath
the loft, and rummaged in his desk, grabbing a pencil and legal pad.

Without acknowledging her presence, he returned to his chair and began
to write furiously.

"What is it?"  His frenzied behavior revived her suspicions.

"Don't interrupt," he said with a snarl, still writing She settled on
the sofa and watched as he scribbled quickly, paused, closed his eyes
as if remembering, then wrote again.  When he'd finished, he read over
the papers, groaned, and fell back in his chair.

"Are you all right?"

she asked.

He breathed heavily, 'like a long-distance runner hitting the tape at
the finish line.  When he lifted his head and stared at her, his eyes
were glazed.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"You look awful."

He rubbed his eyes, then combed both hands through his unruly hair.

"Flattery doesn't work on me, if you're still trying for the job."

She ignored his taunt.

"Maybe you'll feel better after a wash and some breakfast."

She eyed the legal pad beside him.  Its filled pages resembled those on
the nightstand in the bedroom.  Maybe Jared was one of those writers
who mulled over his material in his sleep and committed it to paper
upon rising.  But that didn't explain why he had cried out in pain,
like an animal pinned in a steel trap.

"You're right.  I need to flush the cobwebs out of my brain."  He rose
with a groan, picked up the pad, and took the stairs three at a time to
the loft bathroom.

Only one thing was certain about Jared Slater--he was a puzzle.  She
gathered last night's glasses from the coffee table and was carrying
them to the kitchen when a familiar sound stopped her.  He was taking a
shower.  The thought of bathing in cold water in the icy room brought
goose bumps to her skin, and she shivered violently.

In her room, she stripped and dressed in clean clothes, hoping that
jeans, a flannel shirt, and her UNC sweatshirt in Carolina blue would
provide more warmth than the clothes she'd just removed.  When she
returned to the great room, Jared was lighting a Coleman stove he'd set
on the granite kitchen counter.  He grinned when he saw her, showing no
trace of the tortured writer she'd witnessed earlier.

"I

raided the camping equipment in the utility room.  Hot breakfast coming
up.  "

"You're a miracle worker.  I could die for a cup of coffee right
now."

His grin faded.

"Dying isn't required, but you will have to wait for the water to
boil."

His hair, still wet from his shower, glistened in the morning sun, and
he appeared warm and comfortable in snug jeans that hugged his narrow
hips.  He'd pulled a midnight-blue ski sweater over a white
turtleneck.

He rummaged through the cabinets, and as the water in the saucepan
began to boil, added oatmeal, raisins, chopped dried apples, cinnamon,
brown sugar, and walnuts.  The spice from his concoction permeated the
kitchen with a homey, comforting aroma, making her hungry.

They ate without speaking, Jared preoccupied and Tyler hoping her
quietness would encourage him to talk.  A vertical line creased his
forehead between his brows.  She didn't have to be a trained
psychologist to know that whatever he'd written on his legal pad
earlier still disturbed him and that he was reluctant to talk about
it.

After they'd cleared the dishes and settled before the fire, Tyler
asked, "What were you writing this morning?"

He sat, neither moving nor speaking, staring at the flames as if he
hadn't heard.  His unnatural stillness ate at her nerves.

"Look," she said, "if telling me what was going on makes you
uncomfortable, ]Forget it.  Let's talk about something else."  He
stood, grasped the mantel with outstretched arms, propped one foot on
the raised hearth, and stared at the flames.  His body pulsed with
latent power--and sorrow.  What did he know that was so horrible,
unspeakable?

She remembered news stories of a serial killer who had hidden the
bodies of his victims in the woods surrounding his mountain retreat in
Alabama, but she forced the memory away.  Jared Slater was no murderer.
She would stake her life on it.

She already had.

He turned and braced an elbow on the mantelpiece.

"Why do you think I advertised for a research assistant?"

She shrugged.

"To help gather information for your writing?"  He shook his head.

"I'm a trained joumaiist.  Whatever information I need for my stories,
I can dig up for myself."

"Unless it's easier to let someone else do the drudge work and pay for
it from Grandfather Slater's trust fund."  Her anger over his
reluctance to employ her simmered just below the boiling point, and
sarcasm tinged her voice.

Before he could reply, the telephone rang in the loft bedroom, and he
bounded up the stairs.  The low murmur of his voice carried over the
loft wall, but she couldn't make out his words.

Then realization hit her.  The telephone lines were still working.  She
scurried across the room and unzipped her computer from its carrying
case.

Jared met her at the foot of the stairs.

"That was Farmer Sweeney at the foot of the mountain, calling to see if
I was okay."

"Are you?"

Tyler scanned his face.  The terrible pain that had lurked in his eyes
earlier had disappeared, leaving behind warm pools of soft brown that
sent a shudder of pleasure up her spine.

"What's that?"  He nodded toward her hands.

"My laptop computer."

"Battery pack?"  Excitement colored his words.

"You got it.  With the phone lines intact, we can hook up the modern,
and we're in business--until the battery dies."  Satisfaction surged
within her.

He'd said he was on deadline.  If she could convince him to let her
begin work, maybe he would change his mind about hiring her.  His mind
raced as he connected Tyler's modern to the phone line.  The
information he'd received that morning tightened the crunch on his
time.  If he couldn't gather the data he needed--and soon--another
woman might die. He walled off memories of his nightmare of Tyler,
lying dead before his fireplace.  He needed an assistant now more than
ever.  He would have to risk it--risk her--at least for a little
while.

He chose his words so carefully that he might have been stepping
through a minefield.

"I've been giving the research-assistant position some thought."

Her head snapped up and gray eyes bore into him.

"And?"

That slight movement of her head sent the perfumed aroma of her hair
drifting beneath his nostrils, and desire gripped him.  He resisted the
impulse to push a stray curl off the pink curve of her cheek and
struggled for control.  He would never get the job done if he allowed
her to distract him.

"I'd like you to begin work--on a temporary basis."

She jerked her thumb toward her Computer.

"Desperate times require desperate measures, huh?"

He couldn't restrain his smile.

"Something like that."  She eyed him warily.  '. "I don't get it.  You
knew last night the power would be out, but that didn't incline you
toward hiring me then.  Do you want me for myself or my hard drive?"

His grin widened.  God, he loved a woman with spunk.

"Let's just say I could never resist a woman with such incredible
assets."  She laughed.

"I like you when you smile, Jared Slater.  When's the last time you
laughed?"

He reflected over the past two dismal years.

"I can't remember."  She reached forward tentatively and touched the
dimple at the corner of his mouth.

"That's what I thought."

He grabbed her hand to thrust it away, but the warmth in her eyes made
him pause, savoring the heat of her fingers and the throb of her
pulse.

"You haven't answered me about taking the job on a temporary basis."

Her soft lips parted slightly over even, white teeth, and her breath
formed a delicate cloud in the room's frigid air.

"I wouldn't think you'd have to ask.  You know how much I want this
position."  What was happening to her?  Mesmerized by his eyes, she
checked the urge to draw closer, to warm herself against the broad
hardness of his chest.  She'd come to the mountains for work, not
romance.

Wriggling beneath his gaze, she stared out the tall windows to where
snow covered the trees.  The sun shone fiercely in a sky of brilliant
blue, highlighting the surrounding mountain peaks in crisp detail and
reflecting off the waters of Lake Toxaway, which was sparkling in the
deep cleft of the valley like a sapphire set in cotton batting.  Just
past the edge of the drive, a patch of darkness flashed through the
trees.

"Look."  She pointed out the window.

"What is it?"

"I thought I saw someone again."  She crossed to the window, shaded her
eyes against the glare and peered down the mountainside.  He followed
her gaze but could detect no sign of movement on the sloping drive.

"Maybe it was a trick of light again---or a small animal."

"It was bigger than that," she insisted.

He shrugged.

"Maybe it was a bear or deer.  There're a lot of both in the area.  Are
you ready to work?"

She sat at the desk and flipped up the screen on her laptop.

"What's first?"

"I need to know every state where Spanish moss grows."  She swiveled in
her chair and regarded him with a look of disbelief.

"You're on a deadline for this?"

He glared at her.

"Do you want the job or not?"

"Right, states with Spanish moss, coming up."  Her fingers flew over
the keyboard as she punched in codes and Internet addresses.  Jared
watched her, bending over the keyboard toward the screen, taking notes
from the information that scrolled there.  She was just what he needed.
He'd known it the moment he'd read her resume, and she'd confirmed it
with her spirited insistence on being hired.  He sighed with regret. 
She believed she'd won him over, but he would send her on her way later
today, as soon as the snow began to melt, and long before the
rhododendron bloomed.

THE SUN WAS SLIDING toward the western peaks when she handed him a
sheaf of papers.

"The list of states is fairly short," she said, "but the list of cities
with intersections of Orange and First is formidable."

"Thanks."  He tucked the papers into his desk drawer and steeled
himself for the unpleasant task ahead.

"What nowT" she asked.

He extracted his checkbook from a cubbyhole and filled in a check.

"Now we say goodbye."

Her head snapped up and her eyes narrowed.  She nodded toward the
drawer where he'd stashed the papers.

"You didn't even look at my work.  I assure you it's what you asked
for."

"I have no doubt of it."  He handed her the check.

"But you've been so busy, perhaps you've failed to notice that the
temperature's risen and the snow is melting.  You won't have any
problems getting off the mountain now."

"But what about my job?"

"The job isn't yours--it never has been."

I'll sue"-- " Do whatever you must, but I can't endanger you by
allowing you to stay here.  " He scowled at her, ignoring his desire to
sweep her into his arms and kiss the determined set of her lips until
they relaxed, turning warm and pliant beneath his own.

Without another word, she zipped her computer into its case and pulled
on her coat.  Her high cheekbones flushed bright red.  I'll bring your
bags," he said.

"How thoughtful."  Her sarcasm stung his conscience, and without a
backward glance, she walked to the front door and flung it open.  As
she stepped across the threshold, she turned toward him again.

"Goodbye, Jred Slater.  Thanks for--'?

A shot rang out from the woods beyond the clearing, and pain blossomed
in her head.

Chapter Three

The blast from his .  357 Magnum knocked the young woman off her feet
and into the house beyond his view.  No matter.  He'd aimed for her
head, a fatal shot.

In his stubbornness last night, he'd almost mined everything, failing
asleep in the cold.  And when he'd awakened, the woman had spotted him
and alerted Slater.  But he had patience on his side.  Stalking and
killing consumed him, and inevitable death was all that mattered.  When
the dying occurred was an insignificant detail.

Last night he'd retreated to his Blazer at the foot of Slater's drive,
where he had taken shelter against the wind and cold and grabbed a
little shut-eye.  All day today, after the long, uncomfortable night,
the young woman had stayed out of sight.

Now, he sprinted down the gravel road toward his car, avoiding patches
of ice not yet melted by the sun.  His breath came in tortured gasps.

He wasn't as young or as fit as he'd once been, but that was no matter,
either.  He wasn't a lot of things now--except a patient, skillful
killer.

He scrambled into his Blazer and gunned the engine The law would arrive
soon--and the coroner.  And he would lie low until time for the next
one to die.

THE BOOMING GUNFIRE reverberated in Tyler's ears, and pain swelled in
her head.  She felt herself lifted off her feet and slammed onto the
floor as a terrible weight bore down on her.  Dazed, she took a few
seconds to realize the heaviness that crushed her was Jared Slater.

She'd heard only one shot.  Maybe it had struck him.  As far as she
knew, she was fine.  Or maybe she was in shock.  She twisted beneath
him.

"Lie still," he ordered in a whisper.  At least he was alive.

"Are you hit?"

"Be quiet," came the fierce reply.

"And stay put."  His weight lifted, and he wriggled toward the en
trance like an army commando.  Remaining on his stomach, he slammed the
door shut, reached up and secured the lock.  He crawled at an amazing
pace, levering himself on knees and elbows behind the sofa and up the
stairs.

She bit her lip to keep from crying out.  Through the uncovered
windows, the stairway to the loft was clearly visible to anyone
outside.  She held her breath, waiting for the sound of another shot,
then gasped with relief as Jared disappeared into the loft bedroom.

The low murmur of his voice drifted down from above, too softly for her
to discern his words.  A minute later, he appeared again on the stairs,
clearing them with a leap and diving toward her.  He tapped her
shoulder.

"Follow me."

Scurrying again on all fours, he rounded the counter that separated the
great room from the kitchen.  Expecting to be shot any second, she
hastened after him on her hands and knees into the shelter of the
kitchen, out of sight of the immense wall of windows that made them a
sitting target for anyone watching from outdoors.  Breathless, she
pulled herself into a sitting position and leaned against a counter.

"What the hell is going on?"

Jared shushed her and closed his eyes, every muscle of his body tense
and alert, waiting.  She strained to hear what he was listening for,
but blood thundered in her ears, drowning out all sounds except the
rasp of his ragged breathing and her own.

This couldn't be happening to her.  Librarians were supposed to live
quiet, ordered lives with their tranquillity broken only by the
occasional overdue book.  When she'd signed on as a research assistant,
dodging bullets was the last thing she'd expected.

"My God, you're hit!"  His voice exploded like a shot in the
stillness.

She glanced down at her bloodstained sweatshirt, lifted her hand to her
throbbing temple, and gingerly extracted a long sliver from beneath her
skin.  Uncomprehending she stared at it.

"It's wood, not a bullet."

He cupped her face in his hand as he examined the wound.

"There's a lot of blood on your shirt, but the wound looks superficial.
I'll drive you to the clinic after the sheriff leaves."

"What sheriff?"

He removed his hand, and she suppressed the de sire to clutch it
against her cheek again, to recapture the assurance of his warmth and
strength.

He resumed his vigil.

"I called him when I went for my gun."  Only then did she notice the
butt of an automatic pistol protruding from his belt.

"Somebody out there almost killed me, and you're sitting here, armed to
the teeth.  I think I deserve an explanation."  Tiny creases formed
around his eyes.

"If I had one, you'd be welcome to it.  I'm hoping the sheriff can tell
us what's going on."  He leaned against the cabinet with an expression
that squelched further questions.

Time stretched and slowed as they waited for the sheriff, and a damp
chill burgeoned in the room as the fire dwindled and went out.  When
she shivered in the nippy air, he drew her close, cradling her against
his side, warning her with the heat of his lean, muscled body,
enveloping her in a one-armed embrace that kept his other hand free for
the gun at his belt.

The protracted time sharpened her senses, increasing her awareness of
his body.  Its heat radiated a pleasant aroma of soap and woodsmoke,
mixed with his uniquely masculine scent.  His heartbeat thudded against
her cheek, which was pressed against his chest, and, in spite of the
lurking danger outside, she relaxed in his embrace.

After what seemed hours, the crunch of tires on gravel announced the
arrival of a vehicle, but when she attempted to stand, Jared pulled her
back roughly and pressed a warning finger to his lips.  Until then, she
hadn't considered that the car might belong to the same person who had
fired at her, and the thought sent her skittering pulse into
overdrive.

She jumped in alarm when someone banged on the front door.  Jared's arm
tightened around her.

A booming voice vibrated through the door.

"Slater, it's Sheriff Tillett.  You okay in there?"

Jared climbed to his feet and held out a hand to her.  Cramped muscles
screamed in protest as she rose and followed him.  When he unlocked the
door and swung it wide, the shattered doorframe, just inches from where
her head had been when the shot sounded, drew her attention.  If the
bullet had hit her instead.  "Ma'am, do you need a doctor?"  Sheriff
Tillett's voice cut through her giddiness.

"Should I call an ambulance?"

She drew a deep breath to drive away her nausea.  I'll be fine.  I was
hit by a flying splinter, that's all.  "

Jared stepped back from the door.

"We'll be safer inside until We know who's out there."  TiUett, whose
beefy frame filled the doorway're moved his broad-brimmed that and
stepped into the room.

"Two of my deputies are scouring the mountain, but it's pretty deserted
this time of year."

She lit candles on the mantelpiece, and Jared drew the curtains,
blocking the view of the room from anyone still lingering in the
surrounding woods.

Tillett eased his uniformed bulk into a chair.  Weathered skin sagged
over his square face, and his eyes held the weary look of a man who
didn't get enough rest.

"Did you see who fired at you?"  She shook her head.

"There's been no sign of anyone--' The sheriff lifted bushy eyebrows at
her pause.  She shrugged.  The shadowy figure at the window last night
seemed even less real in the light of day.  It had to have been a bear
or deer or just shadows.  She couldn't be certain she'd seen anyone
that afternoon.

"Not really."  The officer turned his attention to Jared.

"Know anybody who'd want to harm you or yours?"

Jared pushed his thick hair off his forehead.  The haunted gleam
returned to his eyes, and his face appeared gaunt in the candlelight.

"I've been here almost two years now, Sheriff, and I keep to myself.  I
haven't had the opportunity to make any enemies."  Tillett scratched
his chin thoughtfully and lifted his bushy eyebrows in a grin.

"Betcha made plenty people mad when you wrote for that big D.C.

paper.  "

When Jared smiled, her nervousness deserted her,

replaced by a tingling sensation that chased the chill from her
bones.

"Too many to count," Jared agreed, "but if they were angry enough to
kill, they'd have come after me long before now."  Tillett nodded.

"What about you, Mrs.  Slater?"

She blushed at his assumption.

"I'm Tyler Harris, Mr.  Slater's research assistant."

"Sorry, ma'am."  He drilled her with intense blue eyes, making her
thankful for a clear conscience.

"Any reason someone might want to harm you?"

She laughed at the absurdity of his question.

"I only arrived from Chapel Hill last night.  No one but my grandmother
even knows I'm here."

Jared turned from the fireplace where he'd rekindled the blaze.

"Why this line of questioning, Sheriff Maybe the shot was fired by a
sportsman, hunting out of season."

Tillett dug into the pocket of his leather jacket and held out a small
object in the palm of his hand.

"Hunting with a handgun?  Before I knocked, I pried this slug out of
your doorframe.  Looks like either a38 or a .357--not your average
hunter's weapon of choice."  Jared shrugged.

"Then maybe it was kids, pl inking at targets in the woods.

Those bullets travel a long distance.  "

"Maybe," Tillett said in a noncommittal tone.  He indicated her bags,
scattered by the door.

"The two

Of you should stay inside until we complete our sweep of the area, just
to be safe.  "

Jared closed the door behind Tillett and secured the dead bolt.

Darkness had fallen quickly in the mountains, and gloom obscured the
corners of the room, but the candles provided enough illumination to
distinguish Tyler's head wound, the bloodstains on her clothes, and the
shell-shocked glaze in her eyes.

"I should clean that wound," he said.

She started at the sound of his voice and glanced down at her
clothes.

With a swift, impatient movement she tugged the soiled sweatshirt over
her head, her firm breasts straining against the plaid fabric of her
shirt.

Desire washed through him as he recalled the sensation of her body
against his as they'd huddled in the kitchen, waiting for the
sheriff.

When the gunshot had sounded and he'd yanked her from the doorway and
covered her body to protect her, he'd feared his prophetic dream had
come true, especially once he'd witnessed the gash at her temple and
blood on her shirt.  " But her wound was superficial, and she stood in
front of him now, shaken but whole.  Hope soared within him.  Maybe "
the consequences in his dreams weren't inevitable, after all.  Better
yet, maybe the curse that had befallen him two years ago had lifted. 
If he could prevent the murder of the woman in the town where Spanish
moss grew, he would know for sure.

He gathered swabs, antiseptic and bandages from the bathroom and
returned to the great room.  Tyler huddled near the blaze on the raised
hearth, where firelight sparkled on her hair, creating rivers of flame
in the jet-black strands.  Heat reddened her cheeks, and she studied
the flickering logs with pensive eyes.

At the sight of her, protectiveness mingled with his desire.  He would
test his theory, but he refused to put her at any more risk.  In his
dream, her death had occurred with the rhododendron in full bloom.  The
unseasonable cold would delay its flowering, so she would be safe with
him for a few days longer.

With her assistance, he might foil the upcoming murder and catch the
killer.

And keep her with you a few days longer before you have to send her
away for good, an inner voice taunted.

He closed his mind and shoved away the pain of isolation he'd suffered
the past two years.  He'd be come a freak, an outcast, avoiding
everyone except those who might help him track the killer who roamed
his mind and the byways of the eastern United States.  Tyler Harris had
brought him respite from that loneliness and the pleasure of relating
to someone else besides a murderer.

He sat beside her on the stone hearth, grasped her chin, and tipped her
head to examine her wound more clearly.  When he swabbed the broken
skin with antiseptic her swift intake of breath informed him that it
stung.

"Sorry," he said.

"I didn't mean to hurt you."  She hoped the glow from the fire hid the
heat in her face.  He hadn't hurt her at all.  She'd reacted to the
disturbing nearness of him and his very kissable lips hovering inches
from hers as he cleaned the cut on her forehead.  She closed her eyes
against temptation.

"You didn't hurt me."  As she spoke, she realized that her fear of him
had vanished.  The stranger at the service station couldn't have known
what he was talking about.

The strong but gentle man who cleaned her wounded forehead so tenderly
would never harm anyone.  She trusted that fact as well as she knew her
own name.

But just because Jared wouldn't harm her didn't mean she was safe.  She
touched her sore temple tentatively.

"Is this what you meant?"

His eyes clouded in puzzlement.

She resisted the impulse to smooth away the creases between his
eyebrows.

"You warned that if I worked for you there'd be risks iiavolved."

He moved away from her into the shadows.

"What I'm working on is dangerous, but I doubt it's connected to the
shot that almost hit you.

That had to be a freak accident--target shooters, like I told the
sheriff.  "

She peered into the gloom, attempting to see his face.

"How can you be sure?"

At the window's edge, he lifted the drapery and peered out.  Silence
swelled in the room, broken only by the hiss and crackle of the fire.
A minute later, he returned to one of the deep chairs in front of the
hearth.

"I'm not sure.  It's been a long time since I've been certain about
anything."  The agony in his voice wrenched her heart, and she resisted
the urge to go to him, to embrace him and ease his pain.  The ramrod
straightness of his back, the determined jut of his" chin, and the
forthright expression on his handsome face rebuffed her.  An inveterate
loner, Jared wouldn't appreciate her consoling him.  He lay back
against the headrest and clasped the chair arms until his knuckles
whitened.  If it hadn't been for the stiffness of his posture, she
would have sworn he slept.  Tension blended with the silence in the
room.  She longed to comfort him with words, but, ignorant of the
source of his pain, she didn't know what to say.

Finally he spoke, his words shattering the tension in the room like a
hammer splintering glass.

"When I told you about my illness, I didn't tell you every thing."

She squelched her raging curiosity and shrugged.

"You don't owe me an explanation.  You've made your position clear.
I'll leave in the morning."

"I'd like you to stay a few more days" -he held up his hands, palms
outward "---but don't answer yet.  Hear me out first."

He lay back again and stared into the hidden recesses of the beamed
ceiling.  His eyes glittered like dark diamonds in the dim light, and
emotions scudded across the stark angles of his face.

"Two years ago, after I awoke from the operation that repaired the
burst aneurysm in my brain, I discovered my vision had gone haywire.
Fantastic auras surrounded every person who entered my room."

"Auras?"

"Halos of light.  And all different colors, depending on the person who
projected them.  I questioned the neurologist about them, and he didn't
seem concerned Said they were possibly a by-product of the surgery and
would probably disappear as I healed."

"Did they?"  She'd read about such phenomena, usually associated with
so-called psychics, but she didn't believe in sixth sense.  In her
book, if she couldn't see, taste, touch, smell, or hear something, it
didn't exist.

He straightened and leaned toward her with his hands clasped between
his knees.

"They disappeared, all right.  I wish to God they hadn't."

"Why?"

"Because that's when the dreams started."

She wanted to assure him that everyone dreamed, but seeing the tortured
expression on his face, she bit back her reply.

"What kind of dreams?"

"Nightmares."  She rose from the hearth and settled, cross-legged, on
the floor at his feet.

"We've all had nightmares."

He reached out and traced the bandage on her temple with a gentle
finger.

"Not like these."

"If talking about them upsets you, let's change the subject."  She
pulled his hand from her forehead and held it, twining his cool fingers
with her own, relishing the touch of his flesh against hers.

With his free hand, he smoothed her hair, scorching her with a look
that sent her pulse thundering.

"You have to know about the dreams before you can decide whether to
stay."

She scooted across the floor and leaned back against the seat of his
chair.  Maybe the telling would be easier if he didn't have to face
her.

"I'm listening

"I chalked up the first dream as an ordinary night mare" -his voice
echoed in the dark room "--a vestige from my days covering the crime
beat.  But the dream kept recurring in the same un altering de tail."

He stroked her hair again, as if gaining assurance from the contact.

"In my dream, the same woman died, over and over, and I was the one who
stalked her, who fired the fatal shot, who stood over the body until I
was certain she was dead."

He fell silent, and the quiet grew uncomfortable.

"Maybe your dream was symbolic," she said, "and the woman represented
something in your life you wanted ended."

"You should have been a psychiatrist."  She could hear the smile in his
voice.

"That's what the shrink they referred me to suggested.  And he almost
had me convinced, until I was well enough to request back issues of the
Post to check out a series I'd written just before my illness."

He stood and stretched, then crossed to the windows and peeked outside.
When he turned, he remained hidden in the shadows and his disembodied
voice floated across the room.

"In the edition printed the day after my surgery, a woman's picture
appeared-Veronica Molinsky, the same woman I'd seen in my dream."

He stepped from the gloom into the candlelight.

"She'd been shot to death."

Remembering the stranger's warning, she felt a tingle of fear skitter
down her spine before her common sense took hold again.

"Maybe you saw her picture at the newspaper office on the desk of the
reporter writing the story."

"Before the fact?  The coroner placed the time of death around ten
o'clock, precisely the time I arrived at the trauma unit for my
interview with Dr.  Gille- land."  Torment etched the planes of his
handsome face.

Her instincts had been right.

"Then you couldn't be the killer."

"Me, the killer?"  He shook his head.

"But I know the killer."

"Have you told the police?"

"It's not that simple."  He collapsed in his chair and raked his
fingers through his hair.

"You see, I know the killer's mind, but I don't know his name or his
face."

She swallowed hard.  He'd just entered the Twilight Zone.  Maybe the
aneurysm in his brain had been're paired, but it had obviously left him
damaged, delusional.

"How can you know the killer's mind if you don't know who he is?"

He stared at her with eyes void of light.

"Because he haunts my dreams.  Veronica Molinsky was only the first
victim."

"There've been more?"  The poor guy had really gone off the deep end.
She jumped as a sharp rapping reverberated through the room and Sheriff
Tillett's voice filtered through the front door.  She'd been so
entranced by Jared's story, she hadn't heard the sheriffs vehicle
approach.

"I won't come in," he said when Jared opened the door.

"Just wanted to report my men and I have searched the mountain, and
it's deserted, except for Sweeney at his farm.  Tourists won't arrive
for another month."

Jared appeared calm and rational, not the tortured man of a few moments
earlier, Tyler thought.

"No sign of our shooter?"  he asked.

"Just some tire tracks," the sheriff returned.

"In the mud at the foot of your drive.  Might have been somebody from
town trying out a new gun, thinking nobody lived here this time of
year.  Whoever it was is long gone."

"Thanks for checking.  Sorry to have troubled you," Jared said.

"No trouble."  The sheriff replaced his that and tapped the broad brim
in a salute.

"Just doing my job.  By the way, power crews are on the mountain, so
your electricity should be restored soon."  Jared locked the door and
turned to her.

"Looks like the coast is clear, for now."

The sheriff's explanation bothered her.

"Odd that someone would try a new gun and only shoot it once."

He lifted an eyebrow.

"Whoever fired the shot could have realized he'd hit something and
taken off to avoid the consequences."

"Maybe."

Tyler studied her mysterious host.  Jared's rational demeanor and words
contradicted his wild story moments earlier of a killer haunting his
dreams.  Her thoughts whirled in confusion.  One minute, all she wanted
was to pick up her bags and rush out the door, off the mountaintop, and
back to the security of home.  The next minute, the thought of never
seeing Jared Slater again filled her with so dow The man was a whole
catalog of contradictions--infuriating and yet sensitive, arrogant and
yet humble, mesmerizing and yet frightening.  In a word, he was
fascinating.  He drew her to him the way a compass was drawn to the
North Star.

She would never make a prudent choice in his disturbing company.  She
glanced toward her bags and computer, which had remained by the from
door.  If she left now, she could stay overnight at the motel in

Brevard and decide in the morning whether to drive home or return to
the mountain.

He followed her gaze.

"Don't go yet, please."  Lights blinked on in the kitchen and the
refrigerator hummed, announcing that electrical service had resumed.

"At least have supper with me.  Then I'll tell you the rest of my
story."

If she hadn't looked at him, she could have picked up her bags and
left, but his lopsided smile, underlaid with a sense of terrible
isolation, melted her resolve.

While Jared prepared supper, and later, as they devoured bowls of thick
vegetable soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, she hoped he'd forgotten
his strange tale.  They talked of the Tar Heels' winning basketball
season, a particular politician's latest tirade in the Senate, and
compared favorite hiking trails along the Blue Ridge Parkway.  As they
talked, Tyler avoided mention of his tale about the nightmares.

When they'd finished after-dinner coffee in front of the fire, she set
her cup aside and stood.  The mantel clock read eight-fifteen--still
early enough for her to drive to Brevard and find a room for the
night.

He followed her to the door.

"What about the job?"  She met his eyes--a definite mistake--then tore
her gaze away.  I'll call you from the motel in the morning and let you
know.  Good night, Jared.  "

THE STRANGER TOSSED on the uncomfortable mattress in his Brevard motel
room, threw back the covers,

and stumbled across the floor to the bathroom.  With trembling fingers,
he uncapped an aspirin bottle, then washed the tablets down with a cola
gone flat.

Damn his stupid impatience.  If he hadn't spent the night on the
mountain, he wouldn't have caught a cold.  And if he hadn't been shaken
with chills, he wouldn't have missed his shot.  He'd waited in his car
behind the summer cottage at the foot of the mountain until the sheriff
and his deputies had passed, but there had been no sign of the
coroner's wagon.  That meant the woman was still alive.

No matter.  His cold wouldn't last forever, and the next time he saw
her, he wouldn't miss.

Unable to sleep with his sinuses congested, he turned off the lights in
his room, opened the draperies, and with his revolver on his lap, sat
watching the parking lot.  He didn't think the lawmen had seen him, but
he would stay alert and watch the parking lot, just to make sure.

Chapter Four

Jared ignored Tyler's farewell and stood between her and the door while
he warred with his own con science.  Sending her away might keep her
safe, but without her help, the next victim was doomed.  With a twinge
of guilt, he conceded his desire to keep her with him for as long as
possible.

For the first time in two years, his isolation had been breached, the
pain of his loneliness eased.  In a few short hours, Tyler Harris had
brought light and laughter into his life again with her witty
conversation and spunky courage.  And he would have to be a dead man to
resist the charm of her appealing face and delectable curves.  He'd
known many women, but none had ever affected him as Tyler had.  If she
walked out the door now, he would be more alone than ever.  He placed
his hands on her shoulders, but resisted the urge to draw her into his
arms.

"You can't make a decision about the job if you don't know all the
facts."

Her eyes glinted like burnished silver in the fire light, and her
fragrance tortured him with its sweetness.

"I know enough."

"Youknow enough to think I'm crazy or dangerous or both."  He slid his
hands down her arms, took her bags and placed them by the door.

"Give me forty-five minutes.  Then, if you still want to leave, I'll
call the motel in Brevard and make you a reservation."

"But it's getting late" -In spite of her protests, she allowed him to
lead her back to the chair before the fire.

At his small victory, a thrill of pleasure surged through him, followed
quickly by dread.  When she'd heard what he had to say, she might be
more deter mined than ever to leave.

To delay exposing the demons of his dreams, he refilled her coffee cup
and replenished the fire before settling in the chair opposite her.

Without an excuse to stall atiy longer, he plunged back into his story
with all the enthusiasm of a man entering a burning building.

"Veronica Molinsky was the first victim in my dreams, but she wasn't
the last."

Tyler eyed him over the rim of her cup with an expression that revealed
none of her thoughts.

"How many others are there?"

"Two," he lied.  He wouldn't frighten her with his vision of her death.
When the time came to send her away for her own safety, she would be
better off not knowing.

"Are they both dead?"  Interest kindled in her eyes, and a hint of
something else that pierced him like a spike--pity.

He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes against her sympathy.

"I'd better back up.  None of this makes much sense, but it makes even
less sense out of order.

"Once I had read the police reports and realized Veronica Molinsky died
exactly as I'd dreamed, all I wanted was to escape.  I was still too
weak to work.  Even the kind attentions of family and friends exhausted
me.  So I bought this house and moved here, hoping tranquillity and
mountain air would flush the nightmares from my brain."

He shut his eyes and when he grew quiet, she thought he'd fallen
asleep.  Poor guy.  Evidently isolation had only worsened his
delusions.

Common sense urged her to race to her car and flee the mountaintop, but
Jared Slater, a mesmerizing paradox, a man of steel and sinew who could
best any opponent---except those without substance: his traumatic
dreams--held her heart captive.

He opened his eyes again, staring through the dim light.

"The dreams did stop for a while, and I attributed that to the fact I'd
regained my strength."

He'd regained his strength, all right, as well as that of two others.

"The mountain air?"  she asked.

"Partly," he replied with a grin.

"At first, all I could manage was the trek down the drive to the
mailbox and back.

After I'd begun working out with weights, I indulged myself in a new
hobby, rock climbing.  "

"I thought you didn't leave the mountain."

"Didn't have to.  Right behind the house is a sixty- foot rock face.  I
rappel down and claw my way back to the top.  Does wonders for the
muscles--and helps me sleep."  She flinched in surprise when the clock
on the mantel chimed the half hour.

"And you haven't dreamed of Veronica Molinsky again?"  He shook his
head and a shock of fine brown hair tumbled across his high forehead.

"For the first six months, my dreams were nothing out of the ordinary.
Then I began to have persistent dreams of a pleasant woman with dark
hair laced with gray.  She reminded me of my mother."

She confronted him with raised brows.

"Your mother?"

The corners of his mouth twitched in a smile.

"Don't play armchair psychiatrist with me.  I love my mother and have
no unconscious desire to kill her."

"Sorry."  She blushed at having her thoughts read.

"What happened next?"

"At first the dreams were innocuous--simple scenes of the woman
preparing meals, weeding her garden, playing with her grandchildren.

The only odd thing about them was their repetitiveness.  " His grip
tightened on the chair arm.

"But after a few weeks, they changed."

When a burning log broke and crashed into the ashes of the fireplace,
she jerked with alarm, revealing her tightly-strung nerves.

"You dreamed then that she was murdered, too?"

"No."  He massaged his temple as if his head ached, and she wondered if
he still bore the scars of his operation beneath his hair.

"It's difficult to explain.  In my dreams, I was no longer me, but the
killer who stalked her.  I watched her through his eyes, felt his
hatred and rage.  I knew that she, too, just like Veronica Molinsky,
was eventually going to die, killed by the same man."

Her heart hammered against her ribs.  How could he know a killer's
mind, unless the burst aneurysm had severed his sanity, creating a kind
of Dr.  Jekyll and Mr.  Hyde--two personalities in one man, each
unaware that the other existed.

"Did you warn the woman?"  Anguish twisted the handsome lines of his
face.

"How could I?  I had no idea who she was or what part of the country
she lived in."

"So you did nothing?"  She couldn't restrain the horror in her voice.

"I did everything I could."  Slater rose and began to pace in from of
the hearth.  The fire cast his shadow across the room--a distorted
version of him that loomed, frightening and overpowering, in the
gloom.

"I kept paper and pencil beside my bed and recorded every detail from
the dreams."

She recalled the legal pad beside his bed and his cry of pain and
frantic scribbling upon awakening that morning.

"And you found her?"

He turned his back to the fire and thrust his hands into the back
pockets of his jeans.

"It took months.  I finally narrowed down the section of the country to
the Northeast by researching the trees, shrubs and flowers in her
garden and the style and materials of her home."

She pictured him, fingers flying over his computer keyboard, racing
against time.

"Wasn't that like looking for a needle in a haystack?"

"First I had to find the haystack," he said with a wry grimace.

"So I gleaned tidbits of information from my dreams.  Her first name
was Mary.  Her husband's name was Pete.  In one dream, I Watched him
empty the contents of his pockets onto his bureau.  He carried a
badge."

"A

policeman?  "

"A"

detective.  I even saw his badge number.  "

His story became more unreal by the minute.

"And you located him by his badge number?"

"If only it had bren that easy.  Do you know how many police
departments there are in the Northeast?"

She shook her head.

"How did you find the woman named Mary?"

"In one dream, I watched her drive by a college campus.  I couldn't see
its name, but a stone tablet on the entrance gate stated it had been
founded in 1837.  By looking up all colleges established that year in
the Northeast, I pinpointed a small town in Massachusetts

No wonder he needed a research assistant.  Tracking down Mary's
location must have taken weeks.

"How long did it take to identify Mary after that?"

He slumped into his chair.

"I boarded a plane that night to Boston and booked into a hotel at the
air port."

"Then you did leave the mountaintop."  The fact disturbed her,
shattering his alibi.

"I had no choice," he said in a toneless voice.

"I had to warn Mary.

That night at the airport, the killer closed in on her in my dream. 
"

His distress throbbed like a palpable presence in the room.  But Mary
had been in real danger only once he found her, Tyler thought.  She bit
back her suspicions and waited for him to continue.

"As soon as I awoke, I rented a car and drove a hundred miles to the
town where the college was located I went straight to the police
department, gave them the badge number, and asked to speak with Pete."
He leaned forward and hid his face in his hands.  Compassion stabbed
through her as she watched him relive the pain.  Maybe all of it had
happened only in his damaged mind.

"You don't have to tell me all this."

"But I do.  You have to know what to expect if you're going to work for
me."  A trace of a smile twitched the corners of his mouth.

"Now you understand why the pay is so good."  His salary offer had been
irresistible, but even more tantalizing was the man--an enigma she
itched to unravel, if only to ease his grief.

Whether he suffered from multiple personalities or psychotic delusions
didn't matter.  What mattered was that the man before her seemed
honest, good, and decent, and didn't deserve what was happening to
him.

"The man's name was Stanwick," Jared continued, "and the desk sergeant
looked at me strangely when he gave me Pete's address.  When I parked
in front of Stanwick's house, I experienced a chilling sense of drjh
vu.  Everything was just as I'd dreamed it, right down to the pale blue
flowers that bordered the front walk."

Jared levered himself out of his chair and crossed to the kitchen,
removed the brandy bottle from its cupboard and poured himself a
glass.

"I'd offer you a drink, but you may be driving once my story's
finished."

He gulped the brandy, and his face contorted as if he'd swallowed
bitter medicine.

"A young man, Mary's grown son, answered the door, and I asked to see
Mary Stanwick.  He led me into the living room, which seemed as
familiar as my own house.  The man I recognized as Pete was sitting on
the sofa, staring at the floor."

Jared studied the bottle as if contemplating another drink.

"I cleared my throat to announce my presence, and Pete lifted his head.
I've never seen a man so devastated."

"You were too late?"  She yearned for a way to ease the pain that shone
in Jared's eyes.

He succumbed to pouring another finger of brandy.

"I feared I was, but I had to be sure.  I asked again if I could speak
with Mary."  He carried the brandy snifter back to his chair and sat,
cradling it between his palms, pondering the amber liquid as if it held
a secret he could unlock.

"Start- wick looked like a man who had no tears left in him.  He told
me Mary had been shot to death in the church parking lot the previous
night after leaving her quilting-club meeting."

Jared's agony tempered her skepticism.  No one could really predict the
future, but he believed he'd had foreknowledge of the danger to Mary
Stanwick and had been unable to stop it.

She played along with his delusions.  Maybe eventually they would make
sense.

"How did you explain your presence there?"

He gripped the glass so tightly she feared it would shatter in his
hands.

"I didn't.  I just left."

"You left?  That's it?"  Irritation blended with sympathy.

"What about the killer?"

He set the untouched drink aside.

"I would have helped the police with their investigation if I could,
but I knew nothing of any substance about the killer.

If I'd gone to them with the story I told you, they would have locked
me away as a signal-twenty.  "

"Signal-twenty?"  Another smile flitted briefly across the sturdy
angles of his face.

"That's police code for a crazy per son.  You've probably considered
the possibility your self."

Since she couldn't deny it, she ignored his question "lfI decide to
stay, what would my duties be?"

He leaned forward, eyes blazing.  Tortured he might be, but he didn't
give in to despair.  He emanated a sense of burning purpose and
determination.

"To help me catch this guy before he strikes again."

Jared appeared as sane as anyone, but she couldn't know for sure.  She
shook her head wearily, too tired to struggle with her emotions.

"I'm a researcher.  You'll have to find someone else to play Dr. Watson
to your Sherlock."

He rose, grasped her hands and pulled her to her feet.

"You've had a rough day.  Why don't you get some seep, and we'll talk
about it in the morning."

Fatigue seeped through her.  The alertness' needed to navigate the
twisting mountain roads had deserted her an hour ago.  Staying the
night might not be wise, but driving in her present state would be
suicide.

"Okay."  She stifled a yawn with the back of her hand.

"But I'm not making any promises."

He brushed a curl off her cheek, and the warmth of his hand seared her
skin.  If the man was insane, she must be crazy, too, to be so drawn to
him.

She followed him down the hallway as he carried her bags to the bedroom
again.  When she turned to bid him good-night, he grasped her shoulders
and peered into her eyes.

"Thank you for listening."  Her nerve endings resonated with his deep
baritone.

"You're the only one who's heard my story.  I hope you'll decide to
stay."

"Tomorrow," she muttered wearily.

"We'll talk about it then."  She locked the door behind him and, as an
extra precaution, jammed a chair beneath the knob.  After dressing in
warm pajamas, she crawled into bed and turned out the light.  For a
long time, sleep eluded her.

She lay listening to branches scrape against her window and trying to
convince herself she was safe because she wasn't the woman in Jared
Slater's dreams.

THE CLICK OF THE doorknob awakened her.  Disoriented in the pitch
darkness, she couldn't remember where she was.  She fumbled for the
bedside lamp switch, and its soft light illuminated the travel clock
she'd set out the night before.  It was six o'clock in the morning. 
And she was in Jared Slater's guest room.

Still groggy from deep sleep, she watched the doorknob turn.

Apprehension drove the dregs of stupor from her mind.  She must have
been insane to stay the night with Jared, a man with a killer in his
head.

She cast about the room in search of an object, anything she could heft
and use as a weapon.  Her gaze fell on a walking stick--a solid club of
heavy, twisted hickory that leaned in a corner.  As she lunged across
the room for it, a knock sounded at the door.

"Tyler, are you awake?"  Jared's voice, strong and hearty, reverberated
through the door panels.

He sounded sane enough.  She relaxed her grip on the stick, inhaled
deeply, and tried to reply in a normal tone.

"It's 6:00 a.m. What do you want?"

"I brought your coffee.  It's time to get to work."  She collapsed on
the edge of the bed, wondering what to do.  She had to open the door
sometime, but she distrusted what she might find on the other side.

Was it possible that the night had transformed Jared?  Who would he be
this morning--Dr.  Jekyll or Mr.  Hyde?

She couldn't remain huddled in the bedroom for the rest of her life,
attempting to forestall the inevitable.  With reluctance, she shuffled
into her slippers and robe.  Still clasping the walking stick, she slid
the chair from beneath the knob andoturned the key.

Jared heard the latch click.  When the door swung inward, Tyler stared
up at him, her face framed by thick, tangled hair, one hand clutching
her robe beneath her chin.  Uncertainty glistened in her eyes, still
puffy from sleep.  Her other hand held his carved hickory stick.

"A

little early for a hike in the woods, isn't it?  " He kept his voice
light, hoping to put her at ease, and offered her a cup.

"Here's your coffee.  Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes."

Her eyes mirrored her indecision as she faced the choice of which hand
should accept the mug he proffered.  He breathed a sigh of relief when
she leaned the walking stick against the doorjamb and accepted the
steaming coffee with a mumbled thanks.

"There's plenty of hot water now," he said, "if you want a shower
before breakfast."

With reluctance, Jared returned to the kitchen, carrying the image of
her confusion and anxiety with him.  If he'd been in her place, he
would have never stayed this long.  Between being shot at and listening
to the ravings of a man who must seem a first-class lunatic, no wonder
she seemed nervous.

He issued up a silent prayer that she would stay.  He needed her to
help him find the killer.  Most of all, he needed her to make him feel
human again, even if only for a few days until he had to send her away
for her own safety.

The cozy warmth of the kitchen, the aroma of coffee, the muffled rumble
of the shower, and the sizzle of sausage in the frying pan combined in
a symphony of domestic harmony.  Maybe somewhere in an alternate
universe another Jared Slater existed in such peacefulness, about to
enjoy a tranquil breakfast with a woman, unfettered by homicidal dreams
and the compulsion to stop a madman before he killed again.

He shoved aside wistful thoughts.  Sentimentality would only slow him
down.  Thirty minutes later, Tyler emerged in formfitting jeans and a
red pullover with a crisp white collar protruding at the crew neck
line.  By then, he had tamped down his feelings so securely that his
pulse barely accelerated at the sight of her.  Her face was
freshly-scrubbed and her eyes looked innocent.  Her magnificent hair
was fixed in a neat French braid.  The tiny cut on her temple served as
the only visible reminder of the trauma she'd endured the day before.

"Did you sleep well?"  He set a plate laden with scrambled eggs,
sausages and grits at her place opposite his on the counter.  She
climbed onto the high stool.

"Surprisingly.  How about you--any more dreams?"

"Not last night, thank God.  For once I actually feel rested, which is
just as well.  We have our work cut out for us today."  He placed his
own plate on the counter and took his seat.

"That is, if you've decided to help."

With a sinking heart, he watched doubt flood her lovely features.  She
sipped her orange juice slowly, as if deliberating what to say, and
when she finally spoke, she chose her words with care, as if groping
her way over unfamiliar terrain.

"By your own admission, you suffered a severe injury to your brain a
couple of years ago.  How can you be sure these dreams aren't a result
of that?"

"A figment of my imagination?"  He struggled to keep the impatience
from his voice.

"That's a fair question.  Maybe before you decide about working for me,
you should check out the files on Veronica Mol- in sky and Mary
Stanwick."

She nodded.

"I will, but that doesn't mean"

"Tyler" -he savored the sound of her name on his tongue "--I promise,
you're safe with me."

He reached across the counter and grasped her hand, and contact with
the seductive warmth of her skin crumbled the barrier he'd erected
earlier around his emotions.  He struggled to regain control.  If he so
much as hinted at the strength of his feelings, she would probably take
off, spooked for good.

"Don't let your breakfast get cold."  For distraction, he flicked on
the television in the great room with the remote control, and they
finished breakfast as they listened to the news from the Asheville
station, including a forecast of wanner weather.

I'll do the dishes," he said when they'd eaten, " while you check out
my story.  "

He folded back the doors beneath the loft to uncover his desk and
computer, then crossed to the windows and tugged open the draperies.

Striations of pink, gold and mauve light tinged the eastern sky,
bathing the pale gray bark of barren trees and the undergrowth of
dogwood and wild azalea.

He heard the soft hiss of her breath beside him.

"It's beautiful," she said with a sigh.

The delicate light illuminated her face, and its glow seemed to emanate
from within her, reminding him of a Botticelli angel.

"Beautiful," he agreed.

He rammed his hands into his pockets to keep from clutching her to him
and returned to the kitchen.  She started to work, while he did the
dishes.  Over the rattle of silverware in the sink, computer keys
clicked softly in the morning stillness.

He'd put away the last pan, when he realized the sound had stopped.  He
turned to find Tyler standing at the counter, studying him with an
expression he couldn't interpret.

"I've accessed back issues of the newspapers in D.C. and Mary
Stanwick's town," she said.

"Your story of the murders checks out."

He folded a dish towel and laid it across the sink.

"But that doesn't mean I really dreamed about the victims before they
were murdered."

"No."  Her tone was matter-of-fact.

"I have nothing but your word for that."

He leaned his hips against the counter and folded his arms across his
chest.

"There's only one way I can prove to you that my dreams ye real."

Wariness flitted across her features.

"How?"

"By capturing the killer."

"But you need my help to do that."

He nodded.

"So deciding whether to work for me is a catch-22, isn't it?"

Her lips twisted upward in a cynical smile.

"So what am I supposed to do, toss a coin?"

"I admit it's a crap shoot He itched to kiss the smile off her face.

"From your point of view, my story presents three possibilities."

"I've already mentioned one."  She perched on the stool, propped her
elbows on the counter and rested her chin on her clasped hands.

"Even though these murders actually happened, you could have imagined
your connection to them, maybe dreamed about them after the fact and
confused the chronology."

"The second possibility," he said, playing along, "is that my story is
true.  That in some weird way I've established a psychic connection
with the killer that tells me what he's thinking, planning."  With
raised eyebrows, he studied her, attempting to determine the impact of
his words.  She made no response, but stared past him out the kitchen
window, as if searching for answers in the leafless trees.

His soft words broke the silence.

"Then there's the third possibility."

"That you're the killer."  She lifted her head, and her eyes, cool and
dismal as a winter rain, confronted him.

His heart pounded in his throat.  If she believed that, she would be
lost to him forever.  She might even report him to the authorities, who
would ply him with questions he couldn't answer.  Worst of all, she
would think of him not as a man, but as a monster.  But then, if she
was seriously considering that, she wouldn't still be here.

"No..."

Her voice trailed off in the room' ssilence.  His hopes plummeted.

"I'm sorry, but I understand why you can't take the job."

She shook her head, and her floral scent carried on the air currents.

"I'm not turning down the job."

"But you said"

"I said no, you're not a killer."

Her smile, open and trusting, washed over him, and joy, an emotion he'd
all but forgotten, bubbled up from obscurity.

"What makes you so sure?"

She tapped her temple lightly.

"When someone shot at me yesterday, you risked your life when you
covered me with your body.  Those aren't the actions of a killer."

It had been too long since anyone had shown such faith in him.  No
wonder he'd fallen in love with her in his dream.  He was almost in
love with her now.

"That leaves only options one and two."  She grinned with an impishness
that made her even more alluring.

"Either you're telling the truth, or you're delusional.  No matter
which, the salary you're offering is too ridiculously extravagant for
me to turn down."

HOURS LATER, TYLER FELT she'd earned every dime.  Her neck and
shoulders ached from long hours at the computer with little results,
but she had no regrets about her decision to trust him.  In the ciear,
gray light of morning, her fears had dissipated like mountain mist
beneath the rising sun.  He'd exhibited nothing but kindness,
gentleness, and rash, heroic self- sacrifice when she'd been in danger.
 Delusional he might be, but Jared Slater would never harm her.

As soon as she had agreed to take the job, she'd tackled the task with
enthusiasm.  Jared had worked beside her, checking the information as
she pulled it up on the screen, hoping to glimpse a name or fact to
reveal the location of the next victim.

First, she eliminated all cities and towns with intersections of First
and Orange except those in the Deep South where Spanish moss grew.

That had left 143 possible locations.

"How can you narrow these down without visiting each of them?"  she
asked.

"The woman we're searching for lives in a three- story Victorian
house," Jared said, "with azaleas around a broad front porch and
wisteria growing over an arbor at the front gate of a picket fence.

She sighed with frustration.

"That's half the houses in most of these towns."

"Then we've reached a dead end?"  Alarm colored his words.  She
massaged the aching muscles of her neck.  I'll check the National
Registry of Historic Places on the chance the house is listed there. 
"

Jared picked up the alphabetical list of 143 cities and towns.  I'll
start at the top and call real-estate agents.  I'll say I was driving
through their area, and saw the house, and I'll describe it in complete
detail.  If I tell them it's the kind of property I want to purchase,
maybe they'll recognize it.  "

All day, while she checked the registry and classified real-estate ads
from newspapers in the target cities, Jared spoke with realtors and
studied listings that hummed in over his fax line.  None of the houses
matched his dream.  Hours later, a dead end seemed no longer
avoidable.

"I don't know what else to try," she said.

He uttered a stream of curses that would have sent her well-bred
grandmother into a swoon, then leaned back in his chair and closed his
eyes.

"I've seen that town a dozen times in my sleep.

Turn-of the-century buildings, moss-draped oaks overhanging the main
street--' "Names of businesses?"  she prompted.

"Nope, nothing that helpful.  Our only hope is the five realtors who
were out when I called earlier today."  He sat up and stretched,
flexing his muscles with the lean power of a jungle cat.  I'll fix us
some dinner, then hit the sack early.  Maybe I'll dream something more
specific tonight.  "

"Want some help in the kitchen?"  She pushed away from the keyboard and
stootl, easing the cramps from her shoulders with a rolling motion.

Her lips parted in surprise when strong hands grasped her from behind,
massaging away the tension.

"You've done more than enough for one day."  His warm breath skimmed
her ear.

"Sit down and give your mind a rest.  There's usually a movie on TV
this time of night."

She leaned back against the lean firmness of his chest, yielding to his
warmth and strength, aching to kiss him, until the insistent buzz of
the telephone brought her out of her reverie.

Jared took the loft stairs three at a time.  When he answered the
phone, she strained to hear over the loft wall.

She blushed at her eavesdropping.  The call could be personal, nothing
to do with their search, but her curiosity about every asaect of
Jared's life was undeniable.  However, her auditory snooping yielded
nothing but Jared's murmured responses.

A few minutes later, he descended the stairs, clutching a legal pad.

His grim expression unnerved her.

"That was one of the realtors, returning my call."

"Another dead end?"

He shook his head.

"The realtor said the house isn't for sale, but she recognized it.  The
owner's name is Evelyn Granger, and the house is located at the corner
of First and Orange in Micanopy, Florida, south of Gainesville."

"So you've found her.  That's good, isn't it?"

Agony lit his brown eyes with a golden light.

"Only if she's still alive when we get there."

Chapter Five

Uttering a muffled curse, the stranger surfaced from a troubled sleep
and groped for the telephone in the darkness of the motel room.

"Yeah?"

"Your 4:00 a.m. wake-up call, sir," the desk clerk's cheery voice
announced.

With effort, he threw back the tangled covers and reached for his
pants.  His joints groaned in protest and when he stood, his head
throbbed with pain.  His cold was no better, and he'd already lost a
day.

"Fluids and aspirin," he mumbled before swallowing two tablets with a
gulp of warm juice he'd purchased the previous evening from the motel
vending machine.

"Bed rest will have to come later."  He scowled, remembering his
mother's adage: No rest for the wicked.  " A forbidding figure stared
back at him from the bathroom mirror, a man with tortured features and
bloodshot eyes, who sported a two-day stubble streaked with silver.  A
man who'd forgotten how to smile.

Maybe he could smile again, once he'd taken care of Slater.  But first,
Slater had to suffer.

Dizziness assailed him, and he gripped the edge of the counter.  Of all
the damn stupid times to get sick.  He leaned his burning forehead
against the cool tile of the bathroom wall and waited for the giddiness
to pass.  His muscles ached and his knees trembled, objecting to his
weight.  At one time he could have crawled back to bed until his
illness passed.  Now he couldn't afford that luxury.  There was too
much to do, and time was running short.

Just let me finish the killing.  Then I can die, for all I care.

Minutes later, he climbed into his Blazer and shivered in the predawn
chill.  The vending-machine coffee tasted horrible, but it helped drive
his tremors away as he headed into the mountains.  He had to kill
Slater's girlfriend today, then he could rest until his sickness
passed.  When he was well again, he would take care of Slater.  Even
with the heater pumping hot air, he shook with chills as he maneuvered
the mountain curves.  Each twist and turn made his stomach quiver.  His
headlights' high beams glanced off the mountain rock face, slick with
moisture, rugged with cracks and crevices where the road had been
blasted through.  He clutched the steering wheel, forcing his blurring
vision to pick out the white line that kept him on the highway.

Light-headed and aching, he turned at the church and ascended the road
that led to Slater's.  A flash of light on the mountain above warned
him someone was coming down Slater's drive.

Cursing his luck, he backed into the driveway of an empty cottage,
killed his lights, and waited.  A few minutes later, a gray Volvo drove
past.  In the dawn twilight, he recognized the faces of the two people
in the front seat.  Jared Slater and the woman.  But where the hell
were they going at this hour of the morning?

He waited until they were well ahead of him, then threw the Blazer into
gear and inched after them, easing without headlights down the shadowy
road.

The two couldn't drive forever.  He patted the bulk of the revolver in
its holster beneath his arm.  When they stopped, he would kill her.

JARED EASED THE VOLVO off the ramp into traffic streaming southwest on
Interstate 85 toward Atlanta.

"We should make good time, now that we're out of the mountains."

Tyler studied the map.

"Even so, it'll take us about ten hoiars to reach Micanopy."

Jared nodded.

"I think we'll arrive in time.  I've had no dreams to indicate the
killer is closing in yet."

She shifted uneasily against the restriction of the shoulder harness.

Because he'd had no dreams, Jared had decided they had time to sleep
last night--and to drive, rather than fly.  According to Jared's
accounts, he and the killer usually reached the crime scenes at the
same time, but maybe in this instance, things would be different.
Evelyn Granger would remain hale, whole and hearty, and Jared would
admit that his dreams were delusions.  And she would be out of a job.
The idea disturbed her--not because of the remarkable salary Jared was
paying, but because she enjoyed being around him.  Given enough time,
she could fall in love with the guy's lean good looks, quirky humor and
quick mind.  Even his misguided inclination to help others had its
charm.

Jared cast her a sideways glance before returning his attention to the
road.

"You still think I'm crazy, don't you?"

"Crazy is as crazy does," she said with an apologetic smile.  His face
crinkled in a lopsided grin, creating a dimple in his cheek.

"I

guess this does seem like a wild- goose chase, heading south at the
crack of dawn to track down a woman in a dream.  "

All morning, as Jared had steered the Volvo ex pertly along the
mountain roads, questions about his story had niggled at her.

"For the sake of argument," she said, "let's assume your premonitions
are real."

"Isn't that why we're headed to Micanopy?"

"To either prove them or disprove them."  She smiled to soften her
correction.

"But if you really are connected somehow to this killer's mind, what do
you know about him?"

He pulled the Volvo into the passing lane and sped by an RV towing a
compact car.

"Not enough.  I know he's eaten up with hatred and revenge."

She shuddered at the image.

"You mean, you think he's a serial killer?"

His hands tightened on the steering wheel.

"I don't think so.  His victims aren't random.  He seeks each one out
purposely."

"Why?"

"Good question.  If I knew the answer, I might know who he is."  If
Jared was delusional, he was firmly entrenched in his madness.

"Did you check to see if Veronica Molinsky and Mary Stanwick had
anything in com mon?"  she asked, hoping to illustrate the error of his
thinking.

His answer surprised her.

"Twenty years ago, when Pete Stanwick was a rookie detective, Larry
Molinsky, Veronica's husband, worked as an assistant state's attorney
in Stanwick's jurisdiction."

"They worked together?"  If Jed was making all this up, his derangement
displayed a remarkable creativity?

When the glare of the morning sun reflected off the back window of the
car ahead, he removed his sun glasses from behind" the visor and
slipped them on.

"That's the odd part.  Pete Stanwick and Larry Molinsky collaborated on
only one case, right before Mol- in sky moved to Washington."

His statements sounded so calm and reasoned, she almost forgot she was
dealing with a man who claimed to see a killer in his dreams.

"Does that case tie Mary Stanwick and Veronica Molinsky together
somehow?"

He shook his head.

"That was my first thought.  But further investigation brought me to
another dead end, literally."

"Another murder?"  Her fear of his irrationality revived The body count
was growing too fast to believe

He laughed with a sharp, barking snort.

"That depends on your view of capital punishment."

The twists and turns of his logic eluded her.

"What do you mean?"  He pulled the car into an exit lane, heading for a
rest area.

"I'm getting drowsy.  I'll explain over a cup of coffee."

He parked between a minivan and an ancient Lincoln Town Car.  Sunlight
filtering through new leaves bathed the spring grass of the picnic area
in dappled shade.  In the thick woods surrounding the rest area, late
dogwood and redbud blossomed, creating an atmosphere of serenity.

A wren warbled in a nearby hedge.  Thoughts of murder and killers
didn't belong in such a place.

She lifted a basket from the rear seat and headed toward a picnic table
beside a magnificent spirea, heavy with snowy flowers.  As she removed
a thermos, cups and cinnamon rolls from the basket, a black Blazer
caught her eye when it turned into a parking space on the other side of
the rest rooms.

A memory niggled at her brain.  The man at the Brevard service station
had driven a Blazer.  No one exited the car, and its tinted windshield
shrouded the vehicle's occupants from view.  She forced herself to
breathe deeply and relax.  Jared's crazy dreams had made her
paranoid.

Jared poured himself a cup of coffee, bit into a sweet roll, and
lounged on the concrete bench with one foot on the seat and an elbow
propped on the table, studying her.

"See someone you know?"  She shook her head and reached for the
coffee.

"Do you know anyone who owns a black Blazer?"

His scrutiny burned her as she selected a cinnamon bun and took a
tentative bite.

"No.  Do you?"

"Uh-uh."  She lowered her eyes to avoid his while she sipped her
coffee.

"Then why does that Blazer have you spooked?"

"It doesn't."  He refused to relent.

"In this instance, I don't have to be a psychic to read your mind. Your
feelings are written all over your very attractive face."

His compliment barely registered.  She didn't want to tell him about
the man at the station.  She didn't even want to think about the
threats.

"I'm just tired.  We were up awfully early?"

"Tiredness didn't drain the color from your cheeks."  He gazed across
the picnic tables at the Blazer.

"Maybe I ought to offer the driver some coffee."

As he started to rise, she grabbed his arm to hold him back.

"No.  It's nothing.  All this talk of killing makes me nervous, that's
all."

He cocked an eyebrow.

"And that's why you're staring at that Blazer as if it's about to rush
over here and attack you?"

Her laughter eased her tension.

"It' snot a big deal.  When I stopped in Brevard before coming to your
place, a man in a black Blazer warned me about you."

He set his cup down with a deliberate motion.

"What did he say?"  She shivered, remembering.

"That women around you keep turning up dead."

His gaze froze, cold and formidable.

"He mentioned me by name?"

"Only after I asked if I was on the fight road to your place."  She
wished she'd never brought up the subject.  Fear and suspicion had
driven the beauty out of the morning.  As if to reflect her thoughts, a
cloud drifted across the sun, casting the picnic area in gloom.

"He was a mean-looking character, who probably never heard of you and
just wanted to rattle a woman traveling alone."

The coldness in Jared's expression melted, and he reached out and
hugged her to him.

"Looks like he did a good job of that.  But don't let it bother you.
You'll notice dozens of black Blazers now.  Remember how many white
Broncos you saw after O.J."  s infamous ride?  "

She groaned at the recollection.

"The trial of the century--and it seemed to last that long, too."

She sat on the bench with Jared's arm comfortably draping her shoulder
while she sipped her coffee.  The easy companionship soothed her
frazzled nerves.  At the same time, the warmth of his body against hers
generated a current of excitement and a heightened sense of
anticipation deep in her abdomen.  Unlike the men her grandmother had
encouraged her to date-men from the "right" families--Jared Slater
didn't treat her like a hothouse lily one minute, then try to wrestle
her into his arms for a kiss and a feel, the next.

Not that the prospect of a little wrestling with him wasn't pleasant.

She reined in her fantasies and studied the black vehicle parked across
the picnic area.  Jared treated her like an equal, like an independent
woman who knew her own mind.  He hadn't pooh-pooh ed her fears about
the Blazer.  He, above all, understood the tricks the mind played.

"Speaking of trials," he said, "I promised to tell you about the one
Pete Stanwick and Larry Molinsky worked on."

"Let me guess," she teased.  "" It has to be a murder trial.  "

"The worst kind."

She grew solemn at the gravity in his voice.

"How can one kind of murder be worse than another?  Dead is dead."

His fingers tightened on her shoulder.

"But some methods of dying are more horrible than others."

Overcast skies blocked the sun, turning the rest area into a secluded
recess of shadows and silence.  Hundreds of yards away, screened by
thick hedges that muffled noise, cars and trucks whizzed by on the
interstate Beside her, Jared sat quietly, drawing circles in the red
clay at their feet with a branch, as if reluctant to divulge the horror
he'd discovered.

In spite of her jacket, she shivered in the light wind.  She was no
longer dealing with data on a computer printout but with the fives and
deaths of real people.  The anonymity of her computer terminal could
not protect her from a killer who stalked the land, dispensing death
according to some strange prescription only he understood.  Whether
Jared had really connected with this killer in his dreams didn't alter
the fact that a murderer was out there, watching, waiting to strike
again.  If she and Jared could identify him, maybe other women wouldn't
have to die.

Jared tossed the stick aside and stood, rammed his hands in his pockets
and stared unseeingly past the busy lanes of traffic.

"Twenty-seven years ago, a se rial killer stalked women in
Massachusetts.  Not only did he commit murder, but he tortured his
victims before they died."

This was no delusion.  Jared sounded like a're searcher who had done
his homework.

"And Pete Stanwick caught him?"

He nodded.

"Stanwick had just been promoted to the criminal investigation division
and partnered with Sam Witek, a twenty-year veteran of the force.
Together the two of them tracked the murderer down, Ozzie Anderson, a
dirt-poor day laborer with a psychotic hatred of women.  Detectives
Witek and Stan- wick gathered an ironclad case against Anderson, a
whole truckload of irrefutable evidence."

She let him talk because he seemed to need to, but doubted that
decades-old crimes had any relevance to the man they sought.

"Where did Larry Molinsky fit in?"

"Molinsky was the prosecutor in the case."

"And he persuaded the jury to convict Anderson?"  Jared poured himself
more coffee and sat next to her.

"Anderson never went to trial in Massachusetts

"Are you saying Ozzie Anderson is still out there, killing women?"  Her
alarm regenerated and her gaze flew to the Blazer, whose driver had yet
to make an appearance.

He gave her knee a reassuring pat.

"Relax and let me finish.  In heir investigations, Witek and Stanwick
tied Anderson not only to the Massachusetts murders but to several in
New Jersey as well.  They encouraged Molinsky to have AndersotL
extradited to stand trial in New Jersey."

"Why?"

"Because there was no death penalty in Massachusetts They wanted to
make sure Ozzie Anderson paid with his life for his crimes."

His fingers tightened on her shoulder.

"But some methods of dying are more horrible than others."

Overcast skies blocked the sun, turning the rest area into a secluded
recess of shadows and silence.  Hundreds of yards away, screened by
thick hedges that muffled noise, cars and trucks whizzed by on the
interstate Beside her, Jared sat quietly, drawing circles in the red
clay at their feet with a branch, as if reluctant to divulge the horror
he'd discovered.

In spite of her jacket, she shivered in the light wind.  She was no
longer dealing with data on a computer printout but with the lives and
deaths of real people.  The anonymity of her computer terminal could
not protect her from a killer who stalked the land, dispensing death
according to some strange prescription only he understood.  Whether
Jared had really connected with this killer in his dreams didn't alter
the fact that a murderer was out there, watching, waiting to strike
again.  If she and Jared could identify him, maybe other women wouldn't
have to die.

Jared tossed the stick aside and stood, rammed his hands in his pockets
and stared unseeingly past the busy lanes of traffic.

"Twenty-seven years ago, a se rial killer stalked women in
Massachusetts.  Not only did he commit murder, but he tortured his
victims before they died."

This was no delusion.  Jared sounded like a're searcher who had done
his homework.

"And Pete Stanwick caught him?"

He nodded.

"Stanwick had just been promoted to the criminal investigation division
and partnered with Sam Witek, a twenty-year veteran of the force.
Together the two of them tracked the murderer down, Ozzie Anderson, a
dirt-poor day laborer with a psychotic hatred of women.  Detectives
Witek and Stan- wick gathered an ironclad case against Anderson, a
whole truckload of irrefutable evidence."

She let him talk because he seemed to need to, but doubted that
decades-old crimes had any relevance to the man they sought.

"Where did Larry Molinsky fit in?"

"Molinsky was the prosecutor in the case."

"And he persuaded the jury to convict Anderson?"  Jared poured himself
more coffee and sat next to her.

"Anderson never went to trial in Massachusetts

"Are you saying Ozzie Anderson is still out there, killing women?"  Her
alarm regenerated and her gaze flew to the Blazer, whose driver had yet
to make an appearance.

He gave her knee a reassuring pat.

"Relax and let me finish.  In their investigations, Witek and Stanwick
tied Anderson not only to the Massachusetts murders but to several in
New Jersey as well.  They encouraged Molinsky to have' Anderson
extradited to stand trial in New Jersey."

"Why?"

"Because there was no death penalty in Massachusetts They wanted to
make sure Ozzie Anderson paid with his life for his crimes."

She quivered again in the early-morning breeze.

"Let me guess.  He was given a life sentence instead, let out on
parole, and now for revenge, he's killing the wives of the men who
caught him."

"Wrong."  Jared loaded the thermos and cups into the basket and picked
it up.

"After twenty years of delays and appeals, Ozzie Anderson was finally
executed by the state of New Jersey almost three years ago."

She followed him to the car.

"Surely you're not suggesting the ghost of Ozzie Anderson is now
wreaking its revenge?"

Jared placed the basket in the back seat, then turned to her with a
rueful smile that accented the handsome lines of his face.

"And you think I'm delusional?"

She shrugged, then slid onto the front seat as he held the door.

"Makes about as much sense as anything else you've told me."  He leaned
inside the car, his face inches from hers.  All thoughts of murder and
mayhem vanished in the gleaming light of his eyes and the scent of
him--all spicy soap and leather--that filled her nostrils.

"It's elementary, Dr.  Watson," he said with a wider grin that stirred
butterflies in her stomach.

"Oz- zie Anderson is a dead end, in more ways than one.  There's either
some other association between Mary Stanwick and Veronica Molinsky, or
their connection through their husbands is simply a tragic
coincidence."

If she stared any longer into those deep brown eyes,

she would do something on impulse she might later regret.  To avoid his
gaze, she pulled her shoulder harness taut and concentrated on the
clasp at her hip.  At the sound of her door closing, she expelled a
sigh of relief.  Seconds later, Jared climbed into the driver's seat
and started the engine.

"Maybe Evelyn Granger's the key," she suggested, then blinked wi
surprise.  If she truly believed anything concrete would result from
his self- described wild-goose chase, she was as crazy as he was.

"If Evelyn knew both Mary and Veronica, then we'll know we're dealing
with more than coincidence."  He backed out, passed the parked Blazer,
and drove onto the on-ramp, checking over his shoulder before entering
the interstate.

She leaned against the headrest with closed eyes.  She was losing her
mind, buying into his story like this.  Poor Evelyn Granger.  Jared had
pulled her name from a that with his convoluted search for a Victorian
house.  All they would probably accomplish would be to scare the woman
to death.

She heard Jared flick on the radio and a catchy country tune with
improbable lyrics--something about a bad dog who gets no
biscuit--filled the car.  The nonsensical words were as incongruous as
her agreement to help Jared on his quest.  He'd called her Dr. 
Watson.

She felt more like Sancho Panza.  The only difference was that Don
Quixote's windmills never killed anyone.

She raised one eyelid and observed Jared's strong, slender fingers on
the steering wheel, tapping in time to the music.  Even his hands had
character.  Maybe that was why she felt so attracted to him.  He might
be crazy, but he had his principles and was willing to place himself at
risk to help others.

She closed her eyes and pictured him in her mind-tall and slender, with
latent power, lean and handsome features, and a shock of hair across
his forehead that gave him a deceptively boyish look.  Tall, dark,
handsome--and probably nuts, into the bargain.  What the hell had she
gotten herself into?

"You asleep?"

Even his voice delighted her with its depth and timbre, sending a
tingle through her.  She opened her eyes and sat up.

"With all that coffee in me, I'm wired for the next few hours.  Want me
to drive for a while?"

"Is your seat belt fastened?"

She detected a sense of urgency in his tone.

"I fasten it automatically every time I get in a car.  Why?"

He pressed the accelerator and the Volvo shot for ward.

"We're being followed."

She twisted in her seat and looked behind them.  The front end of a
black Blazer filled their rear wind shield.  With a burst of speed, the
Volvo pulled away, but the Blazer soon caught up with them again.

Jared fixed his gaze on the road ahead.

"He pulled out behind us when we left the rest area."

"He's been following us all this time?"  Perspiration slicked her
palms, and she wiped her hands on her jeans.

Jared gripped the wheel until his knuckles whitened and set his
handsome jaw into a hard line that caused a vein to pulse in his
neck.

"He hung back in the traffic.  As soon as we left the other cars
behind, he speeded onto our tail."

Her heart hammered in her throat and all the oxygen seemed squeezed
from her lungs.

"Maybe all he wants is to pass us," she said, not really believing
it.

"I tried slowing down to let him around," Jared said between clenched
teeth, "but he slowed, too."

She searched the highway ahead--a long, deserted stretch with trees in
the median blocking the view of the oncoming traffic lanes.

"Where's the highway patrol when you need them?"

"He's trying to pass," Jared said.

"Maybe he'll keep going and leave us alone."

The needle on the speedometer drooped to eighty miles an hour as Jared
eased off the accelerator, but they still hurtled like a bullet down
the highway, and the countryside outside her window blurred.  Tyler's
feet pressed against the floorboard in an instinctive braking motion,
and she gripped the edge of the seat as the Blazer veered toward
them.

"My God!"  she screamed.

"He's going to hit us!"  As the Blazer slammed into the side of the
Volvo, she screamed again.  The force of the impact threw her against
her seat belt, wrenching her shoulder and neck.  With superhuman
strength, Jared held the car on the road, but the Blazer's driver
didn't give up.  Again he jerked the Blazer into the left side of the
Volvo, shoving it into the emergency lane.  Her panic grew as the Volvo
barreled along the shoulder.  Gravel spat from beneath the wheels as
Jared fought to bring the car under control.  Its right wheels hit the
edge of the pavement, jarring every bone in her body.

In a few seconds of deadly silence, the road noise ceased as the Volvo
lifted off the ground and rotated in the air.  They were both going to
die.

She strained against her shoulder harness as the car catapulted, and
the world turned upside down.  When the car crashed onto its roof, her
seat belt yanked her back into her seat, and the air bags inflated,
enfolding her in darkness.

Chapter Six

Smothering darkness, penetrated by horrible, cackling cries that made
his skin crawl, engulfed Jared.  He'd seen pictures of hell, but he'd
never imagined what it sounded like.  Gradually the blackness lifted,
and a cushion of crushed grass vibrated beneath him as vehicles
thundered past.  He wasn't dead, after all.

Then the stench hit him, and his stomach recoiled with nausea.

"Take it easy, son," a man's voice drawled.

"Help's on the way."  Jared opened his eyes to see a tanned leather
face set with brilliant blue eyes beneath the brim of a battered straw
that. A blinding, pulsating glare surrounded the that like a shining
crown. Jared squeezed his eyes shut, fearful that his visual
hallucinations had returned.  When he opened them again, the man,
dressed in faded overalls and a flannel shirt, stepped from between him
and the bright morning sun and knelt beside him.  His sunlit halo
disappeared, but fluttering bits of white filled the air.  Snow again,
in May?

With his aching head pounding in protest, Jared propped himself on his
elbows in the grass, and his memory of the crash returned in a rush.

Panic and a terrible foreboding surged through him.

"Tyler?"  The man's hand on his shoulder prevented him from rising.

"Your lady friend's fine.  She's in that fancy car over there, calling
the police."

Jared sagged back to the ground with relief.  His glance slid down the
roadside past a dark blue Lexus to a gully beyond where his Volvo--or
what was left of it--rested.

His rescuer followed his gaze.

"I was coming up behind you in the inside lane and saw that feller
smash into you.  You'd have been okay if you hadn't hit the edge.
Flipped your car right off the road and rolled you down the
embankment."

The impact had crushed the roof and sides of the Volvo like a tin can
in a trash compactor.  If he and Tyler had been in a less sturdy
vehicle, they would both be dead.

Jared flexed his fingers and toes, and their quick response reassured
him.  Aside from a splitting head ache and terrible nausea from the
overpowering odor, he seemed okay.

Checking in the opposite direction, he discovered the source of the
stench and noise.  His rescuer was evidently a chicken farmer on his
way to market.  In a dilapidated truck, piled high with crates,
cackling hens beat their wings against the cages, filling the air with
a storm of white feathers and a smell that would choke a goat.  Jared
waved away the farmer's outstretched hand and hefted himself to a
sitting position.

"Did you get the Blazer's license number?"

"Sorry, his plate was so muddy, I couldn't even tell what state he was
from."  The farmer pushed back his that, and the sun beat on his
reddened skin.

"Whoever he was, he's a bad 'un.  Didn't slow down one stitch when you
went off the road.  Just took off like a bat out of hell."

"Jared, are you all right?"  Tyler hurried toward him and knelt in the
lush grass, her gray eyes wide with worry.  Unfamiliar emotion flooded
him at the sight of her----or maybe the strange sensations her presence
conjured in the pit of his stomach were simply" an aftermath Of his
blow to the head, which throbbed so painfully he couldn't think
straight.

She sat back on her heels and scrutinized ]aim with anxious eyes.

"You were knocked out, and I was afraid the car might explode before I
could pull you away.  Thank God, Mr.  McCracken stopped and helped."

The farmer's reddened face darkened at her praise.

"Just being neighborly, miss.  Anybody in these parts would do the
same."  Tyler jerked her head toward the Lexus.

"She's on her way to a convention in Atlanta, but she stopped to call
for help on her car phone.  The highway patrol and an ambulance should
be here soon."

"No need for an ambulance" -Jared nodded to ward the Volvo and grimaced
"--but we could use a tow truck.  And it looks like I'll be needing new
air bags."

"You might as well have a new car built around them."  Tyler grinned
shakily.

"I'm amazed we both got out alive."

Above the rumble of speeding traffic, approaching sirens pierced the
cool morning air, and on the high way behind them, two Georgia Highway
Patrol cars crested the rise.

Jared shoved himself to his feet, fighting dizziness.

"Was I unconscious long?"

"Not long," she assured him, "but it seemed like forever."  Her concern
touched him, and he cursed himself for a fool.  If she'd been hurt, he
would be the one to blame.  He should have heeded the warning in his
dreams and sent her away as soon as the ice melted.  He'd persuaded
himself he needed her help to save Evelyn Granger, but what he really
wanted was to keep her beside him for as long as he could.

His selfishness could have been the death of her.  The patrol cars
pulled off the road, crushing a blanket of dandelions and clover
beneath their heavy-duty tires, and parked with lights still flashing.
A heavy set trooper in a freshly pressed uniform exited the first car
and approached.

"What happened here?"

"A black Blazer followed us out of the last rest area," Jared said.

Relying on concise journalistic style, he provided the salient details.
He'd barely finished his story when more sirens sounded.

"That'll be the ambulance," the trooper said.

Jared tried to ignore the pummeling in his temples.

"We're okay" -- "We'll let the doctors be the judge of that," the
trooper replied in a tone that discouraged dissent.

"EMS will take you to the emergency room in Commerce.  I'll meet you
there when we've finished our investigation here."

FOUR HOURS LATER, Jared paced the worn linoleum of the hospital
corridor.  The harsh fluorescent lights and cloying antiseptic smells
recalled memories of another hospital two years ago.

He stopped, pressed his aching forehead against the wall's cool
plaster, and squeezed his eyelids shut against the unwelcome
recollection, but his mind's eye relayed bright and clear the image of
a stocky man in his thirties, wihh thinning blond hair and eyes the
color of faded denim, clutching a filthy, bloodsoaked towel to his
face.  Jared had been wondering who or what had inflicted the jagged
wound that laid open the man's cheek, when pain had exploded in his
head, obscuring his vision like torrents of crimson rain in the instant
before he'd lost consciousness.

A tremor of superstition shook him before he shrugged off his
irrational fear of hospitals and resumed pacing and waiting for Tyler.
He hadn't had a moment alone with her since the accident.  An EMS
technician had monitored their blood pressure and pulse during the
ambulance ride to the hospital.  There they had been shunted to
separate cubicles to await examination.

After the doctor had proclaimed Jared fit for release, the trooper had
corralled him to finish his interrogation.  Tyler was secluded with the
trooper now, providing her version of events.

Jared prayed she wouldn't reveal his strange dreams.  He couldn't help
her or Evelyn Granger if he was locked up in the loony bin.  And God
only knew what the trooper would conclude if she told him of the Blazer
driver's warning that women around Jared kept turning up dead.

Tyler had obviously had good reason to be frightened of the Blazer
driver.  Probably he was some sicko who had attached himself to Tyler
after encountering her at the service station.  After all, with her
flawless complexion, luxuriant hair and appealing figure, she was a
striking woman.  As he'd discovered in an investigative piece he'd
written on stalkers several years ago, men who hated women and flaunted
power over them often chose the prettiest ones as their victims.

He sank onto a vinyl-covered sofa in the waiting area and cradled his
aching head in his hands, waiting for the Tylenol the doctor had given
him to kick in.  If only he'd managed to glimpse the driver through the
Blazer's tinted windows, maybe he would have been able to give the
police a description.

A disturbing thought joined the pounding in his brain, turning his
blood cold.  Maybe, since he had some psychic connection with the man
who killed Stanwick and Molinsky, the killer also perceived his
thoughts.  If that was the case, he knew Jared was on his trail and
might do anything to stop him--like taking a shot at him on the
mountaintop or trying to run him off the road.

The Blazer driver's cryptic warning to Tyler now assumed new and deadly
meaning, especially if the deceased women he'd alluded to were Mary
Stanwick and Veronica Molinsky.

Jared slammed a fist into his palm and cursed his own stupidity.  If
the man in the Blazer was the killer he sought, Tyler was in even worse
danger than he'd realized.

"ARE YOU SURE YOU DON'T want me to drive?"  Tyler asked as they
approached the interstate.

Jared shook his head.

"I'm fine.  My headache's almost gone."  She touched her face testily,
fingering the bruise that had formed on her right cheekbone.

"We were both lucky, but I'm sorry about your car."

He patted the steering wheel.

"The rental car will do until the insurance company evaluates the
Volvo.  And whoever was driving the Blazer won't be looking for us in a
Ford Taurus."

She tried to block the stranger's intimidating face from her memory.

He was somewhere out there, maybe searching for them this very minute.
Before they left the hospital, the highway patrolman had advised them
the Blazer had been found abandoned, wiped clean of prints and any
other identification.

That car, too, had been a rental, but a trace of the credit card it was
charged to had turned up a false ID.

"Do you think he's so11 after us?"  she asked.  Jared shrugged and kept
his eyes on the road.

"I can't be concerned with him now.  He's already taken a six-hour
chunk out of our time, and I have to reach Evelyn Granger to warn
her."

She bit her lip and tamped down her exasperation.  Jared was ignoring
the real threat of the Blazer driver to chase after threats he'd only
dreamed about.  But she shouldn't be surprised.  She'd known he was
irrational from the moment they'd met, but she'd been desperate for the
job he'd offered, and, in her best Florence Nightingale mode, hoped the
trip to Florida would convince him of his delusions and encourage him
to seek help.

What she hadn't counted on was meeting a homicidal maniac at a service
station.  Had the man really stalked her across three states?

Jared interrupted her thoughts.

"What did you tell them?"

"Who?"

"The highway patrol."  His casual tone belied the tension in his body
as he waited for her answer.

She stretched and rolled her head on her shoulders, hoping to alleviate
the tightness in her neck and shoulders, remnants of the crash.

"What could I tell them?  A car ran us off the road.  It could have
been the same car I saw two days ago, but I didn't see the driver who
hit us, so I can't be sure."

"Anything else?"

"Of course."  She bristled at his interrogation.  She'd suffered enough
grilling from the Georgia Highway Patrol.

"I explained we were in a dreadful hurry to reach Florida to warn a
woman whom you'd seen murdered in your dreams."

"Holy" -Jared struck the steering wheel with the palm of his hand and
filled the car with oaths, some more original than others.  His wealth
of blue vocabulary amazed her.  Must be the writer in him.  She waited
until he had exhausted his repertoire of curses.

"Don't you know sarcasm when you hear it?  Of course, I didn't tell
them about your dreams.  I didn't wint them thinking we were both" She
paused, searching for a delicate way to phrase it.

"Crazy?"  he supplied.

She nodded and eyed him anxiously, wondering if his anger had passed.

The tension drained from his body.  and he slumped against the seat.

"I'm sorry.  I should have known you wouldn't say anything, but" "What
could I say?  Your dream story is so beyond bizarre, I'd sound insane
just repeating it."  She placed her hand on his arm to soften her
accusation.

"Besides, you've never dreamed about the guy in the Blazer, right?"

"Not that I know of."

"Then there was no reason for me to mention your dreams to the highway
patrol."  She didn't blame him for being edgy.  Although he believed in
his dreams, be realized how others would view them.

"Hungry?"  he asked.  She relaxed at the change of subject.

"Not until the butterflies finish their aerial show in my stomach.  It
hasn't stopped rolling since the car did."

He threw her a searching look.

"Maybe you'll feel like eating by the time we reach the airport."

Jared Slater presented her with one surprise after another.

"Airport?

To reach the airport, we'll have to take the interstate through
downtown Atlanta.  I thought you were in a hurry.  "

"This won't take long."

"What won't take long?"

"Putting you on a plane to Asheville," he said in an intractable
tone.

"You can pick up a rental car there to drive to my place, then switch
to your car and go home."

"Are you out of your mind?"  she sputtered, then winced at her choice
of words.

Jared didn't blink, but his jaw tensed and a vein pulsed noticeably in
his throat.

"I was crazy to risk bringing you with me.  I've put you in terrible
danger."

She raked her fingers raggedly through her hair.

"And you think dumping me off in the middle of nowhere will make me
safer?"

A smile quirked the corner of his mouth.

"Atlanta's hardly the middle of nowhere.  You've heard that old
Southern joke---even if you're going straight to hell, you have to
change planes in Atlanta."  The man was definitely certifiable.

"You can laugh, Jared Slater, because that maniac in the black Blazer
isn't after you."  His smile faded.

"I

never said he was.  "

"Then how can you be sure he isn't after me?  That he didn't pick me
out as his victim when he first saw me in Brevard?"  She twisted as far
toward him as her shoulder harness allowed.

"How can you be sure he hasn't gone back to your place to wait for our
re turn ?  He wasn't deterred.

"Then I'll buy you a ticket for Raleigh-Durham.  Your grandmother can
pick you up, and I'll have your car delivered to you when I return from
Florida."

She collapsed against the seat, not knowing which was worse--driving to
Florida with a crazy man or returning home to Gran's incessant I-told
you-so's.

Not to mention that she'd become overly fond of the kooky but desirable
man next to her.  She hadn't realized how fond until she'd seen his
unconscious body, dangling from the shoulder harness of the Volvo, and
her heart had constricted with grief.  Now the thought of not seeing
him again, of allowing him to continue suffering his delusions with no
one to convince him to seek help, filled her with an incredible
sadness.  If she could persuade him to let her tag along long enough to
prove his dreams were deceptive, maybe he would forget about sending
her away.

Under no circumstances would she return to the mountaintop alone with
the dark stranger after her.  Nor would she admit defeat by running
home to Gran and dependence.

"Look" -she employed her most patient tone "--you admitted the man
won't recognize our car.  If he has no idea where we're headed, I'm
perfectly safe."

"But what if he does know?"  A sense of urgency underlaid his words.

She threw up her hands in exasperation.

"How could he know?"  He glanced toward her again, and she recoiled at
the pain in his eyes.

"You still don't believe my claims about my dreams, do you?"  Her heart
softened at his distress.

"I believe you believe them."

"So you're tagging along to play nursemaid to your poor, misguided,
crazy boss."  He ground out the words between gritted teeth.  Unsure
how to respond, she took a deep breath and studied the passing
landscape while she cast about for a reply.

"I just want to do the job you hired me to do."

She tensed at the sight of the approaching inter change.  Ahead traffic
split in one direction toward downtown Atlanta, in the other toward the
belt line that by-passed the city.  She held her breath as Jared
pressed the accelerator, then switched into the bypass lane.

"You're not sending me home?"  she asked in amazement.

He reached over, brushed her cheek with his knuckles, and threw her an
achingly attractive smile.

"I'm the crazy one, remember?"

MAYBE HE WAS CRAZY, Jared thought as he flipped on the lights in the
suite of the Residence Inn outside Gainesville and dumped their
suitcases at the foot of the loft stairs.  Maybe his mountain isolation
had driven him over the edge and he didn't even know it.  Otherwise,
what the hell-was he doing, six hundred miles from home at midnight in
a strange motel, placing an incredibly beautiful and caring woman in
mortal danger, all because of some damn dream?

Tyler glanced around the room.  He followed her gaze, taking in the
kitchen, sitting area, dining room, and the stairs to the loft bedroom.
The contemporary furniture and carpets in soothing sea greens and blues
provided a welcome change from the bleak darkness he'd driven through
for the past six hours.

"Where do I sleep?"  she asked.

He nodded toward the loft bedroom, picked up her bag, and started up
the stairs.

She laid a restraining hand on his arm.

"Then where do you sleep?"  He suppressed a grin at the suspicion
sparking her cool gray eyes.

"Downstairs."

She eyed the cozy love seats skeptically.

"On one of those?"  He set down her bags, stepped around to the
dining-area wall, and pulled a handle.  A wide Murphy bed unfolded.

"All the comforts of home."

His eyes met hers, and for an instant, an intriguing warmth ignited her
gaze the way heat lightning backlighted clouds in the night sky,
arousing a corresponding glow deep in his abdomen.  An overwhelming
desire to embrace her and tumble both of them into the soft depths of
the Murphy bed seized him.

He shoved the bed into the wall with an emphatic thud.  She already
believed he was crazy.  No need for her to think him a sex maniac, as
well.

"Aren't you tired?"  she asked.

"Sure, but I think I'll take a shower before turning in."  A very cold
shower.

"Thanks for not sending me away.  You won't regret it."  She stretched
up on tiptoe and planted a tentative kiss on his cheek, then grabbed
her bag and rushed up the stairs.

Hell, he already regretted it.  His only hope was to identify the
killer before he could harm Evelyn Granger.  Only then would Tyler be
safe, as well.

Hours later, he jolted from a deep sleep with a tortured scream on his
lips.  Above him, a light switched on in the loft, and before he could
reach for his robe, footsteps pattered down the stairs.

"Are you okay?"

Tyler stood over him, the light from the stairwell outlining her
alluring silhouette through the sheer cot ton of her short gown.  Her
hand cupped his forehead as if she was feeling for fever, and he leaned
into the comfort of her touch as he struggled to regain his breath and
calm his pounding heart.

She settled on the edge of the bed, and he grasped her hands in his,
hoping the contact would drive the residual horrors from his mind.

Her fingers rested on his wrist.

"Your pulse is gal loping.  Another dream?"

The faint light illuminated the delicate profile of her face and the
soft wing of hair that covered one cheek.  God, she was so beautiful
and so brave.  After all she'd been through the past few days, she
still managed to radiate calmness and poise.

He'd had another dream, all right, but he hesitated to tell her.  She
already seemed convinced he was a lunatic.  Now the only way to
convince her he was sane and to guarantee her safety was to catch the
killer.

"Yes," he said, finally drawing breath enough to speak.

"The killer's closing in ori Evelyn Granger.  We don't have
mucl/time."

Chapter Seven

Jared left the stream of traffic headed toward Wait Disney World,
turned off the interstate at Exit 73, and headed east into the rising
sun toward Micanopy.

Tyler inhaled deeply as the car's air conditioner churned out cold,
crisp air, a welcome contrast to the muggy atmosphere that had
enveloped them when they'd stepped out of the suite into the feeble
dawn light.  But even deep breathing couldn't calm her this morning.

She was not looking forward to their encounter with Evelyn Granger.

She smoothed the short skirt of her cotton floral dress, thankful she'd
remembered to pack cool clothes in spite of the melting snow they'd
left behind in the Smokies.  Strange, how just a few hundred miles
could produce such contrasts--from rugged mountain passes to rolling
hills of Georgia clay, to wetlands thick with cypress and live oaks
bearded with flowing manes of grizzled Spanish moss.  The one bright
spot in her morning was the knowledge that the stranger who had run
them off the road yesterday wouldn't find them here.  The highway, a
winding country road, seemed abandoned after the interstate heavy
traffic, but the peaceful, pastoral land scape of wide meadows
interspersed with stands of slash pine and groves of ancient oaks
provided little relief from her agitation.

Her uneasiness had begun when Jared's scream awakened her from a sound
sleep.  She'd stumbled down the stairs to find him sitting upright in
bed, gasping for air.  A fine sheen of perspiration covered his bare
chest, a sight that had sent her heart skipping and her palms itching
to caress his smooth muscles.

His eyes glowed feverishly, and she'd felt his fore head and checked
his pulse, fearful he was ill.  Al though his heart raced faster than
her own, he wasn't sick, but was suffering the aftermath of another
night mare.  She'd longed to wrap her arms around him to ease his
torment, but his impatience had curbed her desire.

After urging her to dress, he'd hustled her to the car without
breakfast in his haste to reach Evelyn Granger.  Now, alternating sun
and shade played like a strobe light across the rigid planes of his
face as the car passed beneath the trees that overhung the road.

Except for a vertical crease between his dark eye brows, his stoic
expression gave no hint of his urgency.

"Do you have a plan?"  she asked.

He started, as if roused from a sound sleep.

"For what?"

She sighed with frustration.  It was possible that she'd met the man of
her dreams, but his dreams were making her crazy.  His insistence on
the validity of his wacko fantasies placed him on a fast track to the
nut house--not to mention that he was prepared to scare an unsuspecting
woman senseless in the process.

She struggled to keep the irritation from her voice.

"You can't just walk up to Evelyn Granger with an " Excuse me, but I
believe there's a killer out to get you.  " I'll think of something."

He flashed her a lopsided smile that reminded her why she stayed with
him, in spite of his delusions.  Handsome, intelligent,
compassionate.

Did those qualities cancel out lunacy, or was she the insane one?

"Please," she begged, "why frighten the woman?  Why don't we just hang
around and keep an eye on her?"

He shot her a withering glance.

"Because I couldn't live with myself if that monster comes after her
and I didn't at least try to warn her."

Stark, staring crazy, that's what he was.  And the sexiest, most
fascinating man she'd ever met.  One thing she had to admit--working
for Jared Slater was anything but dull.

"Okay" -She decided on a delaying tactic.

"How about some breakfast?

I'm starving, and I doubt Evelyn Granger's even awake yet.  " When they
entered the main street of Micanopy, the quaint turn-of-the-century
brick buildings and canopied oaks that shaded the wide street provided
a setting ill-suited for murder.  A scruffy yellow dog, scratching
halfheartedly, lay in a puddle of sunlight outside the Wild Flowers
Cafe.  He lifted his head with an inquisitive glance as they climbed
out of the car, wagged his tail lazily, then laid his head on his giant
paws and scrutinized them as they entered the restaurant.  in contrast
to the empty streets, the cafe was packed with people mingling among
the tables, calling greetings and joking with each other by first
names, like folks who'd known one another for a lifetime.  Sunlight
glinted off multiple panels of decorative stained glass that adorned
the walls and windows, and the heady aromas of brewed coffee, sizzling
bacon and fresh bread made Tyler's mouth water.

She contemplated the congenial surroundings with a surge of hope.

Maybe the relaxing atmosphere of the sleepy town and interaction with
the friendly townspeople would calm Jared's fevered dreams.  It was
possible the dreams were a result of his self- enforced exile on his
lonely mountaintop.  Besides, she wouldn't mind staying here awhile.

The tiny village, off the usual roads traveled by tourists and
residents alike, provided a perfect hiding place from the demented
Blazer driver.

"Over there."  Jared pointed to a table by the front window and guided
her by the elbow through the crowded room.

"You folks want coffee?"  A waitress, sporting a teased coiffure of
red-orange hair with gray roots, filled their cups from a glass carafe.
I'll be back for your orders in a minute.  "

"Where can we find Seminole Properties?"  Jared flashed the woman an
appealing grin.

The waitress countered with a flirtatious smile and patted her
lacquered hair.

"For you, m!ster, I'll bring you Seminole Properties."

She threaded her way between tables to a corner where a middle-aged
woman sat, reading the Gainesville Sun.  Wearing a burgundy business
suit with a candy-striped blouse, she seemed overdressed compared to
the rest of the cafe's clientele.  When the waitress spoke with a jerk
of her head toward the window table, the woman folded her newspaper,
tucked it beneath her arm, and crossed the room.  Even her walk was
businesslike.

The rosy cheeks of her plump face dimpled as she smiled and nodded,
causing a slight bounce of her salt-and-pepper curls.

"I'm Bobbie Hendrix, owner of Seminole Properties.  What can I do for
you?"  Jared had shoved himself to his feet at her approach.  After
introducing himself and Tyler, he indicated an empty chair at the
table.

"Join us?"

Bobbie took a seat, and the waitress reappeared with another cup and
the coffee carafe.

"Jared Slater."  Bobbie's eyes lighted with recognition.

"Didn't I speak with you on the phone a couple of days ago?"

"I'm interested in an old Victorian house," Jared acknowledged.

"You said you had one here in town that fits my description."

Tyler stared out the window, holding her breath and praying Jared
wouldn't divulge his crazy dreams.

Bobbie's pleasant expression crumpled.

"You've driven all this way for nothing.  Evelyn Granger's house isn't
for sale.  I thought I made that clear on the telephone."

"You did," Jared said, "but we'd like to speak with Mrs.  Granger
anyway."

Bobbie shrugged.

"It won't do you much good.  Evelyn's lived in that house over forty
years.  Came here as a bride, raised three children, buried her
husband-all from that house.  She isn't about to sell."

Tyler's appetite suddenly waned.  If Evelyn Granger had lived forty
years in Micanopy, a town as forgotten by time as Brigadoon, the
likelihood of her connection with Stanwick and Molinsky diminished.

And that meant Jared Slater was as crazy as she'd feared.  Jared leaned
toward Bobbie, his expression mixture of charm and embarrassment.

"You misunderstand.  My fiancre" -Tyler's eyes widened when he reached
across the table and clasped her hand, squeezing it playfully.

"--and I," Jared continued, "just want to see the house.  We'll
describe it to our architect and have him build a reproduction, since
the original's unavailable."

Bobbie's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"I thought you knew what it looked like.  After all, you described it
to me."

"We only know the outside," Tyler blurted, anxious to speak before
Jared revealed his visions.

"I've always dreamed of a house like this--maybe I saw a picture as a
child.  And then, one day, while passing through, we saw Mrs. Granger's
home.  But if we're going to build one, we'll need some idea of the
interior layout."  Bobbie relaxed and took a sip of coffee.  Maybe she
was accustomed to off-the-wall requests in her business.

"Guess it won't hurt for you to ask Evelyn.  She should be opening in
about an hour."

"Opening?"  Jared asked.

"Evelyn operates Precious Memories Antiques and Collectibles in the
next block.  The shop opens at nine."  Bobbie rose and handed Jared a
business card.

"And if you run into a dead end with Evelyn, give me a call.  I have a
few other Victorians that might interest you."  Jared watched the
realtor return to her corner table and unfold her paper, then turned to
Tyler with a tormented look.

"A dead end is exactly what I'm trying to prevent."

A FEW MINUTES AFTER nine, sated with a Belgian waffle topped with
whipped cream and fresh blueberries, Tyler trotted to keep up with
Jared's long strides as he crossed the main street and headed down the
block.

She was the one who needed her head examined for going along with
Jared.  Once he began spouting his strange tales, Evelyn Granger would
probably scream for the men in the little white coats.  Tyler wondered
if there was such a charge as "insanity by association."

She was beginning to suspect she really was losing her mind.  As they
covered the block to Precious Memories, she experienced an eerie
feeling of dtj vu, of having walked this same street before.

Everything seemed familiar, but she'd never been to Mi- canopy.  The
closest she'd come was eleven years ago when she and her grandmother
had barreled past on the interstate toward Orlando and Walt Disney
World.

A bell tinkled above the shop door as Jared opened it for her, and they
stepped into a huge store with high ceilings, crammed baseboard to
crown molding with every form of antique and collectible imaginable.
Glass cases displayed Art Deco costume jewelry, Victorian beaded bags
and railroad pocket watches, o Row after row of Chippendale and
Hepplewhite butted clawed feet and finials with monstrous Victorian
bedsteads and armoires.  China bowls of potpourri were scattered
throughout the store, mingling the fragrance of roses and lavender with
the musty smell of age.  In a rear corner, a human skeleton hung from a
metal stand beside a cupboard of grotesque surgical implements and
bottles of patent medicines.  A tiny woman, frail and birdlike, stepped
from be hind a counter.

"You folks looking for something in particular, or just browsing?"

"Mrs.  Granger?"  Jared asked.

The woman nodded with a look of surprise, and Tyler's stomach twisted
at the prospect of scaring the fragile old lady with Jared's horrid
nightmares.

"Roseville pottery," Tyler exclaimed in an attempt to forestall Jared's
disclosures.

"I'm looking for a nice addition to my grandmother's collection."

Fearful of his reaction, she averted her eyes from Jared.

"I have several excellent pieces."  Mrs.  Granger waved a hand gnarled
with arthritis toward the win dow, Where a set of low shelves displayed
a variety of vases in muted shades of pink, blue, and green.

"They're lovely," Tyler murmured, all too aware of Jared's annoyed
look.  He observed her with his hands shoved in his back pockets and
his eyebrows elevated above impatient eyes.  Tension crackled from his
muscles.  They were coiled like a jungle cat's, ready to spring.

"These make me feel like an antique," Mrs.  Granger said with a
pleasant laugh.

"When I was a girl, my mother could buy these at the five-and-dime for
a little over a dollar.  This piece" -she selected a blue vase with a
raised motif of white magnolia blossoms "--sells for three hundred
dollars now."

"We'll take it."  Jared withdrew his wallet and extracted his charge
card.  His smile, subdued yet challenging, weakened Tyler's knees.

"I'm sure your grandmother will love it."

She opened her mouth to protest, then clamped it shut, sensing her
refusal would only make matters worse.

Mrs.  Granger nodded toward the street.

"Traffic is picking up now.

I'll be busier than a one-armed paperhanger by noon.  " Grateful to
pursue any subject other than Jared's dreams, Tyler plunged into
conversation!  " Micanopy is so isolated.  How do people find this
place?  "

"It was a well-kept Florida secret until the movie came out."  Mrs.

Granger punched Jared's account number into her credit-card machine.

"Movie?"  Jared asked in a tone more impatient than curious.

"Doc Hollywood, with Michael J. Fox."  Mrs.  Granger returned his card
and began to wrap the vase in tissue paper.

"Business has boomed ever since they used our town for a location."

Tyler heaved an inward sigh of relief.  Her drj vu hadn't been an
indication she was going bonkers.  She'd seen the movie twice--once at
the theater and later on television.  No wonder the street seemed
familiar.

Her relief was short-lived.

"I have a confession to make."  Jared accepted the padded bundle from
Mrs.  Granger.

"We didn't really come here to buy antiques."

"But you did."  The little woman nodded toward the vase swathed in
newspaper and graced him with a gentle smile.

"And I thank you for your business."

The bell tinkled behind them, and a couple, clad in shorts, tank tops
and thong sandals and glowing with sunburn, entered the store.

"Jeez, look at all the Carnival glass, George."  The woman's Brooklyn
accent grated on Tcler's Southern ears, but George didn't reply.  He
headed toward the back of.  the store and a display of antique tools.
Tyler placed her hand on Jared's arm.

"Maybe we should be going."  Jared ignored her.

"I must talk with you, Mrs.  Granger.  It's urgent."  A low growl
erupted at Tyler's feet, where a Pekingese planted itself in front of
Mrs.  Granger and bared its teeth at Jared.

"It's all right, Buffy," Mrs.  Granger crooned.

"Go back to your bed."

She shooed the tiny dog behind the counter and turned to Jared.

"Once I wait on these other folks, I'll be happy to talk with you."
Tyler assessed the cluttered shop, wondering if she could pull Mrs.
Granger aside and assure her that Jared was harmless, but speaking with
the woman without Jared overhearing appeared impossible.  Faced with
the inevitability of Jared's disclosure, she seized her only other
choice.

"I'll wait for you outside."

Without lingering for his reply, she hurried out onto the street.  Damn
Jared Slater's crazy dreams.  He shouldn't use them as an excuse to
terrorize sweet little old ladies like Mrs.

Granger.  If Tyler intended to continue working for him, she had to
convince him to seek professional help.

ONCE THE OTHER CUSTOMERS had left the shop, Evelyn Granger turned to
Jared.

"Now, young man, what did you wish to speak with me about?"  A trickle
of nervous perspiration slid down his spine.  He had to sound
convincing.  Her life depended on it.

"I'm a reporter"

"How nice."

Her pleasant smile lit her face.

"And you want to do a feature on my shop?"

He shook his head.

"I'm an investigative reporter.  I'm trying to track down a
murderer."

"What does that have to do with me?"  Her bewildered tone caused the
Pekingese to stand in its bed behind the counter and issue a
threatening snarl.

Jared rubbed the back of his neck as he searched for the right words.

"In my investigation, I've come across evidence that this killer is
after you."

"Me?"  Her trilling laugh echoed in the store.

"You must be mistaken.  I don't have an enemy in the world."

"I'm sure that's what Mary Sawick and Veronica Molinsky thought."  He
watched her face for signs of recognition, but all he found was
puzzlement.

"Do they live around here?"  she asked.

"Mary Stanwick lived in Massachusetts, Veronica Molinsky in
Washington,

D.

C.

"

She shrugged.

"Then I wouldn't know them.  I grew up in New York and moved here as a
bride."

Her disbelief was obvious, and his desperation grew.

"You have to believe me, Mrs.  Granger.  You are on this killer's hit
list."  Her eyes narrowed, appraising him.

"Who is this killer?"

"We don't know his name."  I-ie avoided her eyes.  She shook her head
sadly.

"Then how can you possibly know he's after me?"

"Through sources that I can't divulge."  His heart sank at the
continued skepticism in her expression.

"Promise me that you'll be careful, Mrs.  Granger.  Lock your doors and
don't go out at night alone."

She reached across the counter and patted his hand.  A kind sympathy
shone in her eyes.

"I'm always careful.  Now, why don't you go find that nice young woman
who was with you earlier?"

She retreated to the back of the shop, and when Jared started to
follow, the Pekingese barred his way.

TYLER AMBLED AIMLESSLY along the street, window- shopping at stores
that sold books, cameos and hand crafted items.  She passed an antique
store that specialized in Depression glass and Florida citrus-crate
labels.  When she turned back toward Mrs.  Granger's shop, Jared
stepped out, and she hurried to meet him.

"Come on."  He grasped her elbow and led her at a fast pace toward the
car.  Tyler glanced over her shoulder, trying to catch a glimpse of
Mrs. Granger through the shop window.

"What did you tell her?"

Jared didn't break his stride.

"That in my work as an investigative reporter I'd come across
information that someone was out to kill her."

Tyler stopped in the middle of the sleepy street.

"And she believed you?"

His bitter chuckle echoed in the empty space.

"She laughed at me.  Said she doesn't have an enemy in the world and
that I must have mistaken her for someone else.  " Did she know Mary
Stanwick or Veronica Mol- in sky Jared shook his head.

"Never heard of them."

"And that was it?"

"I tried to persuade her."  He spoke through gritted teeth.

"She just patted my hand--it was obvious she thought I was a nut case."
At least he hadn't frightened the poor woman.

"Then our work here is finished."

"Finished?"  He continued toward the car.

"Our work's just begun.  Since Evelyn Granger won't be on guard, we'll
have to stand watch for her."

Tyler groaned.  Jared's porch light might be burning, but there was
definitely nobody home.  She con soled herself with a reminder of how
much he was paying her for this nonsense.  And with the fact that he
fascinated her.

"I'm a researcher," she insisted, "not a body guard."

He opened the door of the Taurus for her.

"Researchers search for things, right?"

"Of course."  She slid onto the seat and took the Roseville vase from
him.

He leaned into the car, his face inches from hers.  The sincerity in
his intent brown eyes gave no hint of dementia.

"Then, as my research assistant, your job is to help me find a
killer."

THE DIGITAL CLOCK beside the bed glowed 2:00 a. m. Using the dregs of
her energy, Tyler stripped off her clothes, shrugged on her nightgown
and fell across the comfortable king-size bed at the Residence Inn.

She was accustomed to long hours at the computer or prowling through
library stacks and files, but surveil ling little old ladies was out of
her area of expertise-and more exhausting.

Jared had insisted they remain in Micanopy's business district until
Mrs.  Granger closed her shop for the day.  They'd whiled away hours
browsing through the shops, eating lunch at a window table at the Wild
Flowers Cafe and ice cream afterward on a shaded bench across from
Precious Memories.  When Mrs.  Granger closed at five o'clock, they'd
followed her home.  Jared had circled the block a few times, then
parked near a wooded lot down the street from the Victorian house, and
they had waited.

Twilight had fallen.  Jared switched off the air conditioner and rolled
down the window.  Cicadas and the plaintive hoot of a screech owl broke
the stillness.  In the intimacy of the car, surrounded by darkness
broken only by a dim streetlight at Mrs.  Granger's corner, Tyler
studied the man beside her.

She had taken a risk in continuing to work for him, and until now she
hadn't examined her motives too closely.  Maybe she'd been afraid of
what she would find.  Sure, she had wanted to be independent of Gran,
but her reason for staying with Jared went deeper than a need for
freedom.

From the moment she'd met him, his deep-seated integrity had drawn her.
Of course, it had drawn her right into trouble.  But as she considered
Jared's chiseled profile, expressive eyes, and the intentness with
which he guarded Evelyn Granger, she realized that if she had to be in
a jam, Jared Slater was exactly the man she wanted looking out for
her.

She fidgeted in her seat, uncomfortable with the tack her thoughts had
taken.

"I'd never make it as a detective.  All this inactivity is driving me
bananas."

"We have no choice.  She didn't take my warning seriously."  He passed
her a paper bag filled with Twinkies and bottled fruit juice he'd
purchased that afternoon.

"Sorry about the limited dinner menu."

"What good will sitting here do?"  She played along with his delusion,
hoping to persuade him to give it up.

"If someone wants to kill Mrs.

Granger, she lives alone.  Why wouldn't the killer just wait until
she's asleep and break in?  "

"That's not his M.O."

"M.O.?"

"Modus operandi," Jared had explained.

"Each of the other victims was shot late at night in a secluded area
away from their homes.  He must have followed them for days, learning
their routines, watching for the right opportunity."

She leaned against the headrest and closed her eyes.  If Jared had to
dream, why couldn't he concoct nice, normal male fantasies, like being
chased by naked, big-breasted women on a desert island?  Sometime later
the punch of an elbow in her rib cage had awakened her.

"She's walking the dog."

"Now that's the most excitement we've had in hours," she grumbled
sarcastically.

"How long do we keep this up?"

"Until we catch some sign of the killer.  Once he's arrested, Evelyn
Granger will be safe."  He twisted in the seat to keep an eye on Mrs.

Granger, who had paused on the other side of the street while the
Pekingese watered a neighbor's mailbox.

Tyler bit her lip in frustration.  Even if there was a killer, Jared
wouldn't know him if the man walked up and kicked him.  For the
hundredth time, she'd wondered how anyone could possess such a
frustrating mix of normalcy and insanity.

To avoid saying something she would regret, she'd scrunched down in her
seat and kept quiet.

They'd waited for an hour after Mrs.  Granger's lights had gone out at
midnight.  Jared had finally admitted the woman was probably safe for
the remainder of the night and they could return to the Residence Inn
and grab some sleep.

Now, Tyler snuggled gratefully into the fresh sheets of the bed,
stretched to turn off the beside light, then drifted into
unconsciousness.

THE TRILL OF A mockingbird outside her window awakened her, and
sunlight flooded the room.  She stretched lazily, grateful Jared hadn't
awakened her with predawn nightmares.

After a quick shower, she dressed in shorts, a cotton T-shirt, and
sandals, then sauntered downstairs.  The Murphy bed was folded back
into the wall and the sound of the shower in the downstairs bathroom
informed her that Jared was awake.

She switched on the television in the sitting area and listened to the
local news as she filled the coffee maker.

As the announcer read the latest headline, her hand froze at the
faucet.

"Around one-fifteen this morning as she walked her dog, Evelyn Witek
Granger, longtime Micanopy resident and antique dealer, was shot to
death."

Tyler dropped the carafe with a crash, and glass splintered in the
stainless-steel sink.

Jared Slater wasn't crazy, after all.

Chapter Eight

"Leave it," Jared spoke behind her.

"The house keeping staff can clean up the glass after we're gone."

Slack-jawed with amazement, Tyler abandoned the shattered coffee carafe
and turned to face him.  Evelyn Granger was dead, just as Jared had
predicted, and he couldn't have done it.  They were driving back to
their motel at the time Evelyn's killer had struck.

"Your dreams were right" -Everything made sense now.  Jared wasn't the
paradox of mania and reason she'd found so hard to comprehend The
torment in his eyes wasn't madness, but misery flowing from some
paranormal wellspring that provided him a glimpse of future
tragedies--tragedies he'd so far been unable to forestall.  Water
dripped from his hair, running down his high cheekbones like tears, but
the agony in his eyes mirrored suffering too deep for weeping.

What a fool she'd been.  She should have known he wasn't crazy.  Then
again, perhaps some part of her had sensed the truth.  Maybe that was
why she'd stayed with him, and now yearned to comfort him, to wrap her
arms around him and beg forgiveness for having doubted him.

She moved toward him, then halted at the sound of the continuing
newscast.

"Police," the announcer droned in a bland Midwestern accent, "are
looking for this man and his female companion for questioning."  Tyler
stumbled into the sitting area and listened in horror as the newscaster
dictated a detailed description of her, Jared, and their rental car.

"What are we going to do?"  she asked.

"They probably want to talk to us because we came into town asking
about her.  But we can't tell them the truth.  They'll never believe
it."

Jared, barefoot and dressed only in jeans, pulled her into his arms and
clasped her shivering body against the warm expanse of his muscled
chest.  His lips moved against her hair, and his breath warmed her
cheek.

"You didn't believe me until no'v, did you?"  She tilted her head and
met his gaze.

"Can you blame me?"  He tightened his arms around her.

"If you thought I was crazy, why did you stay?"

Heat flamed her face.  She wanted to admit she was falling in love with
him, but the words lodged in her throat.

"It must have been the hazardous-duty pay," he said.  He released her
and stepped away, avoiding her eyes.

"And the duty just became more hazardous."

"With the police after us?"

He turned and met her gaze head-on.

"That, too."

"Too?"  Fear cinched her lungs, squeezing out the air.

"What else is there?"

"I'm giving you a month's severance pay and a plane ticket to
Raleigh-Durham," he said.

"I'll pay someone to drive your car back to Chapel Hill, too."

"Whoa."  She held up her hands in objection.

"We've been down this road before.  I didn't say I wanted to quit."

He crossed his arms over his chest in a stance that defied protest.

"You don't have a choice.  I'm firing you."  Anger and hurt flooded
through her.

"Why?  The killer's still out there.  Don't you want my help in finding
him?"

"There's no time to argue."  His granite expression didn't waver.

"The police will figure out where we are soon, so we have to get
moving.  I'll drop you at the nearest airport."

"I've been shot at, almost killed in a car crash, and the police are
after me, all because of you."  Her voice swelled in pitch and
volume.

"And now you're booting me out without an explanation?  You owe me
better than that."

His stony look melted, to be replaced by an expression of such
tenderness and pain, it took her breath away.  He placed his arm around
her and drew her down on the love seat beside him.  Cradling her cheeks
in his hands, he probed her face with pain- filled eyes.

"My greatest hope was to avert Evelyn Granger's death and to prove to
you that the murders in my dreams are not inevitable."

She covered his hands with hers.

"It's not your fault.  How were you to know Evelyn Granger would walk
her dog again in the wee hours of the morning?"

"The killer knew."  He dropped his hands to her shoulders.

"Don't you see?  I have to find this man before he kills again."

"All the more reason for me to stay and help," she said, tracing his
cheekbone with her finger.

He grasped her hand and pressed his lips against her palm, creating a
pleasurable surge of warmth through her.  Abruptly, he dropped her
hand, stood and moved away.

"You can't stay."

His rejection stung, but she couldn't leave him, not now.

"I'won't" -- "You have no choice."  He whipped around to con front her,
brown eyes blazing with flecks of green hre.

"You are his next victim."  Shock robbed her of breath.

"You've dreamed about me?"  He nodded, and the gravity of his
expression frightened her as much as his revelation.

"Before I ever met you."

His initial reluctance to hire her, his blunt attempts to send her away
when the storm eased made sense now.  He'd been protecting her.

Dear God, if she'd the pavement, Jared crossed the parking lot of the
motel diagonally across from the Residence Inn.

"Room 107.  I called for a cab to meet us there in fifteen minutes."

"But our rental car" -- "If the police have our descriptions, you can
bet they have that license number by now, too."

He held open the lobby door, then followed her inside.  The
air-conditioned air hit him like an arctic blast, and a desk clerk
glanced up at their approach.

"May I help you?"

"Do you have a gift shop?"  Jared kept his voice casual.  Their escape
depended on not drawing undue attention.

The clerk pointed down a hallway, and Jared motioned Tyler ahead.

Halfway down the hall, he followed her into a cubbyhole of a shop,
stuffed with Florida tourist souvenirs, postcards, T-shirts, and
flamingo yard ornaments in Day-Glo pink.

Tyler picked up a cigarette lighter shaped like an orange and replaced
it with a shudder of disgust.

"What are we doing here?"

"Camouflage."

]ared snatched a pair of RayOBan sunglasses and a University of Florida
Gators ball cap from the racks.  Copying his example, Tyler selected
red-framed sunglasses with huge lenses and a wide-brimmed straw that
with an attached scarf to cover her dark hair.  He paid for their
purchases in cash.

"Where's the closest Nations Bank?"  he asked the clerk as she bagged
their items.

She rattled off an address that he committed to memory.  When they
stepped out of the shop, he directed Tyler toward a rear entrance that
led to the pool.  Still carrying their luggage, they skirted the
landscaped pool deck and ducked through a passageway filled with maids'
carts and a vibrating ice machine, which gave access to the parking lot
in front of rooms 101123.  He stopped in front of Room 107 and piled
their bags by the curb.

While they waited for the cab, he removed their purchases from the bag
and ripped off the tags.  After donning the sunglasses, he pulled the
bill of the cap low over his eyes.

Tyler adjusted her sunglasses, then tucked her French braid beneath the
crown of the straw that and tied the scarf at her nape to cover the
rest of her hair.

"All I need is a second-degree sunburn to look like a genuine tourist,"
she said with a wry'grin.

His heart wrenched at the sight of her, smiling up at him behind huge
goggle lenses.  She hadn't abandoned him, even when she'd believed he
was crazy.  Now, with the threat of death hanging over her, her courage
hadn't wavered.  Her continued refusal to desert him touched his lonely
heart.  He silently vowed to protect her, with his life if necessary.

The danger she faced made him more determined than ever to catch the
unrelenting killer who stalked his dreams.

"Here's the cab."  She pointed to a vehicle rounding the corner of the
motel.

Jared breathed a silent prayer of thanks.  So far, so good.  A few
minutes later, the cab deposited them in front of a suburban branch
bank, and Jared removed their bags and stacked them by a street
bench.

"I won't be long," he told her.

"Try not to look too conspicuous."  He endeavored to follow his own
advice as he entered the bank lobby and extracted his bankcard from his
wallet, but remaining inconspicuous would be tough once he requested
$20,000 in cash.  Within hours, he wouldn't be able to access his
account without fear of being traced.

Twenty thousand would have to suffice until they'd located the
killer.

The fresh-faced young teller seemed unimpressed with the size of his
withdrawal and counted out his cash with a polite but bored expression.
Jared forced himself to saunter from the bank, knowing it was just a
matter of time before the police connected with Bobbie Hendrix and
learned his identity.

He cursed himself for a fool when he saw Tyler sitting on the green
bench, her head back against the seat as if basking in the sun.  She
looked like a very attractive tourist in her sun hat and red-and-white
sundress.  If he'd kicked her out when she'd first arrived on the
mountain, she would be safe now.  Instead, in his selfishness, he'd
kept her close.  Now, somehow,

he had to convince her that her trust in him made her more vulnerable,
not safer.

She didn't move as he approached, giving the impression of someone
without a care or any need to hurry.  He strolled past her to a pay
phone, checked the Yellow Pages, and called another cab.  Thirty long
minutes later, the cabbie unloaded them and their luggage in front of
Fast Eddie's Used Cars, a dilapidated building on an unpaved lot on the
town's northeast side.  A seedy salesman in a rumpled seersucker suit
and white patent-leather shoes raised a cloud of dust in his haste to
meet them.

"Welcome to Fast Eddie's, folks," he greeted them in an oily tone.

"Home of the best used cars in the state."  "I need a car guaranteed to
take us as far as Jacksonville Jared said.

"Jacksonville?"  the salesman sputtered in mock outrage.

"Any one of these fine automobiles will take you across the country and
back again without a problem Mr.?"

"Simpson, Bart Simpson," Jared replied with a straight face.  The
salesman didn't blink.

"What price range do you have in mind, Bart?"

"Fifteen hundred."

"That's too expensive," Tyler murmured beside him, playing along as
they'd planned in the cab, knowing they would draw suspicion if they
seemed too eager.

"But Ira" Jared began.

"We can't afford that much.  You see" -she turned her charm on the
salesman "--we were on our way back from Disney World when someone ran
us off the interstate and totaled our car.  Bart has an important
business appointment tomorrow morning in Jacksonville, so we have to
hurry home."

"Now, dear" -Jared objected, warming to his henpecked-husband role.

"But with our vacation expenses," Tyler went on, "we just can't afford
more than a thousand."

"Sweetheart, why don't we just rent a car like I wanted to in the first
place?"  Jared suggested in a timid tone.

"Because that's throwing away money," she insisted in a whine.

"If we buy a cheap car, we can get our money back by reselling it.
You'll never see rental fees again."

"You're so right, Mrs.  Simpson," the salesman crooned.

"I have just the car for you.  Follow me."

Jared signaled Tyler to precede him, and they ii 3 picked their way
between rows of cars better suited I for a junkyard than for sale.  The
salesman halted in front of a 1972 Plymouth Fury with faded green
paint, rust spots, and a flaking vinyl roof.  Large numerals across the
windshield proclaimed a price of $1200.  "Oh, my, that's too much,"
Tyler protested in her Mrs.  Simpson voice.

"For you, nine hundred."

"Seven hundred cash," Jared countered.

The salesman delayed all of one second.

"Sold."

LESS THAN AN HOUR LATER, Jared approached Interstate 75 and turned
south toward Tampa.  Behind him, the Plymouth laid a trail of oily
smoke.

"We'll be lucky if this piece of junk makes it as far as Tampa," he
grumbled.

"Tampa?  But that's the wrong direction," Tyler shouted over the rush
of hot air through the open windows.  The air-conditioning had failed
two blocks from the lot.

"We'll be less conspicuous at a large airport like TIA."  He kept an
eye on the rearview mirror, alert for signs of the highway patrol, and
prayed that Fast Eddie, if questioned, would point the authorities
toward Jacksonville.

"Where do we go from Tampa?"  she asked.

"Wherever we can find Detective Sam Witek, if he's still alive."

"Who's Sam Witek?"

He eased off the gas.  The last thing they needed was to be stopped for
speeding.

"Witek was Pete Stanwick's partner on the Ozzie Anderson case,
remember?"  "Why are we looking for him?  You ruled out a connection
between him and Stanwick and Molin- sky."

"Didn't you hear the announcer this morning?  Evelyn Granger's maiden
name was Witek.  That connects her to Mary Stanwick and Veronica
Molinsky.  Maybe Sam Witek can tell us how."

TYLER RECLINED AGAINST the plush seat of the limousine as it sped out
of the Boston airport and breathed in the scent of fine leather and the
faintest hint of cigar smoke.

"Why go to all this expense when you can rent a car?"

"The same reason we didn't rent a car in Gainesville.  We'd have to
show identification, and even this far north, it could lead the
authorities to us.  With a limo, all we need is cash."  Jared patted
his bag on the seat beside him.

She studied him from behind her sunglasses.  During the drive to Tampa
and the flight to Boston, he may have appeared relaxed to the casual
observer, but the twitch in the tiny muscle at the base of his jaw
proved otherwise.  As the limo cleared the outskirts of the city and
headed into the country, his tension eased.

She inspected the fully-stocked bar, television, car phone and fax
machine, and the glass panel that separated them from Enrico, the
bull-necked, uniformed driver.

"At this rate, you'll run through Grandfather Slater's trust fund in a
week."

At her words, the muscle in his jaw flexed again.

"This shouldn't take that long."

He draped an ann around her shoulders and she snuggled into his
embrace.  Once they'd boarded the plane, they had avoided discussing
their plans for fear of being overheard in the crowded cabin, but now
she needed to know his strategy.

"How do you expect to find Sam Witek?"  she asked.  His lips moved
against her hair.

"Police partners usually develop strong bonds.  I'll simply ask Pete
Stanwick if he has kept up with his old partner over the years."

Only the sanctuary of Jared's embrace seemed real to Tyler.  Her mind
whirled as she tried to make sense of the rest.  They were speeding
along winding Massachusetts byways in a luxurious limo in pursuit of a
killer Jared knew only from his dreams.  Facing the comparative
inactivity of research would be a challenge after these adventures--if
she survived.  A tremor shook her at the thought of Jared's faceless
killer stalking her.

"You okay?"  His mellow baritone sounded in her ear.

"No," she replied with more honesty than she'd intended.  He tilted her
chin until their eyes met.

"Then let me send you home where it's safe."

She stared into the depths of eyes as brown as dark chocolate.

"The only place I feel safe is with you."

With a strangled.  cry he brought his mouth down and claimed hers.  She
twined her arms around his neck and returned the sweet pressure of his
lips, thankful she was sitting down as her knees weakened.  The heat of
his body seared the length of her, and his fingers tangled in her
hair, drawing her closer as he consumed her with his fiery kiss.
Passion exorcised her reason as she yielded to desire, forgetting
everything but the man whose heart hammered against her breasts.

He drew back, his hands clasping her shoulders, and stared at her with
a face contorted in agony.

"You're not safe, Tyler, especially not with me."

"Then we'll just have to catch this killer, won't we?"  she answered
with a gravity that matched his.

He pulled her to him again, tucked her head be neath his chin, and they
rode in silence through the afternoon shadows falling upon the rolling
country side and tiny farm villages.

The shadows had lengthened into dusk when the limo pulled to the curb
in front of a neat brick bungalow In the dim light, Tyler noted the
bedraggled state of the flower beds that edged the walk.  The gardening
must have been Mary Stanwick's responsibility.  While Enrico waited,
she and Jared walked to the door and rang the bell.  Lightless windows
and dead quiet convinced her the house was empty.  The jangle of the
doorbell could be heard echoing throughout the house.

"Maybe Pete moved after Mary died," she suggested.

"It's possible."  Jared surveyed the nearby houses.

"Maybe a neighbor could tell us."  He had stepped off the porch when
the front door opened.  A young man, dressed in jeans and a Harvard
sweatshirt, appraised them with bleary eyes.

"Mr.  Stanwick, I'm Jared Slater and this is Tyler Harris."  She nodded
at the man who was too young to be Pete Stanwick.  He had to be his
son.

"What do you want?"  he asked.

"I'm a reporter," Jared explained, "looking into the murder of your
mother.  May I speak with your father?"

Stanwick stared past them to the street.

"Since when do reporters arrive in limousines?"

Jared placed an arm around Tyler's shoulders and hugged her.

"When they're forced by a cruel editor to combine an assignment with
their honeymoon.  Is your father in?"

"He's at his fishing cabin in New Hampshire.  I don't know when he'll
be back."

Picking up the lead from Jared, Tyler flashed Stan- wick a smile.

"Then maybe you could help, us.  The sooner my husband finishes this
story, the sooner we can leave on our wedding trip."  The young man
raked long fingers through his tousled hair.

"I'm studying for exams" -- "I promise," Jared said, "this won't take
long."

"Okay," Stanwick agreed.

"Shoot."

Tyler winced at his unfortunate choice of words.  Jared tugged a
notebook from the pocket of his jeans, flipped it open, and pulled a
pen from his shirt pocket.

"Have the local authorities come up with any leads on your mother's
killer?"

Young Stanwick's face clouded.

"Yeah, they've tried to blame it on my father."

Tyler bit back an exclamation of surprise and left the comments to
Jared.  He was supposed to be the reporter, she the love struck
bride.

"Your father?"  Jared asked in a shocked tone.

"Why blame him?"

"They discovered he and Morn had been arguing over Dad's drinking for
weeks before Morn died.  They put that together with the fact she'd
been killed by a .357, the same caliber as Dad's service revolver Jared
scribbled some hasty notes.

"Were the bullets a match?"  Stanwick shook his head.

"The bullet that killed Mom was too distorted to match anything,
Needless to say, the suspicions of his fellow officers hit Dad pretty
hard.  That's why he spends so much time at his cabin.  It's the only
place not filled with memories of Mom."  Tyler strained to catch
Jared's reaction, but the twilight shadows obscured his face.

Jared flipped another page in his notebook.

"Did your father keep in touch with Sam Witek, his former partner?"

"Uncle Sammie?  Yeah, they've always been close."  Stanwick squinted at
them in the darkness.

"What's Uncle Sammie got to do with this?"

"Maybe nothing," Jared assured him.

"We'd just like to talk with him."

Stanwick flicked on the porch light.

"Too late."

Tyler's hopes plummeted, and she forgot her declaration to keep
silent.

"He's dead?"

Stanwick shrugged.

"As close to it as you can get and still be breathing.  He's at the
Roseland Nursing Home, on the west side of town on the main highway.
They'll be putting him to bed about now."

"Thanks for your time."  Jared pocketed his notebook.  Tyler took his
arm as he started down the walkway.

"Mr.  Slater," Stanwick called after them.  Jared paused and looked
back.

"Yeah?"  Silhouetted by the porch light, Stanwick stood on the top
step, his hands in his pockets.

"If you find the bastard that killed my mother, I'd like to know.  I
have a score to settle with him."

ILLUMINATED STARKLY by the naked bulb of a goose necked lamp, a grimace
twisted the stranger's lips as he adjusted the tiny wires of a
contraption on the scarred desktop.

"You're in for a big surprise, Jared Slater," he muttered to himself.

"The last one you'll ever get."

Perspiration beaded his forehead and ran into his eyes as he completed
the last step of his creation.  He exerted all his willpower to keep
his gloved hands from trembling.  One false move and he would blow
himself and everyone in the adjoining rooms to kingdom come.  After
completing the final adjustment, he slid the carefully constructed
apparatus into a priority envelope bearing Slater's Lake Toxaway
address.  He se cured the trip wire to the zippered opening, gingerly
sealed the flap and affixed the stamps.  He would de liver it to the
post office tomorrow morning.

He sat back with a whoosh of relief, wiped his brow, and tried to relax
his hands.  They shook as if he were coming off a three-day drunk.  He
rose on unsteady legs, flexed the kinks from his cramped muscles, and
poured a double whiskey into a smudged glass.  He drank greedily before
reclining on the sagging mattress of the hotel bed.

Things had a way of working out.  He'd lost Slater and the woman after
the screw-up on the interstate.  He'd been delirious with fever, and if
he hadn't blacked out at the rest area, he could have finished Off
Slater's girlfriend then.

When he'd awakened to find them leaving, he'd pursued, intending to
shoot the girl as he passed their Volvo on the highway.  But when he'd
pulled even with them, dizziness had almost caused him to lose
consciousness.  Twice he'd lost control of his car, crashing it into
theirs.  In his rearview mirror, he'd watched the Volvo flip and roll
before he took off for the next exit.

He'd ditched the Blazer and holed up in a fleabag motel until the next
morning.  By the time he'd discovered that Slater and his girl had
survived the crash, their trail was cold.

No matter.  The delay had created only a small blip in his timetable.

No Rest For The Wicked.

His satisfied chuckle split the silence.  It didn't matter where Slater
was.  He had to go home sometime, and when he did, he'd have a booming
reception waiting for him.

Chapter Nine

For the first time since he'd awakened that morning and learned Evelyn
Granger had been killed, Jared allowed himself to relax.  The fire's
soft glow and twinkling candles on the tables provided the only light
in the almost-deserted dining room of the Birch and Bottle Inn.  Dark
beams traversed the ceiling above timber-framed walls and formed the
rough-hewn mantel above the huge fire place.  Pewter mugs and platters
glimmered on the plate rails, and the floor sloped as it neared the
base of the massive chimney, where it had settled over centuries.

At the far end of the room, past the bar, laughter sounded as Enrico
and the innkeeper competed in a game of darts.  Across the table, Tyler
was dressed in her red sweater and jeans that would keep out the New
England spring chill.  Her eyes sparkled in the candlelight as she
sipped coffee.

He thought enviously of that other Jared Slater in an alternate
universe, secluded in a quaint country inn with the woman of his
dreams.  Dreams.  He silently cursed the word.  His dreams caused
nothing but misery True, a dream had provided his first glimpse of
Tyler, but it had also forecast her death.  In that alternate universe,
another carefree Jared would probably make love to her and propose
marriage about now.  But not in this world.  Maybe not in this
lifetime-unless he found the killer who threatened the woman he
loved.

The woman he loved.  The words jolted him from his daydreams as he
acknowledged his feelings for the woman across the table.  But he
couldn't tell her-not now, not until he was convinced she was safe.

"That was a magnificent meal."  She patted her lips with a damask
napkin and leaned back with a smile of satisfaction.

"Enrico knew what he was talking about when he recommended this place."
Jared nodded toward the dart players.

"Looks like our driver comes here often."

Her gaze stole around the cozy room.

"I don't know how they stay in business with so fev guests."

"It's early yet.  The summer season doesn't begin until after Memorial
Day."  He gauged her troubled expression but doubted her concern for
the inn's profit-making.

"What's on your mind?"

She fidgeted with her napkin and avoided his eyes.

"Nothing."

"Don't play games with me, Tyler.  There's too much at stake."

"Sorry."  Even in the dim light, her blush was evident.

"I've just been wondering why you identified yourself to Stanwick's
son, but when you registered here, you used a fake name and pretended
we were married."

"Stanwick has met me before, so I couldn't risk making him suspicious
by using another name," he explained.

"But Enrico thinks we're Mr.  and Mrs.  Simpson, a honeymooning couple
avoiding friends and family.  If the Florida authorities have issued a
national alert for us, I want to make it as difficult as possible for
them to track us."

He tore his attention from the hypnotizing honesty of her huge gray
eyes.  He hadn't exactly lied, but there was no need to remind her a
cold-blooded killer was searching for them, as well.  The clerk at the
registration desk had assured him their room had a sitting area.  He
would sleep on the sofa with his gun beneath his pillow, just in case
his dreams weren't as infallible as they seemed.  If Tyler suffered so
much as a scratch, he could never live with himself.

When they entered the cozy room with its blazing fire, canopied bed,
and heavy curtains closed against the darkness outside, his resolve to
keep his distance almost melted.  He longed to draw her to him, wrap
her in his embrace and hold her throughout the night.  He squelched his
desire with memories of the killer who stalked his dreams.  Losing
control and kissing her in the limo had been a mistake.  It was only
one kiss, but the taste of her had created a hunger a lifetime of
kisses couldn't satisfy If he kissed her again, he could never send her
away. But he had to keep his distance, so that when the time came, she
would leave willingly, without regret.  So that he would have the
strength to make her go.  Otherwise, her blood would be on his hands.

"We have a big day tomorrow.  We'd better get some sleep."  His words
came out more brusquely than he'd intended, and his heart wrenched at
her bewildered expression.

He lifted a blanket from the foot of the bed, took one of its pillows
and pitched them onto the sofa be fore removing the pistol from his
suitcase.  He tucked it beneath the pillow and sat to remove his
shoes.

She stared at the sofa where he'd concealed the gun.

"You brought that on the plane?"

"It was in my luggage."

"Isn't that illegal?"

"Not if I declared the gun and my luggage was locked."  No need to tell
her he hadn't declared it.  He had feared drawing attention that would
cause th ticket clerk to remember them if questioned.

She crossed the room and placed her hand on his shoulder.

"You don't have to sleep on the sofa."

He issued up a silent prayer for strength and're moved her hand.  If he
made love to her now, sending her away to safety later would be too
hard.

"We can't let anything distract us.  If we lower our guard for one
minute, we might give the killer the opportunity he needs."  '

Besides, if he yielded to his yearning, he would never get her out of
his mind--and a killer might know his thoughts.  The more he could
focus on some thing besides Tyler, the better.  Hurt joined
bewilderment in her eyes.

"I thought you agreed I was safe, away from your mountain."

He hardened his heart against her.

"Assumptions, like desire, could get you killed."

JARED AWOKE WITH a soreness in his neck and a disposition to match.

Sleep had been almost impossible with temptation only a few feet
away.

He'd spent rest less hours during the night, watching the gentle rise
and fall of her breasts, the seductive curve of her hip beneath the
covers, the flutter of thick eyelashes against her rosy cheeks as she
dreamed.  Hell, even his murderous nightmares would have been less
torturous than battling his longing for her.

With relief that the agonizing night had finally ended, he tossed back
the blanket, gathered fresh clothes from his suitcase, and went into
the bathroom to shower.

Twenty minutes later, dressed and shaved, he entered the bedroom to
find Tyler sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed in front of a
huge breakfast tray.  She had donned a crimson velour robe and brushed
her hair, which lay like an ebony cloud on her shoulders.  She poured
aromatic coffee from a silver pot and handed him a cup.

"There's orange juice, too, cranberry muffins, and this morning's
Boston Globe."

"Anything in it about us?"  He carried his coffee to the sofa.

"Nothing.  Guess we're small potatoes in the big scheme of things." 
She grinned, broke off a piece of muffin, and popped it into her
mouth.

"Want some?"

He was starving, but not for food.  He diverted his eyes to the
morning's headlines.

"We'll head for Roseland Nursing Home right after breakfast."

She shook her head.

"I called while you were in the shower.  Visiting hours don't begin
until after noon.  What do you suggest we do in the meantime?"

He groaned inwardly, knowing all too well how he would like to spend
the morning.  He surveyed the rumpled covers of the wide bed, but he
clamped a lid on his longing and steered his thoughts to the killer.

"We can investigate the allegations that Pete Stan- wick killed his
wife."

She paused with a piece of muffin halfway to her lips.

"Do you think he did?"

He shrugged.

"He may.  have had reason to kill his wife, but Veronica Molinsky and
Evelyn Granger?  According to my dreams, they were all killed by the
same man, and Stanwick doesn't appear to have a motive."

' She dusted crumbs from her hands and climbed off the bed.

"Maybe the local police can tell us some thing."

"Yeah" -he couldn't keep the sarcasm from his tone "--maybe the local
police can lock us up for extradition to Florida."

Undeterred, Tyler approached, leaned forward and planted a feathery
kiss on his forehead.

"Then it's a good thing you brought along your researcher.  A town this
size has to have a local paper and a library."

He used every ounce of willpower to restrain him- serf, but if his lack
of response bothered her, she didn't show it.  After gathering her
clothes, she disappeared into the bathroom, leaving him alone to
wrestle with his conscience and his heart.

DusT MOTES DANCED in the sunlight streaming through the Palladian
windows of the library reference room.  Tyler flipped through bound
back issues of the Village Crier, searching for articles on Mary
Stanwick's murder.  Across the room, Jared sat at a microfiche viewer,
reading old stories of Ozzie Anderson crimes.

At the turn of a page, a headline jumped out at her: Detective Resigns
in Wake of Wife's Murder.  The grainy photograph was indecipherable,
especially with Stanwick's uniform cap pulled low over his eyes.

Reading quickly, she scribbled additions to her notes.  An hour later,
stiff-necked, with her nostrils itching from dust, Tyler closed the
volume and returned it to its cubbyhole in the periodicals section.

At the same time, Jared completed his notes from the microfiche and
shoved himself to his feet.  The legs of his chair screeched in the
unnatural silence.

"Shh," the librarian hissed.  She was a little prune of a woman with
white hair, safe behind the fortress of the massive oak circulation
desk.

Jared threw an apologetic smile at the tiny tyrant, took Tyler's elbow,
and led her quickly out into the cool spring air, heavy with the
fragrance of lilacs.

"Do they teach that in library school?"  He steered her toward a bench
in the town square beneath the statue of a local patriot in the
Revolutionary War.

"How to take notes?"  she asked.

"Uh-uh.  That withering stare and shushing noise that turns strong
men's blood to ice water and their knees to mush."  She smiled, glad to
see his sense of humor had returned.  His uncharacteristic surliness at
breakfast had bewildered her, until she'd realized he probably hadn't
slept well on the sofa.  Now, however, an en gaging smile lifted a
corner of his mouth and his eyes twinkled.

"You must have found something useful," she suggested.  He expelled an
enormous sigh and extracted his notebook from his pocket.

"Nothing that points to our killer.  There's a touching story from four
years ago about Ozzie Anderson's son's frantic last-ditch efforts to
save his father from execution.  Arnie was only six years old when his
father was arrested, and he spent most of his adult years trying to
free his old man."

"Does that make Amie a suspect?"

"Maybe.  The papers listed his address, so we'll check him out before
we visit Witek.  What did you find?"

She unfolded her notes.

"Pretty much what Stan- wick's son told us.

Circumstantial evidence points to Pete in Mary's death--a history of
quarrels, a weapon similar to Pete's, Pete's lack of an alibi at the
time of the killing.  But the district attorney refused to press
charges, claiming they wouldn't stick in court.  "

"Was Pete fired from the department?"

She could almost see the wheels turning behind his intense hazel
eyes.

"Not exactly.

"Encouraged to're sign' is the phrase the paper used."

Jared stretched and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Which brings us back to where we started.  Maybe Sam Witek can shed
some light on all this.

But first, we'll pay Amie Anderson a visit.  The family farm is just
outside town.  "

In the cushy confines of the limo, Tyler giggled.

"Enrico is going to wonder what kind of honeymoon we're on."

Jared smiled, making her wish the honeymoon was real.

"At what I'm paying him, he could drive us in circles and not ask
questions."  She gazed out through a cloud of dust.

"This road isn't even paved."

"We'll tell him we're hunting antiques.  As I're member, you're
something of an expert."

She remembered the Roseville vase, stuffed among the clothes in her
suitcase, and the kind woman, now dead, who had sold it to her.  She
shivered in the climate-controlled atmosphere.

The car slowed and stopped in front of a rundown farmhouse.  Gangly
bushes of lavender lilacs bloomed on either side of the front steps,
the only spots of color against the weathered boards of the ancient
two- story structure.  The farmhouse had been battered by the elements
until no trace of paint remained.  A screen door sagged on its hinges,
its bottom panel torn and ragged.  Verdant lilac leaves provided the
only green in the dirt yard, populated by a few scraggly hens and an
aged rooster.

The screen door banged, and a heavy woman in a shapeless cotton dress,
both as colorless as the house, took a stance on the top step with her
pudgy hands on her hips.  As they approached, she tugged an old sweater
across her ample bosom.

"Mrs.  Anderson?"  Jared asked.

She nodded, and her double chin trembled.

"If you folks are from that damn publisher, I done told Shim I want no
part of no book.  Ozzie's dead and gone, and I got peace for the first
time in my life.  Leave him buried."

"We're not from any publisher Mrs.  Anderson," Jared assured her.  The
fat woman eyed the limousine with suspicion.

"Then what do you want with me?"

"Actually," Tyler replied, "we're looking for your son."

Comprehension lighted Mrs.  Anderson's squinting eyes.

"Collection agency, eh?  You folks must do all right to drive such a
fancy rig."

"We're not from a collection agency," Jared said.

"I'm doing research on capital punishment, and I'd like to talk with
Arnie about his experience with the appeals board."

Her skeptical expression deepened.

"Well, if you find him, you let me know.  He took off for Alaska,
looking for work, right after his daddy died.  I ain't seen or heard
from him since."

She turned on her heel with remarkable quickness for a woman her size
and disappeared into the decaying farmhouse, slamming the screen door
behind her.

Jared grimaced.

"That was a colossal waste of time."  Tyler considered the depressing
farmhouse.

"Just think of it as sightseeing."

AFFER LUNCH AT A LOCAL mom-and-pop restaurant that served thick, juicy
hamburgers with all the trimmings, Jared directed Enrico to drive
across town to Roseland Nursing Home.  The low brick structure with
barred windows and bedraggled lawns squelched Tyler's feeling of
wellbeing.  The bed of sickly rosebushes that gave the place its name
did nothing to ease the bleak atmosphere.

"Looks more like a penal colony than a rest home," she observed.

Jared's expression of distaste indicated he shared her opinion.

"The sooner we're out of here, the better."

The atmosphere deteriorated further when they stepped through the front
doors.  The bare green walls and yellowed linoleum seemed clean enough,
but the overpowering stench of disinfectant assaulted Tyler's
nostrils.

"We're here to see Sam Witek," Jared announced to a burly male
attendant behind the reception desk.

The orderly shoved a clipboard toward them with a sign-in sheet, and
Jared wrote Mr.  and Mrs.

B.

Simpson.  Tyler suppressed a smile and whispered in his ear, "If you
tire of Simpson, we can always resort to Beavis and Butthead."

Her smile faded as they headed down a corridor toward Room 122.

Patients hailed them, some calling them by unfamiliar names.  With
relief, she followed Jared into Sam Witek's room, wondering if the
man's reason had degenerated with his body, but alert black eyes in a
withered face confronted them from his pillow.  Jared introduced
himself and Tyler, and Witek waved with a feeble gesture toward chairs
beside the bed.

"It's good to have visitors," he wheezed.

"Most folks avoid this place.  What can I do for you?"

"I'm sorry about your sister Evelyn," Tyler said.  Tears filled Witek's
eyes.

"My kid sister ... and me so wasted, I can't even attend her
funeral."

"We're looking for Evelyn's killer," Jared said, "and we're hoping you
can help us."

"Me?"  Witek's question dissolved into a racking cough.

"I'm not much help to anyone these days."

Tyler placed her hand over Witek's.

"You've done some great detective work in your day, Mr.  Witek.  We
could use your expertise."  While Jared filled Witek in on the three
murdered women, Tyler surveyed the room.  A green oxygen tank sat close
to the bed with a mask dangling from its regulator.  Between that and
Witek's labored breathing, she guessed he suffered from some type of
respiratory illness.  On the wall above his bed hung a silver crucifix,
and framed family pictures, including a smiling photograph of Evelyn
Granger.  A few mystery novels and a thick picture album filled a shelf
below the window.

"These three women are connected somehow," Jared concluded.

"If you help us determine how, maybe we can find this man before he
kills again."

Witek lay pale against his pillow.

"Ozzie Ander son," he said.

"His case was the only one of Pete's and mine that Larry Molinsky
prosecuted.  Ozzie has to be the connection."

"But Ozzie's dead," she said.

Witek reached for the oxygen mask and inhaled deeply.

"You don't know these men like I do, miss.  Once they're locked away
with no hope of reprieve, they're consumed by the desire for
revenge."

Jared nodded.

"Wanting revenge is understand able, but attaining it after they're
dead" -- "They make friends in the Big House," Witek said, "with guys
whose souls are as twisted as their own."

"Are you suggesting Anderson convinced another inmate to carry out his
revenge killing for him?"  she asked.

Breathless, Witek nodded.

"It's possible."

Tyler shook her head.

"But why would the killer go after your sister and not you?"

Witek mustered an ironic smile.

"Killing me wouldn't be revenge, it would be a favor."

After bidding Witek goodbye, they returned to the limo and Jared
instructed Enrico to drive back to the Birch and Bottle.

"Now we're making progress."  Jared slipped her arm through his and
pulled her closer.

"Witek may be on to something.  Maybe Anderson persuaded a friend to
kill for him."

Tyler laid her head on Jared's shoulder, but even his comforting"
presence couldn't stanch her questions

"How do we find out who Anderson's friends were?  Mrs.  Anderson's
already refused to talk to us."

Jared's eyes glinted with excitement.

"We ask the warden."  '

"You HAVE A CALL, Mr.  Simpson."  The innkeeper pointed to a telephone
alcove in the hallway outside the dining room.

"You can take it there if you wish."

Tyler accepted another cup of after-dinner coffee from the waitress and
sat back to wait.  When they'd returned to the inn, Jared had placed a
call to the warden of the New Jersey State Penitentiary, and as the
hour grew late, they'd both feared he wouldn't return the call until
the next day.  The postponement gnawed at her.  Any delay might mean
another death--possibly her own.

After what seemed an hour, but according to the mantel clock had been
less than ten minutes, Jared returned.

"Did he give you a lead?"  She barely allowed him time-to sit.  Jared
propped his elbows on the table and raked his fingers through his hair.
When he lifted his head, she read the disappointment in his face.

"The warden remembered Ozzie Anderson, all right.  Called him the
meanest snake in a pit of vipers

She leaned forward with excitement.

"Then it's possible Ozzie did persuade another inmate to carry out his
revenge killing for him?"

Jared shook his head.

"Ozzie's crimes were so terrible, the other inmates hated him.  He
spent most of his time in isolation, for his own protection."

"What about visitors, someone from the outside?"

"For the last five years Ozzie was on death row, he refused all
visitors except his family and his lawyer Jared signaled the waitress
and pointed to his empty coffee cup.

Tyler tried to make sense of the information.

"That leaves the lawyer, Mrs.  Anderson and Arnie Anderson as
suspects."

"Forget the lawyer.  He works for Amnesty International--not exactly
the murdering type."

She remembered the woman at the farmhouse.

"And all Mrs.  Anderson wants is to be left alone."

Jared poured cream in his coffee.

"That leaves Ar- me .  But the warden described him as quiet and shy,
not eaten up with rage as his father had been."

"Not to mention that he's in Alaska."

Wearily, Jared pinched the bridge of his nose.

"We're missing something.  I can feel it."

She covered his hand with hers, luxuriating in the closeness.

"We should pay Sam Witek another visit.  With his skill as a detective,
maybe he can point out what we've overlooked."

A THi.  JNDERING HERD of elephants could have stampeded through their
room during the night, and Jared wouldn't have heard them.  The
realization df how soundly he'd slept disturbed him as they headed back
toward Roseland after lunch.  Some protector he'd been.  The only way
to guarantee Tyler's safety was to send her back to her grandmother,
which he intended to do as soon as they'd talked with Sam Witek
again.

Sam glanced up in surprise when they entered his room.

"Didn't think I'd be seeing you folks again.  What did you find out
from the warden?"

Sam's withered face creased in concentration as Jared filled him in on
the warden's revelations.

"We've reached a dead end," Jared concluded, "and hope you can help
us."

Sam pointed a trembling finger at the bookcase.

"Hand me that photo album.  Maybe some of those old pictures will jog
my memory."  Jared lifted the album from the low bookshelf and set it
on the bed next to Sam, who flipped it open.

Tyler watched over Sam's shoulder, and as he turned the second page,
she gasped.  Blood drained from her face and her eyes widened in horror
as she pointed to the top photograph on the page.

"It's him."  She forced a strangled whisper between wooden lips.

"Ozzie Anderson?"

Sam squinted at the photo through his reading glasses.

"It can't be.

I don't have his picture.  "

"No.!"  Tyler sank into the bedside chair as if her legs would no
longer support her.

"It's the man who drove the Blazer."  Sam extended the photo album to
arm's length, studying the snapshot.

"I don't understand."  Sam shook his head and struggled to breathe.

"That's Pete Stanwick, taken the year before Mary died."

Chapter Ten

Tyler stared from the plane's window as the 747 descended into clouds
obscuring the valley where the Asheville airport lay.  The insides of
her eyelids itched with fatigue after a sleepless night, and Jared
snoozed in the seat beside her, surrendering to exhaustion.  He'd
remained silent all the way back to the inn yesterday after their last
visit with Sam Witek.  The only words he'd spoken were instructions to
Enrico to wait while he collected their luggage and checked out.

The trip back to Boston had been equally quiet.  She hadn't encroached
on hig stillness, allowing him to contemplate uninterrupted the facts
they'd uncovered.  When they'd reached the airport, all direct flights
to Asheville were booked, and Jared had bought tickets for the next
morning.

Their battle royal had begun after they'd checked into the airport
hotel.

Tyler had picked up the envelope Jared had placed on the bureau,
scrutinized its contents, and confronted him with accusing eyes.

"There's only one ticket here to Asheville.

The other's to Raleigh Durham

"Tomorrow morning we part company," Jared announced with a coldness
that froze her heart.

"Why?  We know who the killer is.  All we have to do is point the
police in the right direction."

He grabbed her shoulders, and for an instant, she feared he would shake
her.

"Pete Sta/awick's a former policeman, who knows law-enforcement
procedures.  If anybody can elude capture, he can.  It could be a year
or more before they bring him in."  Tyler ignored his too-tight hold
and, reaching up, cupped his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her
eyes.

"Why are you so angry with me?"

His fierce expression melted.

"I'm not angry.  I just don't want anything to happen to you."

He pushed her hands away and strode to the window that overlooked the
runway, where a jumbo jet taxied into the night, red lights flashing in
the darkness.  The rigid line of his back repelled her.

"Don't make this any harder than it already is," he muttered with a low
groan.

The hardest part would be leaving him.  Anger at his lack of
comprehension surged through her.

"Give me one good reason why I can't stay."

He whipped around and defied her with blazing eyes.

"Because staying with me will get you killed."

She glared at him and raised her voice, heedless of guests in the
adjoining rooms.

"Not if we don't return to your mountaintop."

The low urgency of his words carried above the whine of the ascending
jet.

"I have to go back.  Stan- wick will be expecting me, and I'll set a
trap for him there."

"With you as bait?  Are you out of your mind?"  Pain stabbed her at the
thought of losing him.  She was no longer halfway in love.  She was
totally committed, and she would move heaven and earth to keep him
safe.

"Tell the authorities what you know.  Use your trust fund and move to
Bermuda or the Bahamas until he's caught."  He stared past her
shoulder, avoiding her eyes.

"You're forgetting one crucial point."

Her breath caught in her throat at the defeat in his expression.

"What point?"

"Stanwick has some kind of psychic link with me.  He can find me,
wherever I go."

"But" -- "That's why you have to leave.  Stanwick's not after you. It's
me he wants, and if you're not with me, you're safe."

"If I'm not with ou, I'll" -she blurted, catching herself before she
said too much.

His eyes burned into hers.

"You'll what?"

He would probably laugh at her admission, but she couldn't help
herself.  I'll wither up and die from missing you, wondering if you're
safe.  "

"Tyler, no, don't" -He breathed her name like a prayer before covering
the distance between them in two long strides and sweeping her into his
arms.  His mouth dipped hungrily to hers, and her senses swirled at
the taste of him.

In the refuge of his arms, all thoughts of danger vanished, and the
universe contracted to the space they occupied.  Nothing else
mattered.

She twined her arms around his neck, pressing against the hard length
of his body, reveling in the thunder of his heart against hers.  Desire
burgeoned within her, and every cell cried out in longing.  Abruptly,
he lifted his mouth from hers and held her at arm's length.

"This can't change anything."

His look of devastation gave her hope.

"Don't send me away, Jared."

"It won't be for long" -- "You just said it could be over a year."  A
pro longed separation was too painful to contemplate.

"It might be only a few weeks."  He cradled her face in his hands and
brushed a wisp of hair off her forehead.

"Would you wait that long for me?"

She shivered with delight at his touch and felt her self drowning in
the warm brown depths of his eyes.  She nodded, afraid to trust her
voice.

He clasped her to him again, stroking her hair, pressing her cheek to
the broad expanse of his chest.  His deep voice rumbled in her ear.

"We'll both be safer if you're with your grandmother."  She snuggled
deeper into his embrace.

"How will you be safer?"

"For one thing, I'll be less distracted."  He lifted her hair and
brushed the back of her neck with his lips.  She raised her head.

"I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you."

"Then promise me you'll go to your grand mother's."  Fierce
protectiveness lighted his eyes.

Torn between reluctance to leave him and desire to keep him safe, she
nodded.  He'd made it clear he wouldn't allow her to stay.

"But only if I can fly back with you and pick up my car."  "No" --- "I
promise I won't stay.  Just get in my car and leave."  She would
promise anything to remain with him for as long as possible.  He
appraised her with raised eyebrows.

"Do you always get your way?"

"Not as often as I'd like."

"Like now?"

She nodded, unable to catch her breath beneath the intensity of his
gaze.

He traced her cheek with his fingertip.

"Whfft is it you want?"

"A

night to remember while we're apart.  "

In answer, he claimed her mouth in a deep, endless kiss as he scooped
her into his arms and carried her to the king-size bed: She pushed her
fingers through his fine, thick hair as she savored the taste of him, a
tantalizing sensation that sparked a deep hunger.  He laid her on the
bed, and she tilted her head, exposing her throat to his soft, sliding
kisses.  He tugged her sweater over her head, then gently unfastened
the buttons of her blouse.  With every pulse point awakened, her body
arched toward his.

A sigh exploded from the depths of him, and he hovered above her, his
face clouded.

"This is a mis take."

His words stunned her like a torrent of cold rain.

"I thought you wanted this, too."

"If you only knew how much."  The heat of his hands seared her bare
shoulders, and his face darkened with irony.

"I've loved you since before I met you."

"That's not possible."

"I loved you in my dream."

That same dream had predicted her death.  She thrust aside the
thought.

Nothing, no one would spoil this night.

"If you love me, how can this be a mis take?"

"This close, I can't remain objective."  He levered himself away.

"If I drop my guard, Stanwick might" -- "Tomorrow you can be
objective."  She pulled him toward her and tugged his shirt from his
jeans, un buttoned it, and ran her palms across his chest.

He trembled at her touch, then caught her hands and forced them away.

"If I make love to you now, I may not be able to let you go
tomorrow."

Her heart ached at the caring shining in his eyes.  She must have done
something right in her short life to have earned the love of such a
man.  More than his classic good looks and sexy body, his integrity,
intelligence and deep-rooted compassion attracted her, binding her to
him like velvet chains.

"I give you my word."  Her solemn tone echoed in the quiet room.  I'll
leave tomorrow, just as you asked.  "

"Tyler."

He breathed her name against her breasts as he knelt beside her,
pressing his lips against her heartbeat.  With slow, reverent gestures,
he slipped off her shoes, tugged away her jeans, and stripped away her
bra and panties.  Hypnotizing her with his stare, he removed his
clothes and lay down beside her, pulling her against him.  His flesh
warmed her in the air-conditioned coolness, and the hardness of his
arousal thrust against her thigh.  So tightly were their bodies
entwined, she couldn't tell.  if his muscles quivered or her own.

Slowly, he released her shoulders and trailed his strong hands across
her breasts and her waist, then skimmed her hips and sought the small
secret center of her being, lingering there.

Her body tensed and throbbed, drifting on a rising current of ecstasy
until she soared with a roaring in her ears like a jet climbing to the
heavens.

"Jared," she murmured, as he lifted himself above her, cradled her head
in one hand, and with the other, opened her thighs and surged inside
her.

A moan escaped her lips, and she clung to him, digging her fingers into
his shoulders, fearing she might die of pleasure.  His gaze locked
with hers be fore he lowered his mouth, wet and hot, to her lips.  He
moved in slow, languorous thrusts until the tide of bliss crested again
in her, merging with his, washing away all other thoughts except love
for the man who created it.

Later she lay cradled in his arms as he sat against the headboard in
the darkened room, watching planes take off and land at the distant
airport.

"I won't let anyone harm you," he promised.

"Not ever."  She pressed her fingers to his lips.

"Don't think about anything but here and now."

That here and now had passed too quickly.  Now, in the cramped confines
Of the airplane cabin, she sighed, remembering how they had made love
again, leaving only a couple of hours for sleep before rushing to catch
the morning flight to Asheville.

"Ladies and gentlemen," the flight attendant's voice interrupted,
"we'll be landing in Asheville in a few minutes.  Please fasten your
seat belts."

As Tyler secured her lap harness, Jared grasped her hand and lifted her
palm to his lips.

"Happy landings

She wondered if anyone ever died from the sheer happiness of love and
wished she hadn't promised she would leave.  He'd been right. 
Deserting him now would be twice as hard after their lovemaking, but
she would keep her word.  She had no other choice.

JAIL CROSSED TO a BANK of pay phones in the air terminal, dropped in a
quarter, and dialed.

"Sheriff Tillett, please."

"The sheriff?.  Won't he be looking for us?"  Tyler hissed.  He covered
the mouthpiece with his hand.

"Maybe, but we have to take that chance."

She stood with her fists on her hips in defiance, one hundred pounds of
adorable trouble.

"But what if" -- A voice sounded in his ear and he jerked his hand from
the mouthpiece.

"Sheriff, Jared Slater here.  I'm calling about the shot that was fired
at my house a few days ago."

"I've had some boys from Florida inquiring about you, Slater."

Tillett's drawling voice boomed in his ear.

"What's going on?"

"More than I can relate in a short phone call," Jared replied.

"But the same man who fired the shots ran me off the road in Georgia,
and he may still be after me."

Tillett harrumphed.

"That's not the way th Florida boys tell it.  Seems you're wanted for
questioning about a murder down there."  Jared squinted and pinched the
bridge of his nose, willing away his fatigue.

"I'll be happy to answer any questions once I-get home.  I'm leaving
the airport now.  How about having your deputies check out my place
before I get there?"

"And what should I tell them to look for?"  the sheriff asked.

"The man who's after me is Pete Stanwick, an ex- cop from Massachusetts
in his late fifties, tall, graying hair, heavy build."

"Do you know what he's driving?"  Tillett asked.

"Not a clue, except it's probably a rental car of some kind."  The
sound of Tillett's scribbling carried over the line.

"Tell them the man's dangerous and clever.  Stanwick might not miss
this time, if he' sstill around."  Tillett sighed, as if dealing with a
naughty child.

"I'll send Darwin and McSwain to check out your place, then I'll be
there myself in a couple of hours.  I expect you to be waiting for
me."

"Thanks."  Jared relaxed his death grip on the phone.

"I'll be there."

DRAGGING mS SUITCASES, Jared climbed the stairs to his bedroom.  For
two years, he'd lived alone in his mountain retreat, and it had never
felt so empty as it did now.

When he'd driven the rental car up to his door just minutes earlier,
Deputy McSwain had been waiting for them.

"No sign of your Mr.  Stanwick," McSwain had said.

"No sign of anybody, for that matter.  We've checked all the roads, and
I'll set up a watch at the foot of the mountain until the sheriff gets
here."  Sunlight shimmered on the new leaves of the surrounding trees,
and a cardinal chirped in the distance.  Everything seemed peaceful
enough, and with a deputy blocking the road, the only way Stanwick
could reach the mountaintop was to climb the escarpment behind the
house.  Unless Stanwick was a mountain goat, he would never make it.

The deputy had backed his cruiser around and eased down the drive,
leaving Jared alone with Tyler in the cool SPring air.

He fumbled in his pocket for his keys, unable to face her, knowing it
might be for the last time, if Stanwick wasn't stopped.  He longed to
scoop her into his arms, carry her up to his loft bed and make love to
her until they were both exhausted, but reason conquered his
emotions.

His most important responsibility was to send her out of harm's way.

After he unlocked the garage, she unlatched the trunk of her car and he
stowed her luggage.  Silence stretched between them like a fragile pane
of glass both were afraid to shatter.

She slammed the trunk lid and turned to him.  Tears sparkled in her
eyes, and the smile she flashed seemed a valiant attempt, at bravery.

"Will you be all right?"

He kept his hands at his sides, quashing his desire to embrace her.  If
he kissed her again, he wouldn't be able to let her leave.  I'll he
fine.  The sheriff will be here soon, and I'll tell him everything. 
"

Her brow creased with worry.

"Even your dreams?"

He shrugged.  He would bare his soul to the world, if needed, to put
Stanwick behind bars so she could safely return.

"None of it makes sense without the dreams."  She smiled through her
tears.

"As if they make sense."

"Goodbye, Tyler."

He choked out the words past the lump in his throat.

"Be careful."

She slid into her car and rolled down the window.

"I'll call you when I reach Graft's."

He had watched until her car had disappeared among the trees, then
carried his luggage inside.

As he unpacked in his bedroom, he shivered in the loft's damp chill, a
stark contrast to the warmth outdoors.  But it matched the feeling in
his heart.

Tires crunched on his gravel driveway--the sheriff was early.  He
stowed the last of his clothes in the closet.

"Jared?"  Tyler's voice floated up to him.

He glanced over the loft wall to find her standing in the center of the
room.  In a horrific case of deja vu, through the high windows he spied
sunlight streaming over the early blooms of rhododendron on the
mountainside.

And saw the priority envelope in her hand.

Chapter Eleven

Immobilized by his worst nightmare coming true, Jared couldn't force
his feet to move.

She smiled at him with a hint of chagrin.

"I'm just dropping off your mail.  The priority envelope marked Urgent
was in your mailbox.  It looks important."

Her words prodded him into action.  He raced across the loft, screaming
as he moved.

"No!"

From the top of the stairway, he lunged, landing beside her.  He
wrenched the envelope from her hand and tossed it, Frisbee-style, out
the open front door.  In the same movement, he knocked her to the
floor, covering her body with his own.

An earsplitting explosion rocked the mountaintop, shaking the timbers
of the house, raining glass down from the tail windows, and jarring his
bones.

When the last reverberation faded, he lifted himself to his feet,
shedding shards of glass.  On the braided rug beneath him, Tyler lay
sprawled on her back, her wide eyes unblinking, with a bleeding gash in
her forehead--just as he had dreamed.

His agonized cry split the silence as he fell to his knees and gathered
her motionless body into his arms.

"Oh, God, Tyler, no..."  A long, choking wheeze sounded against his ear
as she convulsed in his arms.  He pulled back, slid his hands to her
shoulders, and stared.  Her face crumpled in distress as she fought for
air.

He skimmed his hands over her, searching for injuries, but she
struggled against him, trying to sit up.

"Where are you hurt?"  he demanded.

She shook her head, still laboring to breathe.  He raced to the kitchen
for a towel and returned to press it to the wound on her forehead.

"Hold this" -he raised her hand to the towel "--I'll call an
ambulance."

She clutched the compress to her head and sucked in a deep, gasping
breath.

"I'm okay.  You just knocked the wind out of me when you tackled me."

"Are you sure?"  Joy mixed with anxiety.  He hadn't lost her as he'd
feared, and he would be damned if he let anything happen to her now.

"Won't you need stitches?"

She withdrew the towel.

"Looks like the bleeding's almost stopped.  If you'll just help me up"
--He lifted her to her feet, guided her to the sofa, and settled beside
her, gathering her into his arms and murmuring against the softness of
her hair.

"The priority envelope, the sunshine, the explosion were exactly like
in my dream.  Only in my dream"

"I died?"  Cupping his cheek in her palm, she studied him with a
worried frown.

He nodded and tightened his arms around her.  His world had stopped
when she'd reappeared in the great room, and in that instant, he had
feared he'd lost her forever.

She pushed away from his chest and stared at him, excitement dancing in
her eyes.

"But that's good."

"Good?"  There had been nothing good about his scare.  His heart still
bludgeoned his chest like a jack hammer.

She wiggled from his embrace and stood with her hands on her hips.

"Not good that I died in the dream.  Good that the dream didn't come
true."

The significance of her words struck him.

"My dreams aren't inevitable."

She nodded, then returned to his arms and snuggled against him.

"And I don't ever have to leave you again."

Her luminous eyes made promises beyond words.  No woman had ever looked
at him that way, and he fought for breath against the unaccustomed
pressure in his chest.  He grazed her silky throat with his lips and
worked his way upward toward the sweetness of her mouth, pouring out
his love, reveling in her acceptance

Tires skidded to a halt on the drive, and reluctantly he released her
and rose to meet the arrivals.  A wild-eyed McSwain strode through the
open door, followed by Sheriff Tillett, whose beefy face glowed red.

"What the hell happened out there?"  Tillett demanded Jared raked his
hands through his hair.

"Letter bomb."

"Holy" -Catching sight of Tyler, Tillett squelched his curse and turned
to his deputy.

"Get on the radio and request the postal inspectors.  And notify the
FBI and aTF.  while you're at it."  As McSwain rushed out the door,
Tillett swiveled back to Jared.

"Now, Mr.  Slater, you have a lot of explaining to do.  Who blasted a
hole the size of a swimming pool in your front yard?"

Tyler picked up the blood-stained towel and scooted toward the
kitchen.

"It's a long story, Sheriff.  I'll make some coffee."  Tillett grasped
her arm as she passed.

"You okay?  Every time I see you, you've been knocked on the head."

Her face twisted in an ironic smile.

"Occupational hazard, but I'm fine."

Jared's heart swelled with pride at her spirit.  She was even braver
than he'd assumed when he first met her.  No wonder he loved her.  He
gestured the sheriff toward a chair and sat opposite him.

"I don't know how much you'll believe, but I'd appreciate if you'd
listen to the whole story."

Tillett nodded, and Jared launched into the tale of his strange dreams,
leaving nothing out--from his first dream in the hospital, to their
final visit with Sam Witek in the Massachusetts nursing home.

When Jared finished, Tillett refused more coffee from Tyler and set
aside his cup.

"A year ago, I'd have thought you had a screw loose, Slater, but, by
God, I believe you're telling the truth."

"What makes you so willing to accept my story?"  Jared had feared the
pragmatic Tillett would be the last person to give credence to his
dreams.

The sheriff tugged at the starched collar of his uniform.

"Last summer a young couple down by the lake lost their four-year-old
boy when he wandered off into the woods.  We rounded up a search party
of over a hundred volunteers and combed the mountainside.  Twenty-four
hours later, we'd found no trace of him."

"Was he kidnapped?"  Tyler asked.

"That's what we feared," the sheriff said.  "" But the kid's mother
refused to believe it.  She contacted a psychic in Virginia Beach and
flew heFhere to help our search.  I considered psychics either
charlatans or weirdos"-Jared winced at the description.

"But I figured if she helped calm the boy's mother, what harm could she
do?"  Tillett's lips curved in a self-effacing grin.

"The psychic arrived--a little old lady in tennis shoes who reminded me
of my grand mother.  Within two hours, she led us straight to the
child, asleep under a rock ledge on a sector of the mountain we'd
already searched.  Danmedest thing I've ever seen in all my years of
law enforcement."

"Then you'll go after Stanwick?"  Tyler asked.

"The bomb had to come from him.  He must have sent it after he lost
track of us when we flew to Massachusetts."

"We'll bring him in for questioning," Tillett promised.  He cocked his
head at the hum of vehicles approaching.

"That must be the federal boys and their forensics crew now."

"I'll make sandwiches," Tyler said, "and more coffee.  Looks like it's
going to be a long afternoon."

PETE STAr'rWICK STOOD in front of the cold drink compartment of the
grocery at the foot of the mountain and studied his altered appearance
in the glass door.  Brown dye covered his gray-streaked black hair, a
close shave had removed all traces of his beard, and aviator sunglasses
hid his bloodshot eyes.

He removed a can of Mountain Dew from the cooler and carried it to the
checkout counter.  He was the only customer in the store.

"You from outta town?"  the young man at the cash register asked in a
making-conversation tone.

"Raleigh," Stanwick lied.

"Kinda early in the season for tourists."  The clerk rang up the
soda.

Stanwick handed him a five.

"I'm not on vacation.  I'm a botanist at N.C. State.  Been collecting
wildflower specimens up the mountain."

"You and half the county been on that mountain today."  The clerk
counted out his change.

"I noticed the sheriff's cars and some other officiaMooking
vehicles."

Stanwick nodded at the scanner radio on the shelf behind the clerk.

"You know what's going on?"

The clerk folded his arms on the counter and leaned forward
conspiratorially.

"Most excitement we've had in years.  Somebody got a mail bomb.  Blew
away a chunk of the mountaintop."

"No kidding."

Stanwick made a sympathetic clucking sound.

"Anybody hurt?"

"Not that I can tell from the scanner, and I haven't seen an
ambulance---or a hearse."

Stanwick glanced down at his Mountain Dew, where his tightened fist
dented the can.  Slater had more lives than a cat, but even a cat had
to die sometime.  He.  reached into his pocket for the keys of the
battered pickup he'd stolen in north Georgia and headed toward the
door.

"Hey, mister," the clerk called.  Startled, Stanwick lialted.

"Yeah?"

"You come back now, you hear?"

IN THE GLARE OF THE outside flt)odlights, Tyler watched Jared nail a
plywood panel over the last of the gaping holes where glass had once
been.  The concussion of the blast had shattered every window in the
house, including the small panes in the French doors leading to the
loft balcony.

She thrust away thoughts of the recent explosion and her close call
with death, concentrating on Jared's skill with tools, and the fluid
grace of the bare muscles of his torso as he hefted sheets of plywood
and wielded his hammer.  She hadn't expected such proficiency from a
journalist, but Jared continued to surprise her with his talents.

"That should keep out rain and cold until the glass is replaced."  He
tucked the hammer into his tool belt, climbed over the balcony railing
and descended the ladder.

"If you don't mind sleeping in a cave," Tyler observed.

"Where's your sense of romance?"  he teased as he shrugged on his shirt
against the encroaching chill.

"We can have candlelight at noon under these conditions

Her thoughts took a more practical turn.

"And we'll be safer, boarded up like Fort Knox."

He flung an arm around her shoulders and hugged her close as they
circled to the front of the house.

"We have our personal bodyguard, remember?"

He pointed to the deputy, stationed in the cruiser parked across the
drive, before gathering his power saw and plywood scraps and stowing
them in the ga rage.

She avoided the sight of the gaping hole and broken tree trunks on the
mountainside, circled by fluttering yellow police tape.  She'd come
close to dying today, at a time when she'd discovered she had
everything to live for.  Her happiness with Jared, fueled by his love,
seemed too perfect to last, and she wouldn't rest easy until Pete
Stanwick was behind bars, no longer a threat to the man she loved.

She followed Jared into the house.

"Stanwick has to find out sooner or later that the bomb didn't harm
you.  What will he do then?"  He smoothed back her hair.

"Authorities all over the eastern half of the country are searching for
him.  Unless he's invisible, they'll catch him soon."

"I hope you're right."  She sagged against him, wrung dry of emotion
and energy by the events of the day.

He enfolded her in a rough embrace before scooping her into his arms.

"It's late and you're exhausted.  I'm putting you to bed."  Encircling
his neck with her arms, she leaned back and studied his face, her lips
quirked in a flirtatious smile.

"That's the nicest thing you've said all day."

He carried her up the loft stairs and placed her on the bed.

"While you get out of those clothes, I'll bring up your bags."  When
she came out of the bathroom minutes later, her suitcases rested on a
chest at the foot of the bed, and he'd laid her warm gown across the
pillow.

She tossed the clothes she'd removed across a chair, slipped into the
flannel gown, and slid between the sheets.  The comforting weight of
Jared on the other side of the bed registered vaguely on her
consciousness before she drifted into a sound sleep.

She awakened to pitch-darkness and a hand over her mouth.

"Keep quiet" -Jared's lips moved against her ear "--and get
dressed---quick!"

She scrambled to the foot of the bed, groped for her clothes and jerked
them on with trembling hands.  Over the rush of blood in her ears, she
detected scratching sounds at the front door, as if someone attempted
to force the lock.

As she searched the floor for her second shoe, she sensed Jared's
presence before he leaned close again.

"The phone's dead," he whispered, "so we can't call for help."

"What about the deputy?"  She winced when her voice sounded louder than
she'd intended.

"If it's Stanwick out there" -He left her to her own conclusions.

"Find your sweater."

She tied the last shoelace and fumbled for her pull over.

"Do you have a gun?"

He grabbed her hand and touched it to the pistol in his belt.

"He may not give me a chance to use it.  Our best bet is to run."  The
scratching sound at the front door ceased.  She jerked her hand from
the weapon.

"But if Stanwick's outside, where do we run?"

"Where he least expects us."

Disoriented by the darkness, she allowed him to guide her.  When a
crack of light glimmered, she recognized the balcony door.  Jared
pushed her through it, stepped onto the deck in the faint moonlight,
and closed the door behind him.

"There."  He pointed with a whisper to the ladder he'd used to install
the plywood.

"Down you go."

She hung back, gripping his arm, while dark fear gnawed at her
insides.

"I forgot to tell you--I'm afraid of heights."  I'll go first and stay
right behind you.  You'll be fine.  " He swung over the railing onto
the ladder.

"Come on."

The thought of confronting Pete Stanwick propelled her onto the ladder,
but once she was suspended on the precarious perch a story above the
ground, she froze with panic.  She tried to reassure herself, but
perspiration slicked her palms, and mental images of failing through
nothingness consumed her.

"Easy."  Jared moved up behind her, his arms bracing hers" his chest
pressing against her buttocks.

"Breathe deep, move with me, and don't look down."  Soothed by his
presence, she inched her way down, exhaling with relief when her feet
hid solid ground.

Jared pointed to a dense stand of evergreens at the back of his lot.

"Run for cover and wait for me."

"But"

"Do it!"  He shoved her toward the trees.

She ran, stumbling over the uneven earth, terrified that at any moment
Stanwick would appear to gun down Jared, who stood exposed in the open
yard.

When she reached the trees, she plunged into the thick branches, where
the resinous scent of pine filled her nostrils, battling with the
coppery stench of fear.  She peered through the cover of evergreen
toward the house.  Jared's shadowy figure blurred against the house as
he moved toward a shed by the back door.  He disappeared inside.

Seconds seemed to stretch into hours while she waited.  When Jared
slipped from the shed and dashed across the yard with a murky bundle
across his shoulders, she expelled the breath she'd been holding.  He
crashed into the branches and dropped his burden at her feet.

"What's that?"  she whispered.

"Our ticket out of here."  He pulled on a pair of heavy gloves,
fastened some kind of harness around his hips, and hefted his bundle
again.

"Come on.  We're running out of time."

She followed him a few yards through the trees into a clearing.  Behind
her, the evergreen forest formed a dark barrier between them and the
house.  Before her, a rock cliff, a sheer fall of over sixty feet,
dropped toward the valley.  Her head swam dizzily from the height, and
her stomach clutched with nausea.

In the clearing's bright moonlight, she identified the nylon rope
looped over Jared's shoulder.  He fastened it to a stanchion at the
cliff's edge and unfurled it.  With disturbing fascination, she watched
it drop down the cliff side

I'll tie you to me," he said, " and we can rappel down together.  "

"Are you crazy?"  she hissed.

"I could barely force myself to climb down a ladder, and you expect me
to dive off a cliff?."  She flinched as bursts of gunfire erupted
behind them in the house, and a man's angry shouts echoed in the
night.

"We have two choices," Jared said.

"Go over the cliff or face Stanwick.  Which will it be?"

Paralyzed by apprehension, she couldn't answer.

He seized her face in his gloved hands.

"You have to trust me, Tyler."

His love gave her strength.  She would trust him with her life.  She
choked back a sob.

"The cliff," she agreed.

He knelt with his back to her and she climbed on, wrapping her arms
around his neck and her legs around his waist.  With quick, practiced
movements, he lashed her to him.

Standing with an ease that testified to the strength of his legs, he
strode to the cliff edge and grasped the rope.

"Don't look down."  She stifled an hysterica laugh.  She wasn't about
to look down or anywhere else.  She hid her face in his neck, In the
next instant, she was hurtling through space.

Oh, God, she thought.  The rope isn't holding and we're plummeting to
the cliff base.

Just as she opened her lips to scream, the impact of Jared's feet
against the rock face jolted her.

"You're doing fine," he assured her.

"This won't take long.  I've done it hundreds of times, then I practice
climbing back to the top."

Again they fell through emptiness, with the rope sliding through
Jared's gloves.  His boots thudded against the cliff wall as he pushed
off for another plunge, and air whistled past them as they dropped.

Above, the patter of gunfire continued.

With each stage of the descent, Tyler's heart leaped to her throat,
threatening to bang its way out of her body.

"What's he shooting at?"  she whispered as Jared paused to push off.

"Don't know, but let's hope he keeps it up."

"Why?"

"As long as he's shooting up the house, he hasn't found the stanchion
that holds the rope."

Dizzy with fright, she gripped Jared tighter, thankful for the harness
that bound her to him.  But if Stan- wick sawed the line Jared held,
they would both pitch to their deaths on the rocks below.

"We're almost there."  His words came in small pants as he gasped from
exertion.

He shoved away from the escarpment again, and they sank like stones.

After what seemed an eternity in free fall, Jared's boots struck the
ground, jarring Tyler's bones.  With a swift movement, he untied the
restraint that lashed her to him, and she slid onto the ground in a
heap, her muscles quivering with relief.

Pulling hand-over-hand, Jared reined in the line from the mountainside,
coiled the rope and stashed it in a clump of rhododendron.

"No need to let Stan- wick know how we escaped."

He lifted her to her feet and she leaned into him, reveling in the
solid warmth of his arms and the sensation of firm ground beneath her
shoes.  She had trusted him, and he had brought her to safety.

"What now?"  she asked.  He brushed a too-quick kiss across her lips.

"We find a phone to alert the authorities.  We'll have to hike to
Sweeney's farm in the valley."  The trembling in her legs had eased.

"I'm ready--' A buzzing whine erupted on the boulder beside her as a
bullet ricocheted, and rock chips stung her face.

"I'll get you, Slater!  You can't run from me!"  The tortured scream
drifted down from the top of the cliff and echoed across the valley.

Above Jared and Tyler, moonlight silhouetted an ominous shadow.  They
ran into the cover of the forest just as Stan- wick fired into the
surrounding foliage, emptying his gun.  The close call made Tyler
giddy.

"We're not safe yet.  Keep low and keep moving."  Jared shoved her
ahead, deeper into the trees.

Branches whipped her face, and crawling vines clutched at her feet as
she stumbled to keep up with him.  When the terrain descended sharply,
she sat, scooting on her bottom down the steep slopes, brushing dogwood
foliage from her path.  When she slowed, Jared matched his pace to
hers.

After endless hiking, she collapsed beside a tiny creek that bubbled
down the mountainside to the lake, and cupped icy water in her hands to
drink and to cool her heated cheeks.  Drying her hands on her jeans,
she massaged her aching calves.

"Why don't we use the road?"

Jared stooped on the mossy bank and splashed his face with the frigid
water.

"Too easy for Stanwick to spot us in the open."  She nodded.

She'd survived the cliff descent, battling her worst fears.  She could
struggle through the rhododendron a few more miles.  He rose and
offered his hand, pulling her to her feet and against him in one
motion.  The fierceness of his embrace drove the breath from her
body.

"I won't let him harm you, Tyler, I promise."  Determination glinted in
the brown depths of his eyes.  She traced the sharp angle of his jaw
with her palm.

"I've caught my breath now.  We'd better keep moving."

He pointed to a narrow earthen path that wound down the slope beside
the stream, and she lunged ahead.  Behind them, something heavy crashed
through the underbrush, shattering the nocturnal quiet.

"Stanwick?"

she breathed.

"Sounds like a bear," Jared whispered.

"But it's headed away from us."

Adrenaline provided a burst of speed, and she darted forward along the
trail, digging in her heels to avoid pitching down the incline.  Jared
followed close behind.

Her legs ached from exertion, and her breath came in tortured gasps.

Long hours hunched over a desk and computer had drained her stamina.

When she thought her lungs would explode if she lifted another foot,
light glimmered ahead.  They'd reached Sweeney's meadow at the bottom
of the mountain.

Jared gripped her arm and pulled her back into the shadows before she
ventured into the open.

"If Stan- wick drove, he could be waiting for us."

He dropped to his knees and propped the bottom skein of barbed wire
with a stick.

"Crawl under, then follow me."

She rolled beneath the wire, crushing the sweet spring grass beneath
her, filling the air with the scent of herbs and wild onion.  Jared
copied her movements, then wriggled forward on his hands and knees,
ducking his head below the level of the tall grass.  Tyler bit back a
scream when the plaintive moo of a nearby cow startled her, but she
kept crawling, close on Jared's heels.  The aromatic clover thinned,
then disappeared in a muddy yard.  They had reached the barn.

Jared pushed to his feet, dragged her upright, and, still grasping her
arm, sprinted toward the barn door.  He slid back the massive door and
yanked her into the cavernous darkness.

Groping through the shadows, she located a bale of hay and tumbled onto
it, winded and exhausted.

"Why stop here?  Why not go on to the house and wake up Sweeney?"

Jared remained at the door, which was opened a crack to the
moonlight.

"I have to make certain Start- wick didn't get here first."

"How can you tell?"

His gaze swiveled, taking in the farmhouse and yard.

"There's no sign of another vehicle.  Just Sweeney's run-down old
pickup."  Suddenly, blinding light flooded the barn from overhead
fixtures, and Tyler blinked in the brightness.  At the far end beneath
the hayloft stood Pete Stan- wick, his semiautomatic rifle trained on
them.

"What took you so long?"  he asked.

Chapter Twelve

Jared cursed himself for a fool.  He'd Underestimated Stanwick--a fatal
error.  Inching slowly toward Tyler, he intended to shield her with his
body, giving her a chance to run.

"How did you find us?"  he asked.

The night-vision goggles attached to Stanwick's belt answered his
question, but Jared needed to keep his assailant talking while he
formed a plan.

Stanwick tapped the side of his nose with an index finger.

"I'm a good detective."  His face clouded.

"At least, I used to be."

"You sent the bomb to my house?"  Jared demanded Stanwick shook his
head, as if in disbelief.

"I can't understand how you dodged that bullet.  You don't have a
scratch."

"No thanks to you," Tyler said.

Stanwick considered her for a moment before turning back to Jared.

His eyes gleamed with suspicion.

"And you survived that car crash, too.  You got some kind of pact with
the devil, Slater, that keeps you whole?"

"What have you done with the Sweeneys, and the deputy on the
mountaintop?"

Tyler asked.

She leaned back on the hay bale and crossed her legs, and Jared admired
her coolness.  If she was as terrified as he, she didn't show it.

"I didn't hurt them," Stanwick said with a low growl.

"Just tied 'em up and gagged 'em.  It's Slater I want."

Jared reached the hay bale and slid down beside Tyler, prepared to
fling himself in front of her if Stan- wick fired.

"Why me?"  Stanwick grimaced, and in the chill of the barn, sweat
rolled down his face, streaking it with brown hair dye.

"You know too damn much, Slater."

"I know all about you, Stanwick," Jared agreed with a nod as he shifted
his right arm behind him.  He grasped the butt of his pistol, which was
tucked in his belt at the small of his back.

"Except why you killed Veronica Molinsky and Evelyn Granger."  Insanity
glittered in Pete's glazed eyes.

"Why not?  If my Mary had to die, why should anybody else live?"

Jared eased the pistol from his belt at his back.

"What about your son?"

Stanwick's expression softened.

"Robby?"

Jared nodded.

"He's worried about you.  He told US SO."

Graying stubble framed his wistful smile.

"You saw my Robby?"

"He's a good-looking boy."  Tyler's voice, calm and soothing, produced
a visible effect as tears joined the sweat on Stanwick's face.

"He was studying for his exams.  You must be very proud of him."  When
Stanwick lifted the drooping muzzle of the rifle, Jared tensed, ready
to spring.

Pete studied the gun in his hands with a confused expression, and when
he raised his laead, his expression was that of a lost little boy.

"Where is Robby?  Is he here?"

"Put the gun down, Pete."  Jared strained to keep his voice level while
his body hummed on alert.

"Don't you want to see your son again?"

"My son?  I have a son?"  His voice rang with amazement.  He sank to
his knees in the straw, grasping the barrel and lowering the gun butt
onto the barn's dirt floor.  His grinning face and puzzled voice
indicated he'd severed his final thread with reality.

"Ah, Mary, darling, you gave me a son."

"Robby will be glad to see you," Tyler assured him.  Jared aimed his
pistol at Pete and slipped off the safety.  With measured steps, he
crossed the floor and removed the rifle from Stanwick's hands.

"It's over now, Pete."

Stanwick focused on Jared's gun and queried in a childlike voice, "No
more killing?"

"No more killing," Jared replied.

"THE MAN'S CRAZY as a coot," Sheriff Tillett observed, as his deputies
ducked Stanwick's head and loaded him, handcuffed and shackled, into
the back seat of a cruiser.

"He lost touch with the real world a long time ago."

Jared nodded.

"Insanity's the only explanation for three senseless killings."

Sadness underlined Tillett's grin.

"You ought to have my job.

Sometimes I think the whole world's crazy.  " Tyler stepped off the
front porch where she had watched with the Sweeneys as Stanwick was
driven away, and linked her arm through Jared's.

"Thanks for talking to the cops in Florida.  In fact, thanks for
everything, Sheriff."

The big man leaned forward and examined her face in the dawn light.

"That's a good sign."

"What?"  Tyler asked.

Tillett jerked his thumb toward her forehead.

"The worst must be over.

No new head wounds.  "

Jared threw a protective arm around her shoulders.

"Never again."

Tillett nodded toward his cruiser.  I'll give you a ride up the
mountain.  "

JARED HELPED TYLER from the back seat of the sheriffs car, and when she
stumbled with fatigue, he grabbed her elbow to steady her.  She didn't
speak as they walked toward the front door.

"Thanks for your help."  He paused at the entrance and shook Sheriff
Tillett's hand.

"I should thank you.  You did all the dirty work."  With a silent
salute, Tillett returned to his car.

Jared eased the door shut, flipped on a light against the dark
interior, and followed Tyler up the loft stairs to the bedroom where
bullet holes pockmarked the walls--the only remnant of Stanwick's
presence.

Tyler sank onto the rumpled covers and was asleep when her head hit the
pillow.  Gently, Jared unlaced her sneakers and slipped off her socks.
Blisters glowed on the backs of both her heels, but she hadn't
complained once during the long descent of the mountainside.  His heart
constricted as he recalled how close he'd come to losing her.

Only luck had prevented Stanwick from blowing them both away.  He
smoothed her hair away from her face, picking out entangled twigs and
leaves, then tugged her jeans over her hips, exposing long graceful
legs.  With a tender pull, he hauled her sweater over her head, then
drew the covers over her.  He couldn't tell if fatigue or passion
caused his quivering.

She rolled onto her side, moaning softly in her sleep.  Staggering with
exhaustion, he stripped down to his shorts and fell into bed beside
her, circling her waist and drawing the warmth of her bare skin against
him.  Weariness battled his passion and won.  Hours later, a warm
breeze tickled his nose, awakening him from a sound sleep.  He opened
his eyes to sunlight streaming into the room.  Tyler had folded back
the plywood-covered outer doors and stood on the balcony, barefoot,
clad only in her blouse and underwear, gazing out over the valley.

He flung back the covers and went to her, wrapping his arms around her
waist and drawing her close against him.

"Feeling better?"

"Mmm."  She snuggled deeper into his embrace.

"Except for the aching muscles in my legs."

Happiness, an emotion he'd seldom experienced since his surgery,
consumed him.  In the sparkling air, cleared of its usual smoky haze,
the valley stretched before him, picture-perfect, and with Tyler in his
arms, he could think of nothing else necessary to make his life
complete.

She turned to him, lifting her face to study him with anxious eyes.

"Are you all right?"

He pressed a gentle kiss to her mouth.

"If I were any more all right, I couldn't stand it."

"No more dreams?"

"Only erotic ones," he said with a grin.

She swatted him playfully on the shoulder.

"Rappelling down the mountain, playing you-Tarzan, me- Jane, terrified
me, but I think you actually enjoyed it."

She would never know how afraid he had been for her safety.  From now
on, he vowed silently, he would allow nothing ever to terrify her
again.

He clasped her to him.

"I know an old jungle remedy for aching muscles."

Before she could protest, he swung her over his shoulder and carried
her into the bathroom, and her crystal laughter tickled his ear.

Balancing her on his shoulder, while she beat her fists on his back in
mock protest, he turned on the hot water and adjusted the pulsating
shower head before sliding her to her feet.

Her gaze locked with his while he unfastened the buttons of her blouse
and pushed aside the fabric.  She caught her breath with a hiss of
delight and her eyes glowed with pleasure when he cupped her breasts,
teasing the peaks with his thumbs.

He stripped off his shorts, then hooked his thumbs in her wispy panties
and tugged them to the floor.  As she stepped out of them, she shrugged
the blouse from her shoulders.

His throat ached with joy.

"You're beautiful."  She arched a feathery eyebrow above a teasing
smile.

"And you lured me here under false pre tenses."

He threw back his head and pounded his chest in his best ape-man
imitation.

"Tarzan no lie."

He lifted her off her feet again and deposited her on the bench in the
tiled shower stall.  After adjusting the spray against her legs, he
knelt and massaged her calves while the warm water pounded them.  She
leaned back against the tile, a rapturous smile on her lips and water
beading the silken smoothness of her skin, as he kneaded her muscles.

"That's heavenly," she uttered with a soft moan.

Her pleasure filled him with delight.  When he raised his hands to her
thighs, she leaned toward him, and he buried his face between her
breasts, pressing his lips to her heart as the pulsating water poured
over them.

Her hands trailed over the muscles of his back and grazed his neck and
shoulders, fueling the fire deep in his groin.  He lifted his head and
her eyes mirrored his passion.  Then he stood, rigid with desire,
pulled her to him and lifted her hips over him.

She wrapped her legs around his waist, drawing him dee pd within her.

Her lips melded with his, hot with longing, as she tightened her body
around him.  Awash in sensation, he clung to her with violent
tenderness Rapture erupted in waves and the pulsing water echoed the
rhythms of his heart, buffeting their entwined bodies like a shower of
stars.

Still cradling her, he sank to the bench as ecstasy receded, to be
replaced by a lingering contentment.

"I love you, Tyler."  She pushed his streaming hair from his eyes and
fixed him with an expression that pierced him with desperate joy.

"Love is forever, Jared."

"And a day."  He claimed another kiss.

JARED WATCHED FROM the kitchen while Tyler arranged place settings on
the table in front of the fire.  Her black hair glistened in the soft
light, and her cheeks, still tinged from lovemaking, glowed pink.  His
heart constricted with happiness, followed by a chill of fear.  He'd
come too close to losing her and their chance for a life together.  Now
that he'd committed himself to love, he must live with the risk such
love entailed.  Events of the past two years had taught him that
nothing in life was guaranteed.  Wondering where his somber thoughts
had come from, he shook them off and carried the lasagna to the table. 
Tyler inhaled the steam rising from the casserole, and her face
crinkled in the smile he cherished.

"That's why I fell in love with you," she said.

"Who can resist a man who cooks?"

He settled at the table and reached across to grasp her hand.

"Then you won't have any trouble saying yes to my request."

"More Tarzan games?"  Her eyes glinted with humor.

He shook his head.

"This is serious."

"I think I know."  Her expression sobered and the light left her
eyes.

"Now that Stanwick's caught, you're firing me " for good.  "

"In a manner of speaking."  He struggled to keep a straight face.  She
lifted her chin in a show of courage.

"When do you want me to leave?"

He scooted around the table and drew her to him.  "Never."  "But" "I'm
firing you as my research assistant."  He tilted her face toward his.

"But I'm offering a permanent position instead."

"Permanent?"

He nodded.

"Permanent, as in forever.  I want you to marry me."  Her eyes brimmed
with tears.

"I love you, Jared."  Uncertainty stabbed him.

"Is that a yes?"

Her arms tightened around his neck.

"That is most definitely a yes."

"We'll take out a license tomorrow."

"Oh, no."  Her eyes widened with dismay.

He clutched his heart in mock distress.

"Don't do this to me, Tyler.

You haven't changed your mind already, have you?  "

"It's Gran."

"Will she object?"  He'd been so estranged from his family, he'd
forgotten about Tyler's.

"No, but I did make her a promise."  Her expression wavered, and he
couldn't read it.

"Please," he said with a groan, "you're not going to make me wait a
year, or something equally excruciating?"  The corners of her mouth
lifted in a wry smile.

"Excruciating?  Depends on how you feel about big weddings."

"Make the wedding as big or as small as you like," he answered with a
delighted grin.

"Just make it quick.  The sooner I can have you all to myself, the
better."

"We can leave first thing in the morning to break the news to Gran."

He frowned, remembering the makeshift repairs he'd made to the house.

"I should meet with the contractor tomorrow to arrange for these
windows to be replaced.  That will give you a day to accustom her to
the idea, and I'll join you day after tomorrow to meet her."  She
grinned.

"And to begin plans."

He nodded and gave a comical grimace.

"A big wedding.  Jeez, the things I do for love."

She traced his lips with her fingertips.

"Yes, like saving my life."

Remembering her brushes with death, he fought against the huskiness in
his throat.

"We should eat.  The lasagna's getting cold."  She nodded and accepted
the heaping plate he handed her, but she didn't touch her food.

"Something'bothers me about Stanwick."

"What do you mean?"

He dished out lasagna for himself.  She shrugged.

"I'm not sure.

Seeing him on his knees, all lost and confused, I felt sorry for him.
"

He dropped the serving spoon with a clang.

"Tyler, the man tried to kill you."

"But he doesn't seem like a killer."

"The man's crazy.  Besides, how many killers have you known?"  He
grinned and dug into his meal.

She blushed.

"You're right, but I can't get him out of my mind."

"Believe me," he said with irony, "I know exactly how you feel.  But
he's haunted my dreams too long, and from now on, I intend to forget
him."

She lifted her wineglass to his.

"It's a deal.  No more talk of Stanwick."

WIN HE CLIMBED INTO BED that night, even Tyler's soft curves pressed
against him like a nesting spoon couldn't erase Pete Stanwick from his
mind.  Some thing jiggled in the back of his consciousness, like a name
he knew but couldn't remember.  He squeezed his eyes shut and slowed
his breathing, hoping that with Stanwick's murderous odyssey ended,
their psychic connection had been broken and his own dreams would be
normal once more.

He wasn't that lucky.

The vision gripped him, drawing him into the familiarity of the
killer's mind, again drenching him in hate and vengeance.  Through the
killer's eyes, Jared observed the passing interstate, cutting through
the North Carolina piedmont.

The killer drove, tailing a small compact car.  The first vehicle
turned into a rest area and the killer followed.  Bitterness and
murderous fever throbbed in the killer's mind, choking Jared with its
intensity. He struggled to awaken, but he couldn't break his link with
the killer's sick brain.

The killer parked and observed as a woman left the compact car at the
other end of the deserted area and headed toward the rest rooms.  He
opened his door and hurried to the empty men's room.  Inside, he with
drew a revolver from beneath his coat, flipped open the cylinder, and
counted six rounds.  More than enough to finish her off.

He bent over the lavatory, sloshed water over his heated face, and
stood, stating into the mirror with vacant eyes.  A vivid scar,
obscured at his forehead by hay like hair, ran from his temple to his
chin. Jared fought again to waken.

The man stuffed the gun into his belt and stood at the door of the rest
room, watching the ladies' room across the corridor.  The woman stepped
out, but her face was obscured.  She hurried toward her car.

The killer set off after her.

Exerting every effort to impose his will on the killer's, Jared battled
with the killer's intent--to no avail.  The enraged man continued his
pursuit.

At the sound of running feet, the woman turned.  The killer lifted his
gun.

Jared awoke with a tortured scream on his lips.  The killer was
stalking Tyler.

And he was the same man who had sat across from Jared in the hospital,
two years ago---just seconds be fore the aneurysm had burst in his
brain.

Chapter Thirteen

Jared jammed a fist to his mouth to stifle his scream and squeezed his
eyes shut.  Forcing himself to inhale deep breaths, he attempted to
relax.

It was just a dream.

A dream brought on by the stress of the last few days.  Stanwick was
behind bars and Tyler slept be side him, whole and safe.  Strange that
after all this time he should dream about the man from the emergency
room.  But dreams seldom presented a reason for their existence,
drawing out random experiences from the circuits of the brain, like a
computer with a faulty program.  Logic eased Jared's terror.  When his
heart ceased hammering like a racing car piston, he rolled onto his
side and reached for Tyler.

She was gone.

He bounded to his feet and switched on the bedside light.  The clock
indicated seven-fifteen.  He'd over slept.  Tyler had planned to leave
for her grand mother's at seven.

His glance fell on a note pinned to her pillow, and he snatched it
up.

"Tarzan," she wrote, "you were sleeping so soundly I couldn't bear to
wake you.  See you tomorrow at Gran's.  I love you."  Everything was as
they'd planned, but he couldn't shake the residual uneasiness caused by
his dream.  He reached for his jeans and was tugging them on when the
phone rang.

"Mr.  Slater," the caller said, "this is Deputy McSwain at the sheriffs
office."

"r " Ires.  Jared made no effort to keep the impatience from his
voice.

"The sheriff wonders if you'd come in to answer a few questions this
morning."

Jared swore under his breath.

"I'm going out of town--' " This won't, take long," McSwain
interrupted.

"Sheriff Tillett just wants to clear up some inconsistencies between
your story and Stanwick's."

"There'll always be inconsistencies--the man's crazy!"  Wedging the
phone between his shoulder and ear, Jared tied his boots.

"This inconsistency's a whopper," the deputy insisted.

"The doctor's seen Stanwick and states he's lucid now, and Stanwick
claims you killed his wife and those other two women."

"What?  That's bull" -- "And Stanwick's got a motel owner who
corroborates that he was in Georgia the night Evelyn Granger died in
Florida."

"Look, deputy, I didn't kill those women.  And if Stanwick didn't, then
who" --The image of the scar-faced man from his dream flashed into his
mind.

The man in his dreams hadn't been Stanwick, and now the killer was
after Tyler.  The rest area Jared had dreamed about was between
Asheville and Hickory, on the way to Chapel Hill.  She'd had a
fifteen-minute start on him, and he didn't have a second to spare.

"McSwain, I didn't kill anybody, but the man who did is headed east on
the interstate."  Jared described the rest area.

"Call the highway patrol and have them meet me there."  "I wouldn't do
that, Mr.  Slater.  If you don't come in voluntarily, the sheriff will
have to bring you in for questioning."

"Fine.  He can pick me up at the rest area.  I'll need all the help I
can get."  If I'm not already too late.  Jared slammed down the
receiver, tucked his gun in his belt, and raced down the stairs.  Five
minutes later, he maneuvered the speeding rental car around the
mountain curves of the highway leading to Asheville, where he would
pick up the interstate

When he reached the outskirts of the city, going- to-work traffic
slowed his pace, and he prayed that somewhere ahead of him, maybe on
the eastern edge of Asheville, Tyler had been delayed as well.

As traffic retarded to a crawl, he pounded the steering wheel with his
fists, while fear and frustration chewed at his gut.  If Tyler was
hurt, the fault would be his for not sending her away the moment he'd
met her.  God knew, he'd had enough warnings from his dreams.  As the
traffic began to flow again, memories tortured him with their
sweetness--his first glimpse of Tyler, standing on his doorstep like a
snow queen with ice glazing the incredibly long lashes of her eyes and
the cold nipping her porcelain cheeks to a delicate pink; her
compassionate response when he'd revealed his terrible dreams; her
plucky courage when the Volvo had wrecked; her triumph over her fear
when he'd hurtled down the cliff face with her girded to his back.  And
sweetest of all, the glow of love in her eyes when he'd kissed her
beneath the pulsing water of the shower.

He pressed the accelerator, heedless of the speed limit.  If he didn't
reach her in time, he didn't care what the law did to him.  His
shoulders ached with tension, and he felt as if he'd been driving all
day, but he'd only been on the road a little over two hours when he
spied the exit sign for the rest area he'd seen in his dream.  Fear for
Tyler almost incapacitated him as he drove into the parking area and
spotted Tyler's car at the far end.  Closer to him stood another
vehicle--a battered green car, the killer's.  No other cars or trucks
:! were in sight, except those zooming by on the highway.

Jared screeched to a stop, jumped out and raced toward the rest
rooms.

Banging open the door to the :}!  women's room, he drew his gun.

"Tyler?"  His voice echoed in the empty room.  He pivoted and dashed
toward the men's room.  It, too, was empty.  Crashing out the rest room
door, he darted into the parking area.  The cars remained, but the
killer and Tyler were nowhere in sight.

Anxiety almost suffocated him.  He tried to think.

The killer had a gun.  If he'd used it to hijack another car, Jared
might never find Tyler.  Maybe it was already too late.

NOT LONG BEFORE, Tyler had lowered the car's visor against the glare of
the morning sun that rose over the foothills.  When she'd awakened,
she'd longed to stay in bed with Jared and pass the morning in languid
lovemaking, but he slept so soundly, she'd hesitated to wake him.

Instead, she'd stuck to their original plan, scribbled a note, and
kissed him goodbye.  Now the morning stretched fresh and calm ahead of
her, as if in compensation for the terror of the past several days.

In a few hours, she would reach Chapel Hill and dazzle Gran with the
news of her engagement.  The old girl would be delighted.  The
tobacco-rich blue blood of the Slaters of Virginia would more than meet
Gran's requirements for a suitable husband for her granddaughter, and
when Jared arrived the next day, Gran couldn't help falling in love
with him.

Tyler hummed along with the car radio.  She'd been through hell with
Jared, but that was over now.  Life was good.  She remembered when
she'd kissed him goodbye--his fine, dark hair a stark contrast to the
pillow linen, the muscles of his biceps bulging against the sheet.  His
Strength had saved her from Stanwick's bullets.  His love had added new
meaning to her life.

She giggled.  If she would fall off a cliff for him, she would follow
him anywhere.  Daydreams of their life together consumed her--long
walks in the mountain woods, intimate evenings in front of the fire,
passionate lovemaking in the loft bedroom, producing dark-haired,
brown-eyed children.

A rest-area exit sign interrupted her reveries.  She'd been driving two
hours straight and needed to stretch her legs.  A cup of
vending-machine coffee wouldn't hurt, either.

She flipped on her turn signal and eased into the exit lane.  A
battered green car pulled in behind her.

After parking, she climbed out and breathed deeply of the fresh
mountain air that was only faintly tainted by fumes from nearby
traffic.  Raucous cries of blue jays, fighting over picnic scraps,
disrupted the morning quiet.  She grabbed her handbag and walked
briskly toward the rest room.

A few minutes later, she exited, searching her purse for change for the
vending machine.  The ann around her neck and the gun barrel pressed
to her temple came out of nowhere.

"Do as I tell you, lady," an angry voice snarled in her ear, "or I'll
blow you away right where you're standing."

Disbelief melded with the fear that surged through her.  Had she
survived Stanwick's attacks only to die at the hand of a petty thief?

"Take my purse, my car, whatever you want."  She forced the words
through trembling lips and shoved her bag upward and over her
shoulder.

"Shut up!"  The man knocked the handbag into the hedge that lined the
walk.

When he made no effort to retrieve it, her terror grew.  The man was no
thief.

"What do you want?"

He tightened his arm around her neck, crushing her throat.

"Your cooperation.  Now, move!"

He shoved her ahead of him.  She dug in her heels to impede their
progress, but the man's strength over powered her.  He pushed her off
the walk and around the side of the building, the cold, oily surface of
the gun barrel pressed into her skin.

She considered screaming, but the only beings within hearing were the
blue jays, still squawking over picnic spoils.  She strained to view
the rest-area entrance, hoping for an approaching vehicle, but the road
remained deserted.

In spite of her resistance, her burly attacker man aged to drag her
easily across the open space to the fence that circled the perimeter.

At the fence, he eased his grasp but didn't withdraw the gun or allow
her to see his face.

"Climb over."

"No."  She'd had enough training in self-defense to know never to enter
a vehicle or a secluded area with an assailant--if she wanted to stay
alive.

He burrowed the gun deep into the hollow of her cheek.

"Over the fence or I kill you here."

"Then kill me.  I'm not going into the woods with you."  She stiffened
her shoulders, waiting for the shot, wondering if she would feel it or
hear the concussion of the blast.

She expected to die.  What she didn't expect was to be tossed over the
fence like a sack of potatoes.  Her burgundy slacks caught on the top
wire, breaking her fall.  She felt them rip just before landing on her
face in the humus of the forest floor.  She pushed to her knees,
spitting out leaves and dirt, ready to run.

A hand on her collar jerked her back.

"You ain't going nowhere except where I tell you."

She attempted to turn, but the hand twisted her blouse to restrain her
movements, dragged her to her feet, and shoved her through the
underbrush, deeper into the trees.

Branches lashed her face as she crashed through dogwood and maple
saplings, creating more and more distance between her and the rest
area, her only source of help.

Her muscles, still sore from yesterday's exertion, screamed in protest,
and she stumbled, falling face down in the leaves.  A knee between her
shoulder blades prevented her from getting up, and horror rose like
bile in her throat as hands fumbled at her waist, , removing her belt
from her slacks.  I, Dear God, he's going to rape me.  I She struggled,
kicking against the man's weight, but he caught her arms, pinned them
behind her, and tied her hands with her belt.  Hauling on her belt
until she feared her arms would be wrenched from their sockets, he
jerked her to her feet.  She gulped in air and screamed at the top of
her lungs.

"Help, somebody, help!"

"Scream all you want.  We're so deep in the woods, ain't nobody going
to hear you."  He twisted her to face him, but she couldn't bear to
look at him.  With a growl, he thrust her backward against a tree
trunk, hooked his foot around her ankles and yanked her feet from under
her. Her bottom thudded against the ground, jarring her entire body. 
Her teeth nicked her tongue, and the metallic taste of blood filled her
mouth.  Determined not to surrender to panic, she raised her head and
caught her first full glimpse of her tormentor, a tall and bulky man
whose faded clothes matched his features, giving him the washed-out
appearance of an overexposed snapshot.  Small eyes, so pale a blue they
were almost colorless, assessed her from a face ripped from forehead to
chin by a ragged scar.  Ash-blond hair, wispy and thin, fell across his
waxen forehead.

He towered over her and nudged her with his foot.

"I don't mean you any harm" -- "You could have fooled me," she snapped.
Every muscle in her body shrieked with pain.

He backed away until he came up against a tree trunk about six feet
from where she sat, then slid to a sitting position with his gun
pointed at her heart.

"I just want you to do me a favor, then I'll let you go."  He'S lying.
Deceit permeated his voice and his posture, and for a moment, she
wished he would kill.  her and be done with it, rather than taunt her
further with promises of release.  But if she was destined to die, she
wanted to know why.

"What kind of favor?"  She prayed it wasn't sexual that he would kill
her quickly and cleanly without assaulting her first.  He reached into
his faded denim jacket with his free hand and extracted a folded sheet
of paper from his shirt pocket.

"Just sign this letter, Miss Harris."

Her head jerked up in surprise.

"You know my name?"  "I know all I need to know about you."  He licked
his bottom lip, a gesture that made her shudder.

"But how"

"That's not important now.  Just sign this paper, and I'll let you
go."

Instinct told her the moment he'd obtained her signature, she was a
dead woman.  Her only hope was that someone had arrived at the rest
area and heard her screams.  If she could stay alive long enough,
maybe help would come.

"I never sign anything I haven't read first."

"What are you, a lawyer?"  He scowled.

"God, I hate lawyers."

"I'm a librarian," she replied.

"I hate books, too."  Her heart pounded.

"So, what does the paper say?"  He smoothed open the sheet against his
knee.

"Jared Slater"

"Jared!  How do you know Jared?"  He spat like a man with a bad taste
in his mouth.

"I wish to hell I didn't.  I can't get the man out of my head.  I know
everything he's thinking--and he knows too much about me."
Understanding exploded like a bomb in her head.  This man--not Pete
Stanwick had haunted Jared's dreams.

"Stanwick didn't kill his wife!"

"That worked out good, didn't it?"  His smile reeked of evil.

"I made that bastard suffer.  First, I killed his wife, and now
everybody's thinking he did it."  Her hopes for survival plummeted. 
Her captor had killed before, so he wouldn't hesitate to kill her,
too.

"Who are you?"  she demanded.  iL

"Don't you know by now?"  He leaned back "II against the rough bark of
the tree and narrowed his colorless eyes.

"Ozzie Anderson was my father."

"You're Arnie?"

He nodded, looking pleased with himself.

"But your mother said you were in Alaska."

"Ma and I had this all worked out.  She'd cover for me while I paid
back the bastards that killed my daddy."  She shook her head in
disbelief.

"But Veronica Molinsky, Mary Stanwick and Evelyn Granger had nothing to
do with your father's execution."  He shrugged.

"But they were related to the men who did it.  Ma and me wanted those
men to suffer like we'd suffered all those years.  OnceI kill Slater,
I'll finish off the others."

Fear for Jared renewed her determination to escape, to warn him.  She
pushed herself upright, hoping to seize a chance to bolt.

"Why kill Jared?  He knew nothing about your father."

Arnie's vicious cackle filled the stillness.

"Yeah, but he knows too much about me.  If I don't get him out of the
way, they'll catch me before I can finish off the others."  o She
nodded toward the paper.

"And that's what the note to Jared is about?"

"Yeah.  It tells him when and where to meet me."

She arched her eyebrows.

"Why would he do that?"

He grinned, exposing yellowed teeth.

"Because you've signed it.

Because it says the only way he'll ever see you alive again is to meet
me.  "

Arnie Anderson was going to kill her anyway.  She wouldn't help him
trap Jared by signing his death warrant.

"I'm not signing anything."

He heaved a sigh of frustration.

"Have it your way."

"Then you'll let me go?"  She clung to the glimmer of a chance.

"You?"  he said with a mocking snort.

"No way, lady."  Then he raised the blued barrel of the revolver and
aimed it between her eyes.

Her last thought was of Jared and how much she loved him.

JARED SCANNED THE AREA, searching for any clue that Tyler might be
close by.  Sunlight glinted on a gold clasp in the hedge, and he
withdrew a purse from the bushes.  Tyler's wallet and keys were inside.
But where is she?  The killer could have forced her into another car
and be miles away by now, or he could have dragged her into the
surrounding woods.  If Jared chose the wrong direction to search, he
might never see Tyler alive again.  Desperate, he closed his eyes and
concentrated.  He'd never entered the killer's mind except in dreams,
but now his only hope to save Tyler was to thrust himself into the
killer's thoughts to discover where she was.  I Sweat beaded his
forehead as he blocked every sensation and focused on the killer,
recalling every nuance of his face, every thought and black emotion.  A
whirling vortex of darkness sucked at him, drawing him deeper into
nothingness.  Fear clutched at his gut, breaking his concentration, but
he swept it aside, homing in on the mind of the man who had kidnapped
the woman he loved.

His body quavered with his efforts, his blood thundered in his ears,
and his breath Came in tortured gasps, until he wrested his perceptions
away from himself and into the killer's head.  Like a movie on a
screen, a glimpse of the killer, propelling Tyler ahead of him and
boosting her over a fence, flashed through Jared's mind.

Disoriented and queasy, with his legs threatening to fold beneath him,
he opened his eyes.  His attention flew to the fence, and he attempted
to locate the spot where Tyler and the killer had crossed, but each
segment of the long expanse looked alike.  He sprinted to the western
edge of the picnic area and followed the fence east, searching for some
sign of their passage.

Midway, he spotted a scrap of burgundy cloth snagged on the fence
directly behind the rest rooms.  He grasped the top of the wire with
both hands and started to clamber over.  Behind him, tires squealed to
a halt in the rest area.

"Jared Slater?"  A uniformed highway patrolman exited his cruiser and
raced toward him.

"Stop right there I" "Follow me!"  Jared shouted over his shoulder.

"There's no time to waste."

He vaulted over the fence and set off into the woods at a trot.  The
muffled curses of the patrolman followed him.

THE CONCUSSIVE BOOM of gunfire sounded in Tyler's ear as she flung
herself to one side and rolled into the underbrush.  She struggled to
her feet.  With her hands tied behind her back, the effort took
forever, and she expected any minute to hear the roar of another shot
and feel the bullet.

Behind her, Amie grunted and cursed, but she didn't look back.  Heading
in the direction she hoped led to the rest area, she stumbled through
the woods, striving to keep her balance without the use of her arms.

Amie crashed through the foliage close behind.  Urging her aching legs
faster, she ran, knowing her flight was futile, that a single bullet
could bring her down, but refusing to make it easy for Amie to kill
her.

Her foot struck a root, sending her sprawling.  Be fore she could rise,
running footsteps pounded the ground beneath her ear, and she braced
herself for the end.

Strong arms lifted her, and she struggled against them.

"Tyler, you're safe now."

The voice was Jared' s. She had to be hallucinating in her fear.  But
when the powerful arms pressed her against a broad chest, and hands
fumbled to untie the belt that bound her, she breathed deeply of
Jared's unique scent--a masculine mixture of mountain air and sunshine
that informed her she was truly safe.

When he had loosed her hands, she threw her arms around his neck.

"Thank God.  I was afraid I'd never see you again."  He clutched her to
him, squeezing the air from her lungs, and she reveled in the security
of his embrace.  Until she remembered Arnie.

She pushed away from Jared.

"We have to run.  Arnie Anderson's coming after me, and he has a
gun."

Jared smiled a slow grin.

"Not anymore."

She drew a sharp breath.

"You didn't kill him?"  He flung an arm around her shoulder and
accompanied her back the way she'd come.

"No, but not because I didn't want to.  Arnie's life was spared by the
timely arrival of a highway patrolman."

"How did you find me?"  She stopped and stared with astonishment.

"How did you know I needed you?"

He shrugged.

"Sometimes those blasted dreams come in handy."  When they reached the
fence, he gave her a leg over, then leaped the barrier.  In the parking
area, lights of two highway patrol cars flashed, and uniformed officers
placed a handcuffed Arnie into the back seat of the nearest cruiser.

Arnie glared at them before the door slammed, and

Tyler glimpsed him long enough to view his swollen face and blackened
eye.

"Did you do that?"  she asked.

Jared nodded and tightened his arm around her shoulders.

"It was either hit him or shoot him.  He was ready to take another shot
at you."

"What happens now?"

"We make a statement to the authorities."  She glanced at her watch.

"Will I still have enough time to reach Gran's today?"

He shook his head.

She groaned.

"Will the statements take that long?"  He turned her toward him and
tipped her chin in his palm.  His brown eyes blazed with emotion.

"No, but going back to Lake Toxaway so I can pack, will.  This time,
I'm going with you."

She snuggled into his embrace, smiling at the thought of Gran's face
when, out of the blue, she sprang her fiance on the old girl.

Epilogue

A gentle breeze stirred the deep pink blossoms of crepe myrtles that
encircled the wide porch, carrying the heady fragrance of roses from
the nearby garden to the table where Tyler sat, addressing wedding
invitations

"Want some iced tea, dear?"  Gran stepped through the French doors
carrying an icy pitcher and tail glasses on a tray.  She deposited her
burden on the table and sat in the wicker rocking chair across from
Tyler.

"Thanks.  I'm almost finished here."  Tyler slid' the last of the heavy
vellum cards into its matching envelope

A worded crease joined the lines in the older woman's face.

"I don't know what people will think, with you engaged and married in
the space of six weeks."

Tyler accepted a glass of tea with one hand and grasped Gran's hand
with the other.

"They'll think I'm incredibly lucky to have found a man like Jared."

Gran nodded.

"If they only knew.  I still shudder when I think how close you came to
being killed.  Luck is the onlY thing that kept you alive during that
entire ordeal."

"Not luck, Gran.  Jared protected me."

Gran sighed.

"He is a most remarkable man.  Re minds me of your grandfather when he
was young."

Tyler breathed a sigh of relief.  Gran had just awarded Jared with her
highest accolade.  With Gran's approval won and Jared's reconciliation
with his family accomplished, the wedding would be a happy event for
everyone.

"But," Gran said, "there are still several things I don't
understand."

"You know better than to ask me to explain love," Tyler said with a
grin.

"Fiddlesticks."  Gran withdrew a lace-edged hand kerchief from the
bodice of her lavender housedress and fanned her face.

"I understand love well enough.  It's why Peter Stanwick tried to kill
Jared that I don't understand."

Tyler set the stack of wedding invitations aside.

"Jared and I didn't understand, either--at first.  But after we talked
again with Robby, Pete's son, and interviewed the doctors who examined
Pete, we discovered Pete believed Jared had killed his wife."  Gran's
blue eyes widened.

"Good heavens!  Why would he think such a thing?"

Tyler shook her head sadly.

"Mary's death caused Pete to have a mental breakdown.  Since Jared, a
total stranger, had appeared in town asking questions about Mary at the
time she died, Pete was convinced Jared had killed her."

"And now?"

"Pete's getting treatment.  We're hoping a jury will go easy on him,
under the circumstances."

Gran's face wrinkled in distaste.

"I hope they show no mercy to that horrible Anderson creature."

Tyler shivered, remembering.

"Not much chance of that.  Between the ballistics matchup of Arnie's
gun and the bullets that killed the three women, and Ar- me's blood
found at Veronica Molinsky's where he ripped his cheek open hiding in
her rose arbor, he'll be put away for a long, long time."

"Here's Jared now."  Gran nodded toward a car pulling into the driveway
and rose from her rocking chair.

"I'll bring another glass."  She slipped into the house as Jared
climbed out of his car.  Tyler crossed to the porch steps to meet him. 
The sight of him made her heart pound and her pulse race, and when he
drew her into his arms for a long, lingering kiss, she wondered if
anyone ever died from sheer happiness.

He released her, and she crooke4 her arm in his and walked back to her
chair.  He sank into the rocker with a sigh.

"Were the tests rough?"  she asked.

He nodded, raking his fingers through his hair.

"Tedious.  The parapsychology department at Duke

University is thorough.  They have to be, in a field viewed with so
much skepticism.  "

She waited.  He would tell her the results in his own time.  The
silence stretched between them, comfort able and intimate.  One of the
most fulfilling aspects of their relationship was their ability to
communicate without words.

He nodded toward the invitations.

"Are those ready to mail?"  She grinned.

"I'll drop them off at the post office later this afternoon.

Now's your last chance to back out before the die is cast.  "

"Hmm."  He scratched his chin.

"There's a thought."

"Jared!"

With a mischievous grin, he grabbed her wrist and tugged her onto his
lap.

"You know I'd marry you today if you'd forget this fancy wedding and
run away with me."

She nuzzled her face into his neck.

"Now, that would be a new experience--running away with you without
cops and killers on our trail."

His lips grazed her hair.

"We could hire Enrico and go back to the Birch and Bottle Inn."

She sat back and glared at him with mock indignation.

"And forget the private honeymoon cottage in Bermuda?  No way."  He
shrugged in resignation.

"You're right.  Besides, I've grown fond of Gran and wouldn't want to
disappoint her.  What's a few more weeks?  We'll have the rest of our
lives together."

She settled contentedly into his arms.

"Tyler?"

The somberness of his tone made her sit upright and study his face.

"Yes?"

"Are you sure you want to go through with this?"

"The big wedding?"

Fear hammered at her heart.  He shook his head.

"Marrying me."

"Of course, I'm sure.  Why wouldn't I" -- "The test results.  They were
pretty conclusive."  He turned away, avoiding her eyes as he stared
across the deep side lawn.

"They won't change my mind."  Her heart constricted at the pain in his
eyes.

"You have to know that I'm different.  My mind-it doesn't work like
other people's."  His flat, emotionless tone frightened her more than
his expression.

She stroked his cheek with the back of her hand.

"Tell me about it."

"They verified my psychic abilities, my heightened perceptions.  That
night in the emergency room, Arnie Anderson had just committed his
first murder and was in a highly agitated state.  When I suffered the
aneurysm, my trauma produced a psychic conduit, connecting me to
Anderson.  That's how I shared his thoughts."

"But" -she drew back and met his gaze "--Ar- me had nothing to do with
sending the bomb, and you dreamed about that, too."

He nodded.

"The tests also confirm I have strong powers of precognition."

"Precognition?"

"Clairvoyance.  I can tell the future--some of the time.  When I'm
emotionally connected to someone or something."  He grimaced as if the
words left a bad taste in his mouth.

"That makes me different."  She grasped his shoulders and met his
gaze.

"That makes you special.  But I would marry you even with out your
extraordinary powers."

"If anyone's special, it's you."  He clasped his fingers behind her
neck and drew her head down, coveting her mouth with his.  She reveled
in the scent of him filling her nostrils and savored the taste of him
on her lips.

She lacked his precognition, but knew she would love this man
forever.

When the kiss ended, she drew back, searching his face and finding her
love reflected there.

"Have you had any more dreams?"  she asked.

His face crinkled in the smile she adored.

"Only good ones, and all about you."

She dipped her head for another kiss.

"I promise to make all those dreams come true."