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“Well, now where to?” he asked. “Your head seems to be operating better than mine, today. You choose.”

“His office.”

“But he said it wasn't there.”

“Yes, but Trudy is. If anyone would know who Keith would have given something that important to, it'd be Trudy.”

* * *

“W
HY
MAC
,
OF
COURSE
,” was Trudy's immediate response after she had pummeled them with questions about the gunfire yesterday. “Of all his friends, it would be Mac he'd call if he were in trouble. What kind of trouble was he in? I knew he was upset, but I didn't know why.”

Mac ignored the question. “I was out of town. Who else, Trudy? Think hard. It's extremely important.”

Trudy hesitated. “Well, he has dozens of friends, all of them loyal, I'm sure. Keith inspires that in people.”

“Dozens?” Mac said faintly. “Do you have a list?”

“I can give you his Rolodex.”

Mallory's heart sank. It would take the remainder of the day to call all the people in a Rolodex. “Would you, Trudy?”

Trudy disappeared into Keith's office and reappeared a moment later with the Rolodex, which she handed to Mac. Her green eyes filled with concern as she peered at Mallory over the tinted lenses of her glasses. “There's something terribly wrong, isn't there? Something's happened? Something other than Keith's stroke.”

“I—I can't say,” Mallory told her gently. “Just pray for us, Trudy. We need all the help we can get.”

* * *

T
HEY
DID
THE
phone calling in shifts. Late in the afternoon, while Mallory took her turn dialing and interrogating people, Mac cleaned up the kitchen, then foraged in the freezer and quick-thawed some sirloin for dinner. She wasn't sure how she was going to manage to eat. But she knew she must. To help Em, she needed to keep her strength up. That meant eating nutritious food and resting whenever an opportunity presented itself. It also meant she must have faith that everything would turn out all right. Otherwise, swallowing food would be an impossibility. And so would closing her eyes.

In less than an hour, Mac insisted she take a break from telephoning and eat the meal he'd prepared. She finished her conversation with a man from Seattle named Harry Reisling who claimed to be an old service buddy of Keith's. No, he hadn't seen Keith in months. No, he didn't have a key belonging to Keith. He was extremely sorry to hear that his friend had suffered a stroke. Mallory rang off with a promise that she would give her father-in-law Harry's best.

To her surprise, she was ravenously hungry and managed to make quite a dent in the food Mac had heaped on her plate. When she couldn't swallow another morsel, Mallory settled back in her chair and toyed with the handle of her coffee cup. Mac propped his elbows on the table and rested his chin on his fists. “Now,” he said in a low voice, “how about a long, hot shower and an early night. You didn't get much rest last night.”

Despite the fact that she had only just lectured herself on the importance of getting rest, Mallory found it difficult to follow through. Em was out there somewhere. Her life was in danger. She glanced at the Rolodex. “I'm not finished.”

“I'll finish. We have an entire day left.” Not a lot of time, he thought, but he wasn't about to say so. “You can afford to rest and recoup your strength.”

As tired as she was, Mallory hated to leave him with all the work. “Only if I clean up the kitchen first.”

“A deal. I hate dishes.”

They finished their coffee in silence, the first real lull they'd had all day. Mallory avoided looking at him, afraid of what she might read in his eyes. Had she really asked him to make love to her last night? Or had she dreamed it? It was a question that had plagued her all day. An unanswerable question because her memories of it were so jumbled and vague. She remembered feeling frantic, clinging to him, wanting him to make the pain go away. And then...nothing. Had she fallen asleep in his arms? What had he said? When she had awakened beside him this morning, both of them were still clothed. Clearly Mac had declined her offer if she had made one.

Rising from the table, she gathered the plates and scraped the food off them into the disposal. Mac stationed himself on the other side of the counter and began phoning the
S
section in the Rolodex, hitting every Seattle address. He had finished and begun the
T
section by the time she wiped the last trace of their meal from the counters and table.

Folding the dishcloth and laying it across the sink divider, Mallory waited for him to end a conversation, then said, “I'll take Em's room. You'll be more comfortable in the larger bed.”

His gray eyes lifted. Mallory glanced uneasily away, unable to meet his gaze. Heat flamed to her cheeks.

“You sure? I hate to run you out of your own room.”

“Her bed is perfectly comfortable. And I'll feel closer to her in there. Really, I don't mind.”

Escaping the kitchen, Mallory took the stairs at a near run. After gathering her night things, she showered in the main bath just in case Mac finished up the Rolodex and wanted a shower himself. The hot water felt wonderfully soothing on her bruised body. After soaping down and shampooing her hair, she stood under the spray for several minutes, making her mind completely blank. No thoughts of Em. Of Keith. Of his many friends in Seattle. Of anything. She had to relax if she intended to sleep. And she
needed
sleep. Exhaustion was weighing on her, making her feel rubbery all over.

After blowing her hair dry, she tugged on her gown, straightened up the bathroom and went across the hall to Em's room. The bed felt like a mother's arms as she stretched out between the sheets and pulled the pink down comforter to her chin. Now if only she could sleep. A picture flashed in her head of Em's finger lying inside a small box and she rolled onto her stomach to bury her face. The tears that she had held at bay all day flooded from her eyes, accompanied by muffled sobs. She cried until she was empty and numb again, then just lay there, her eyes squeezed closed, her hands knotted into fists.

It wouldn't happen, she promised herself. She and Mac were going to find the key. They had to. If they didn't, Mallory didn't want to live. That was her last thought. Like a blown bulb, her lights went out. Blackness swooped over her.

* * *

R
UFFLES
AND
LACE
and Mallory Christiani...a heady combination. Mac leaned a shoulder against the bedpost and studied the sleeping woman before him, his mouth curved into a wry smile. He toyed with his tie, rasping his fingertips across the silk, imagining silken skin instead.
Mac, would you love me?
An ache of longing had centered itself in his chest last night and hadn't eased up all day. Not a sexual longing, just need, raw and elemental and completely baffling. He wanted inside her skin, to drown in the sensation of simply holding her. Dangerous feelings. Not even thoughts of Randy seemed to douse the fire.

She had been crying. Even in the shadows, he could see the puffy blueness of her eyelids, the swollen vulnerability of her lips, the streaks on her cheeks. All day long, she had held it in. He wished she hadn't, that she could let herself go, but at the same time, he had to admire her grit.

Mac sighed and turned away. The last of the Rolodex file hadn't turned up the possessor of the key. No key, no kid. Simple as that. He strode to Mallory's room and flung open the door. As he stepped across the threshold, memories of the previous night washed over him. He approached the bed and stared down at the destroyed toy dog. Good old Ragsdale. Ripped apart. Just like Mac would be if he didn't get a handle on his emotions. His and Mallory's worlds were so far apart. When this was over, he'd go his way, she'd go hers. He would probably see her only rarely, from a distance, just as before. Which was as it should be.

He glanced at the beautiful bedroom. It had taken a great deal of money to decorate it. More money than he had to spare in a year, probably. Even if Mallory fell in love with him, which was hoping for the moon, she'd soon grow unhappy when she found out he couldn't afford the lifestyle she was used to. Not for her. Not for her daughter. There'd be no fancy canopy beds. No Mercedes-Benz. No tailored suits. No salons.

He flopped onto his back and closed his eyes, determined to banish foolish thoughts about Mallory and any kind of future with her from his mind. He was just a poor kid from Seattle. That was all he had ever been, all he would ever be. He'd best remember it and keep his mind on the job.

Chapter Twelve

Two thirty.
Mallory stared at the luminous dials on Em's Snoopy alarm clock, wondering what had disturbed her. She had been asleep for several hours. Too long, from the feel of things. She was wide-awake, her mind clamoring with thoughts of Em and the elusive key. In some nether region of her mind, she heard a continuous whisper,
time is running out, time is running out.
It filled her with panic.

Throwing her legs over the edge of the bed, she sat up and stretched. Some of the soreness had left her body. She reached for her robe with trembling hands, donned it and left the bedroom. Up the hall, she could hear the uneven sputter of Mac's breathing. The sound beckoned, and for a moment, she thought about sneaking in to be near him. He soothed her, somehow. But after last night, if he woke up and caught her, he'd think she was throwing herself at him. A man, especially a childless man, would never understand the hysteria that nipped constantly at her heels. Only a mother could know how she felt, how her body ached to hold her daughter. She turned in the opposite direction and headed for the stair landing.

She didn't turn on lights for fear of waking Mac. A cup of herb tea sounded good, but there was no point in him losing sleep while she had one. She would wait and turn on lights when she reached the kitchen. The layout of the house was so familiar to her, she could walk it blind, anyway.

The front half of the entry reached two stories high to the skylight in the vaulted ceiling. Moonlight illuminated the hall, throwing everything into eerie shadow. Her pink robe looked blue. The tile felt cold on her bare feet and made her wish she had worn her slippers. She stepped into the kitchen and reached for the light switch. Just as her fingers touched the plastic, she heard a sound out on the patio that made her hesitate. Not overly alarmed because she knew the sliding doors had safety locks, she tiptoed to the adjoining dining room. As she approached the glass doors to peer outside, she saw the silhouette of a man standing beside the patio umbrella table. From his sudden stillness, she guessed he had spotted her.

For a moment, Mallory stood frozen in her tracks and stared. Then she saw the man lift his hand, saw moonlight glint off blue-black metal. Orange flame licked the air.
Tatta-tat-tat.
The glass in the doors erupted toward her. She threw up her arm and staggered backward, using the hutch as a shield, horrified as the night and the room around her shattered into a million exploding fragments.

Tatta-tat-tat. Tatta-tat-tat.
Mallory's ears rang as the guttural burping of the gun surrounded her. Instinctively she dropped to the floor, slamming the air out of her lungs upon impact. The carpet beneath her was peppered with glass fragments. Bits of flying plaster splattered her face, sharp and stinging. Above her, bullets found the ornate, gilt-framed mirror. Its moon-silvered surface erupted and rained shimmering shards, their musical tinkling filling her ears as they pelted her body. She tried to move. Couldn't. She tried to scream. No sound would come out. All she could do was stare. At the man. At the glinting gun. He was stepping through the door frame—into the room with her.

Panting, Mallory scrambled on her belly into the kitchen. As she clawed for purchase on the tiles, she heard footsteps behind her. Her heart slammed like a kettledrum.
The breakfast nook. I have to reach the breakfast nook.
Upstairs, she heard a thump. Tearing her nails as she fought for handholds on the smooth floor, she reached the table and crawled beneath it, praying the moonlight wasn't so bright she could be seen.

Tatta-tat-tat. Tatta-tat-tat.
The kitchen burst into a grotesque symphony of sound. Bullets thudded into the oak cupboards, rang out against pots,
kerplunked
on tile. She heard a sudden gush of water cascading onto the floor. A water pipe? The faucet? Throwing a glance toward the dayroom, she wondered if she could make it across the floor without being seen. Mac, where was Mac? Another burst of gunfire. Zigzagging streaks of blue light flared in the kitchen. In the explosions of illumination, she saw that the automatic coffeemaker's cord had been severed close to its base. Still plugged into the wall socket, the cord was live, dancing and whipping like a snake, spurting tongues of electricity. She no sooner ascertained the source of light than she realized the man entering the kitchen might be able to see her.

“Mallory!” Mac roared.

His footsteps thumped above her and came down the long upstairs hall. A moment later, the stairs creaked. Terror paralyzed her throat. If Mac ran into the kitchen, he would be killed. If she dared call out to warn him, she would be. Footsteps, running. Closer, closer. The man in the kitchen pressed his back to the cupboards, his gun raised.

“Mac, no!” she screamed. “The kitchen, he's in the kitchen!”

Splat—splat—splat.
The table did a tap dance around her. Slugs from the Uzi buried themselves in the wood above her head. Mac's sack of mail fell to the tile. Diving, Mallory rolled across the floor to the archway that opened into the dayroom, every nerve in her body raw with expectancy as she anticipated a bullet. She thudded over the step-down and scrambled for cover behind the sofa.

Silence swooped over her, broken only by the spurting hisses of electricity frying water. Blue-white light flashed as she peeked over the cushions. Mac, where was he? She held her breath, listening, glancing first toward the kitchen, then toward the door that opened into the entry hall. Had he heard her?

“Mac! He's in the kitchen!” she screamed again.

A shadow moved in the entry. Mallory peered out and saw Mac, gun uplifted before him, easing along the hallway wall. She threw an anxious glance toward the blue-white bursts of light. She thought she detected a stealthy footstep in the kitchen. Another. She dug her fingers into the sofa upholstery and held her breath.

“Ar-rr-gh!”

The cry ripped through the semidarkness, shrill agony tearing up from a masculine throat. Coldness washed over her. She stared at the intruder's silhouette, thrown upon the breakfast room wall by moonlight and electric blue. Jerking, twisting. A grotesque dance of death. A ceaseless spatting of bullets rent the air as the intruder's finger convulsed on the Uzi's trigger.

“Mac?”

“Stay down!” he growled from somewhere nearby.

She couldn't drag her eyes from the silhouette. A sickening smell drifted to her. Bile rose in her throat along with an upsurge of horror. She felt Mac crawling up beside her. He, too, stared at the breakfast room wall, his face taut in the play of blue-white light, his muscles twitching each time the other man's gun spat bullets.

“Electrocuted, he's being electrocuted,” she cried. “The coffeemaker cord. A pipe broke.” Disbelief mushroomed inside her. “M-Mac? He'll die if we don't do something.”

His only reply was to grab her arm and jerk her to her feet. Dragging her in his wake, he sprinted across the dayroom, out into the hall, his destination the front door. Throwing it open, he leaped out onto the porch and hunkered down to avoid being seen. Mallory followed his example. They jumped off the end of the porch into the shrubs. She didn't even feel the branches scratching her legs, she was so scared. Off across the lawn. Through the shrubs that divided their yard from the neighbors. They zigzagged back and forth, keeping close to the ground. Porch lights along the street were coming on.

“Other men,” he panted. “Back at the house. Keep low.”

This isn't happening.
Mallory kept thinking that as Mac hauled her relentlessly through one yard, then another. His pace never let up, not even when they hit pea gravel in their bare feet. At the end of the cul-de-sac, they took to the sidewalk. One block, two. He turned right. They ran another block. Another. Mallory feared she might collapse. The only sound in her head was the laboring rasp of her own breathing. She fell back slightly. Mac's arm was stretched out behind him to keep a hold on her hand. She forced her legs to keep pumping. Another block. Another. Her lungs began to whine.

At last, Mac drew up beside a black Cadillac. Relief washed through Mallory when Mac tried the door and it wasn't locked. He threw his gun on the seat and bent to locate the ignition wires under the dash. Within seconds, the engine sputtered, kicked over and roared to life. “Let's go!” he cried.

Mallory leaped in on the passenger side, slammed her door and put on her seat belt. Glancing over at Mac, she clamped a hand to her chest and gulped for air. He ran his palms over her, feeling for blood. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

He jerked the shift into Drive and peeled the tires in a U-turn, throwing her sideways in the seat. As the car sped down the street, she leaned her head against the rest and struggled for air, her mouth slack, eyes closed, body slick with sweat. They were safe—at least for now. It didn't matter that they were in a stolen car. It didn't matter that there was a dead man in her kitchen. It didn't matter that her house was shot apart, bullets embedded everywhere. They were safe... She didn't know how she would ever explain this to the police, and for the moment, she didn't have the energy to worry about it.

* * *

M
AC
DROVE
NORTH
to a seedy motel on Highway 99 on the outskirts of Everett. Mallory sat in the stolen car while he rousted the motel manager out of his bed and rented a room. At any moment, she expected him to come back to the car and say he had been turned away, but evidently run-down motels with white paint and hot-pink trim weren't all that particular about their patrons. Shirtless and barefoot, Mac looked none too respectable, nice car or not. Thank goodness he hadn't emptied his pants pockets earlier tonight before crawling into bed. He had his charge cards with him.

“Room eleven, my lucky number,” he said as he climbed back into the Cadillac. His voice sounded oddly tight. He pulled into a parking space only a short distance from the office and cut the car engine. Picking up his gun, he wedged it under his waistband. “I'm afraid this isn't the Ritz. The big advertised feature is a vibrating bed.”

Mallory hugged her robe to her breasts and climbed from the car, glancing nervously around the dark parking lot before she closed the door. The manager peered out the lobby window at her and shook his gray head, clearly bewildered. She supposed it wasn't often that women arrived here in their nightclothes. It was putting the cart before the horse, she had to admit. Just so long as he didn't think they looked so suspicious that he called the police. That was all that mattered.

Horrid wasn't the word to describe their room, but close. The hot-pink walls had faded and gathered grime until they were more gray than pink. The pink chenille bedspread was missing sections of fringe. The scarlet rug was worn bare in places. Mac jerked the bedding back. “Sheets are fresh.” He stepped into the bathroom and flipped on the fan-light. A loud rattle began in the ceiling. He quickly hit the switch again to turn it off. “Clean towels and a sanitary guard on the toilet. I guess it'll do until daylight. Sorry, Mallory, but places like this don't ask questions or call in to check license plates.”

With that, he put his gun on the dresser and sank into a frayed red easy chair, propping his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands. Mallory stared at him. He was shaking. She had seen him walk away from a switchblade fight and an exploding car without any outward sign of fear. Had he been shot and not told her? She scanned him for any trace of blood.

“Mac?” She took a halting step toward him. “Mac, you aren't hurt?” He didn't answer. She ran to him and began searching frantically for a wound. “Mac?”

With no warning, he snaked an arm around her waist, fell back in the chair and swept her onto his lap. A strange sound erupted from his chest as his arms tightened their hold. His body trembled violently. He buried his face in the curve of her neck and clung to her. She felt wetness trickle past the collar of her gown and realized, with a shock, that he was crying.

“I—I thought they'd killed you,” he croaked. “I woke up to the gunfire, and I thought they'd killed you.”

“Oh, Mac... I'm all right.” She ran her hands into his hair and closed her eyes. “I'm fine. Nothing happened.”

For an endless time, he clung to her. Then he rubbed his cheeks dry on her robe and whispered, “I've never felt this way before. Not about anyone.”

She knew he was referring to the crazy, irrational attachment they were developing for each other. How long had she known him now? She tried to count the days, but they stretched into eternity in her mind. Mac had always been there, always would be.

“Mallory...?”

There was a weak note of warning in his voice. He loosened his hold on her and moved back to capture her face between his hands. His eyes searched hers, aching with confusion and need. For a moment, she thought he might kiss her. But at the last second, he cursed under his breath and averted his face.

“This is insane,” he said with ragged intensity. His hands dropped to his lap and he gave her a little nudge to move her. The moment she stood, he sprang from the chair, took a step and sprawled on the bed, rolling onto his back. He grabbed the pillow lying above his head and plopped it down in the middle of the mattress. “I don't know about you, but I'm getting some sleep before I do something we'll both regret. And, please, no cracks about a pillow not being enough to keep me away from you. It's better than nothing.”

With that, he turned onto his side, his broad back to the pillow, his head resting on his folded arm. For a moment, Mallory stared at the pitifully inadequate barrier he had erected, then she stepped to the door and touched the light switch. The room was plunged into an eerie blackness that was soon streaked by muted pink rays of light that shone through the red drapes. The silence dripped tension, suffocating and electrical. She pressed her back to the wall.