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She marched around the rear bumper, her heels snapping smartly on the asphalt to emphasize her anger. Unfortunately Mac was too busy looking the seat over to notice. That infuriated her all the more. In the back of her mind, she knew she was overreacting and tried to calm down. Grabbing an end, she helped him turn it upside down. “Hold your side up higher,” he ordered.

She obliged, watching as he poked and prodded the springs and frame. “It must have been a big favor Keith did for you.”

“Big enough.”

“Well, I'm not sure I like being a payback. Especially when you so clearly dislike me.”

His eyes lifted to hers. “Have I said I don't like you?”

“Yes.”

“I have not.”

“Yes you di—” A hissing pop filled the air, and a
twang
resounded as something hit the metal framing inside the seat. Bits of leather and cotton batting pelted her face. She stared at the gaping hole in the upholstery where an instant ago there had been gray leather. There wasn't time to wonder what had made the hole. Before her brain could register what her eyes and ears took in, Mac sacked her in a football tackle, his arms locked around her waist as they fell. Mallory landed on her back, Mac sprawled on top of her, the force of his weight flattening her. Lights flashed before her eyes, then black spots. She couldn't breathe. When her vision cleared, she saw Mac above her, his upper body supported by his elbows, his eyes scanning the parking lot. He focused on something and went pale.

“Son of a—” He sprang to his feet, back hunched, knees bent, and jerked her up beside him. Mallory's rubbery legs failed her and she slid along behind him on one knee, ripping her panty hose, scraping herself from shin to ankle. The sheer force of his forward momentum finally hauled her to her feet. He shielded her with his body as they ran the length of the car. “Stay down! When we reach those shrubs, make a dive for them and roll until you're covered by branches.”

Another muffled pop. Air whooshed from one of the Lincoln's tires and the car rocked. A gun? In her terror, even with a silencer, it sounded more like a cannon.
Oh, please, God...
“Someone's shooting!” Another bullet splattered asphalt right in front of them. “Dive!” he cried. She saw the shrubs looming ahead of her.
Safety.
She dived, landing chest first on the lawn two feet short of her mark, and did a third-base skid on her stomach into the bark chips and juniper needles. Pain washed through her. Clawing for purchase, she slithered farther into the foliage, unaware of Mac beside her until she felt his arm across her back.

Mallory inched her head up. At the end of an adjacent building, she glimpsed a man as he eased out from around the corner to point something long and dark brown in their direction. Sunlight glinted off something shiny. Before she could react, Mac pushed her down hard.

“Keep down,” he whispered.

“You don't have to be so rough.”

“You'll know what rough is if half your head gets blown off. That's a high-powered rifle he's taking potshots with.” Two more muffled shots rang out. He took a shaky breath and let it out slowly. “Do a Marine crawl to the corner of the building.”

“A what?”

He threw her a look that plainly said any idiot should know what a Marine crawl was. “A belly crawl. Dig your elbows into the dirt to pull yourself. Use your knees and toes to push.” With a nod of his head, he indicated that she should go first. Mallory pushed off. The next instant he smacked his palm on her bottom. “Keep your butt down!”

She threw him an incredulous glance over her shoulder. Nobody had dared to slap her on the behind in over a quarter of a century, but this wasn't the right time to argue with his methods. Burying her elbows in the bark dust, she pushed forward with her toes. Just as she did, there was another explosion of noise and the ground ahead of her geysered in her face. She stared at the crater left in the dirt. Suddenly it hit her that the noises exploding around them were
real
bullets being fired, the kind that blew holes in you, and one had just missed her by mere inches. Fear held her rooted.

“Move!” Mac snarled behind her. “Now!”

His snarl prodded her forward. She could feel him crawling next to her, keeping his body between her and the sniper. She kept hearing a strange noise—a panting, whining sound. After several feet, she realized it was her. She clamped her mouth shut, not wanting to give their position away, but the noises came out through her nostrils. Her blouse had either ripped or come unfastened, and every time she dragged herself forward, bark scraped and poked her bare skin. A sheared off branch jabbed her collarbone.

By the time they made it to the corner, she felt certain all her hide had been rubbed off. A sharp piece of wood had gotten inside her bra, but she didn't dare rise to remove it. They crab-walked around the building and inched their way toward Mac's Volvo.

“You stay put,” Mac whispered. “I'll bring the car to you.”

Mallory didn't have a chance to protest. Mac lunged to his feet and sprang forward in a zigzag run. Another shot rang out and a bullet zinged through the air where he had been only a millisecond earlier. It plowed into the building, spraying mortar and bits of brick. She dug her fists into the loose bark and held her breath, terrified for him. Two more shots rang out.

In all her life, she had never seen anyone move with such precision, powerful legs thrusting his body from side to side, eating up distance at an incredible speed even though he took an indirect path. This wasn't the first time he had dodged bullets. His military training? She closed her eyes for an instant to send up a fervent prayer. And not just because she needed him. He was a very special man. In the past day, he had proven himself to be a loyal friend to Keith—and to her—at least a dozen times.

In the distance, she heard police sirens. Someone must have heard the shots despite the silencer. Probably poor Trudy. Mac reached the Volvo, threw open the door and literally dived inside. The next instant, the car engine roared to life. She stared through the juniper and watched as the car bounced onto the walkway. When he cut the tires toward the shrub beds, she realized that when he had said he would bring the car to her, he had meant exactly that. He was coming straight at her. The front grill snowplowed through the evergreens and bent a small fir tree double. Mallory jumped up and out of the way just in time, not sure even then that he wasn't going to drive right over her. The car swerved at the last second. He leaned sideways to throw the passenger door open, his harsh “Get in!” nearly drowned out by the roar of the engine.

She scrambled to obey. The moment she hit the seat, she slammed the door closed. A pop rang out, and a star-ringed hole splattered the windshield. She slipped down between the seat and the dashboard. The Volvo scraped bottom over another twenty feet of shrubs, then grated over the walkway curb as it dropped to the asphalt.

Grabbing the dash, Mallory eased her head up. Mac was guiding the car deftly in and out around parked vehicles. She knew what to expect this time and wasn't surprised when they careened into westbound traffic and headed toward Hunt's Point.

Several minutes passed before either of them realized they weren't being pursued. The sounds of the sirens had become more distant. Mac eased up on the gas pedal and blew air like a surfacing whale. “They must have decided to back off when they heard cops coming. You can get up now.”

She slid back onto the seat and fastened her belt with shaking hands. “Who do you think they are? Lucetti's men?” She raked a hand through her hair. “It's bad enough that he gave me only twenty-four hours. Does he have to complicate matters by trying to kill us?”

Mac said nothing. From the frown that pleated his forehead, she knew he was trying to think. He drove aimlessly, taking a narrow road around the lake. After several miles, he relaxed. When he glanced over at her, he did a double take. “You're cut.”

She glanced down and saw blood on her chest. She also saw that her top had indeed come unfastened and she was sporting scrapes from her waistband to her collarbone. She plucked the sharp piece of wood out of her bra and tried to do up her blouse, only to find that three buttons were missing. In defeat, she tugged her blazer together in front and buttoned it instead.

He looked over at her and chuckled. “If you could only see yourself. A day in my company and you're ruined for life.”

She glanced down. “You're not exactly a prize winner yourself, you know.”

Their eyes met and held for an instant, then he returned his attention to his driving. Perhaps coming so close to death was making her magnanimous, or maybe it was simply the bond of friendship that she sensed was developing between them, but their recent quarrel suddenly seemed ridiculous.

“Mac, I—” She licked her lips. “About the Slim Jims. I didn't mean to be judgmental. And I'm afraid I overreacted.”

One of his eyebrows arched as he executed a left turn. “Slim Jims? Judgmental? What are you talking about?”

He reached over and placed his hand over hers, his grip warm and all too fleeting. He said nothing more, but he didn't need to. Whatever it was that she had done to rile him, he seemed as sorry as she about what had been said. She took a deep breath and sighed. “So what's our next plan of action?”

“I say we go back to the house. The office is out. We've checked the car. It's time to execute Plan B.”

She didn't miss the troubled expression that lined his face as he made a U-turn. “What's wrong?”

“I'm not sure. It just doesn't make sense. You're cooperating in every way possible, right down to not calling the cops. So what's Lucetti stand to gain by having you killed?”

“Nothing,” she agreed. “In fact, I'm the most likely person to succeed in finding the key and getting him the package. I know more about Keith's habits and personal affairs than anyone.”

“Exactly. If you're out of the picture, he may never get that package. That's what bothers me.”

Mallory considered that a moment. “Maybe it has nothing to do with Lucetti. It could be someone connected with your work.”

“No way. For one thing, I don't have any deadly enemies. And for another, those fellows have pro written all over them. They're sharp. This whole mess has Lucetti's stamp on it. Besides, if it
was
someone after me, why would they ransack Keith's office? Doesn't make sense.”

“Maybe there's someone else involved, someone connected to Lucetti, who doesn't want me to give Lucetti the package.”

“You took the words right out of my mouth. All we have to do is figure out who. And why. Which is an impossible order, considering we have so little time. We're caught between a rock and a hard spot. The only option we have that I can see is to continue searching and be more careful about guarding our backs so we stay alive while we're doing it. Meanwhile I'll keep trying my friend Shelby. If I can get in touch with him, he can run some feelers out for me and, with some luck, find out who the people after us are.”

“And then?”

“Well, if we're right, and they're somehow connected to the racketeering, we can give Lucetti some names the next time he calls, have a little more fact to back us up. Then maybe he'll get them off our backs. As it stands, he doesn't believe me, thinks they're connected to my work. We won't have much luck convincing him to take care of the problem unless I can convince him we
have
one.”

Chapter Eight

The drive back to Mallory's went without a hitch. With the sun shining and the wonderfully warm air gusting through the open windows, it seemed like any of a hundred May days when she had driven home through downtown Bellevue. Businesspeople emerged from the mirrored skyscrapers and hustled along the sidewalks. Shoppers from Bellevue Square juggled packages as they scurried across the streets. The world continued its regular schedule. While Mac stopped to make another unsuccessful attempt to contact his friend, Mallory waited with a feeling of unreality. It didn't seem possible that someone had tried to kill them.

Before turning into the cul-de-sac where Mallory lived, Mac drove up and down the adjacent streets. They saw nothing suspicious. A few minutes later, when Mac pulled the Volvo into her driveway, the house looked so cheerfully ordinary she almost expected Em to come bounding down the steps. She could picture her against the rose-pink rhododendrons, tendrils of hair slipping out of her braids, eyes twinkling. After Mac parked, they sat there in silence and listened to the crackle-pop of the cooling engine. There was no through traffic here at the end of the cul-de-sac, so they felt safe enough to take a moment's rest.

He turned to look at her, his gray eyes gentle. A muscle in his jaw flickered as he touched the cut on her collarbone. His hand drifted up the side of her neck to lift her hair. She loosened her grip on the door handle as he traced the hollow of her temple where her pulse had suddenly begun to throb. Maybe it was almost dying, or maybe it was simply a need to be held, but she felt like a wax figure that had been placed too close to a furnace. She let her eyes almost close.

Behind the veil of her lashes, she studied him, remembering how he had looked dodging bullets. A potent combination of good looks and rugged, old-fashioned masculinity, that was Mac. Nothing like her father in his expensive suits and silk ties. Garrison Steele would have lain beside her in the shrubs and quivered with fear if someone had been shooting at them. She couldn't quite bring herself to think of her arrogant, overbearing father as weak, but he fell short somehow when compared to the man beside her.

“I didn't mean to be so rough when we were crawling through the bushes,” he said huskily. “I know I hurt you a couple of times. I don't have a light touch when I get scared, I'm afraid.”

“Oh, Mac...you didn't hurt me.”

“Then why does the end of your nose look like I smacked you? Seems to me I remember shoving your face in the dirt.”

The rasp of his fingers against her skin sent a shiver over her. With a feeling akin to horror, she recognized her body's reaction, and it had nothing to do with nearly dying or needing comfort. Perhaps fear and sensuality were like hate and love, divided only by a thin line. She had read about a syndrome—couldn't remember the clinical term—where people became infatuated with one another in dangerous situations. Was that what was happening? Terror playing havoc with her hormones?

She tried to break eye contact with him and was powerless to do so. What if he read her feelings? He was reaching out to her as a friend, nothing more. His fingertips stilled on the curve of her neck. Almost imperceptibly, his face drew closer. Then his expression became quizzical, uncertain, and he withdrew as though the touch of her burned him. Throwing open his door, he exited the car in a rush.

She pushed her own door open and climbed out. He threw her another look over the top of the car, then turned to gaze at the house. He stood with his back to her, head tipped back, arms akimbo. His hair shone like burnished gold. She walked around the front of the car, her face averted, her cheeks scalding hot. What must he think?

“Mallory?”

She ignored him and climbed the steps. The only explanation for her behavior was that she was losing her mind. She had only known him for a day. Keith was gravely ill. Em's life was in danger. And he had been the one to pull away?

“Mallory, for Pete's sake—” He was right behind her.

She reached into her purse for the house key. The moment she pushed it at the lock, the door swung in. Fear flashed through her. When Mac saw that the door was ajar, he seized her by the arm and spun her away, pushing her against the house as he stepped sideways. He slipped his hand under his jacket and pulled out his gun.

He moved back to peer through the now yawning doorway. “Don't move,” he whispered to her. “I'm going in. If anything happens, run to the nearest neighbor's.”

She wanted to tell him to stay with her on the porch where he'd be safe, but he had already moved beyond her reach, disappearing across the threshold. She held her breath and listened. The sound of her own pulse seemed deafening. Seconds dragged by, and stretched into minutes. Her fear mounted. Where was he? She imagined someone leaping out and hitting him over the head, pictured him lying unconscious someplace inside while she stood here, letting him bleed to death or something...like Darren.

When she could bear the waiting no longer, she inched out from the wall and peeked into the silent entry. She couldn't just stand there. She
was
a nurse, after all.
Nothing.
Emboldened, she crept inside, her skin aquiver as she moved the length of the hall and angled frightened glances into the rooms as she passed. The house had been ripped apart, paintings pulled off the walls, lamps overturned, furniture slashed, books thrown from the shelves. Where was Mac? The kitchen was a disaster, drawers dumped, food spilled, flour everywhere.

Mallory couldn't believe so much damage had been done during their brief absence. Forgetting to be silent, she spun and ran back into the entry hall. As she came abreast of the den, someone stepped out the doorway directly into her path. She screamed as she plowed into a broad chest. Strong hands grasped her shoulders.

“I thought I told you to stay put.”

Her knees almost buckled. “Oh, Mac, you scared me to death.”

“Good,” he growled. “Next time, do what I tell you.”

“I was afraid you might be hurt.”

His grip grew so tense she could feel him trembling. From the look on his face, she had the feeling he wanted to shake her. “You do what I tell you,
exactly
what I tell you, is that clear?”

As recently as yesterday afternoon, an order issued to her with such undiluted arrogance would have galled her. However, as short a time as had passed since, she had come to know Mac quite well. He was angry, all right, not so much over what she had done, but because she might have been hurt doing it. Knowing that, she was able to bite back her retort. She disliked playing the role of helpless female, but she supposed he was justified in thinking of her as one. Deadly skirmishes weren't her area of expertise.

Apparently satisfied that he had drilled his point home, he sighed and planted his hands on his hips. “The house has been ransacked.”

She had already ascertained that much, but it didn't seem wise to say so.

“They went through everything, even the pillows and your talcum powder. The lids are off the toilet tanks. Every place where something could have been hidden has been checked.”

“Do you think they found it?”

“Not from the looks of this house. They even tore up Keith's jackets.” He raked a hand through his hair. “This has got me worried. Somebody wants that key awful darned bad. Which leads us back to the original question. Why are those ledgers so important? Could someone not want Lucetti getting them? Do they want them for themselves? Who is Steven Miles? Could it be him behind this? Two of those guys must have come here while the third was at the law firm trying to blow us away.”

“I've never heard of an accountant named Miles.”

He groaned with frustration and threw up his hands. “We don't have time for this. I wish I could have reached Shelby. At least he could do some legwork, ask questions.”

“I think we ought to search here again. Plan B, remember? Take apart the light fixtures, the bedposts, everything. They might have missed something we won't.” She was afraid he might disagree. “It's a big house. They couldn't have looked everywhere.”

“Where do you think we should start?”

“You take Keith's bedroom. I'll take his study. We'll spread out from there.”

“Maybe not. We might find it by then, you know.” He flashed her a grin and touched her chin gently with his fist.

* * *

S
UNLIGHT
GLINTED
OFF
the cream-colored paint of the car's hood and momentarily blinded George Paisley. He squinted to see the traffic light. “Well, what's our next move?”

On the passenger side, Paul Fields slanted a questioning glance at Dennis in the back seat. “You're the brains, Godbey. What next?”

Dennis gazed out his window. “We're back at square one.”

“Eliminating her isn't going to be as easy as you guys thought, though.” George glanced sideways at Fields. “Mac Phearson is a problem. What did you dig up on him?”

“Mostly just bad news.” Fields shuffled through some papers on his lap. “Several brushes with the law as a kid, all misdemeanors. Lied about his age and joined the Marines at fifteen. Rated an Expert Marksman when he finished boot camp in San Diego. Came home from Vietnam with honors, would you believe? Just what we needed, a real-life hero. Single. Got out of the service, became a security guard. Lost his only brother at twenty-five. Took to some serious drinking.” He glanced up. “This isn't documented, but I went by the firm where he first started doing PI work and a lady there told me that Keith Christiani hauled him out of the gutter, dried him out and helped him get his life back together. Later, he footed the bill for some classes in law, vouched for his good character and got him on at her firm as an investigator. He opened his own agency eight years ago.”

“I wonder if he can be bought off?” Dennis mused.

“Have you gotten a load of the Christiani woman? Come on.” Fields chuckled. “And he's in to his eyebrows, even without that. Probably feels beholden to the old man. Heroes can't be bought. They're too damned dumb.”

“Hey, it'd be worth a try,” Geroge argued. “Money talks. With a healthy bribe, he could buy a dozen pretty broads if that's one of his weak spots. And we wouldn't have to kill his little friend. The kid would be the only casualty, and that's not on our conscience.”

“Does he have any experience with explosives?” Dennis asked.

“None in his military profile. Why?”

Dennis just grinned.

* * *

T
HREE
HOURS
LATER
, Mallory had her arm elbow deep in a Cheerios box, feeling for small, foreign objects in the cereal. Mac was sweeping up the last of the flour. When he finished, he dusted off his hands and emptied the dustpan into the trash. “I can't think of one place we haven't looked. I even went through his other car out in the garage. It's just not here.”

She set the box on the counter with a thump and, from sheer habit more than anything, grabbed a cloth to wipe the counter.
No key.
She had to face it, think of somewhere else to look. A vision of Em's face crept into her mind, and she blocked out the picture, knowing it would only make her frantic. She had to be calm, make every second count. “I was so sure we'd find it.”

Her voice rang with such discouragement that Mac turned to look at her—really look. Her hair hung in tangled, unruly waves around her small face. Her previously flawless ivory skin was now marred with scratches and bruises. Her smart blue suit, fresh that morning, was dirty. Bits of bark were snagged in the fabric. There were circles under her eyes, she was pale, and she looked exhausted. Alarmed, he went back upstairs to the front bathroom where he had seen a bottle of disinfectant and a package of cotton balls. Mallory was poking around inside a refrigerator container of applesauce when he returned.
That
was getting desperate.

“Time for first aid,” he said in a deliberately light tone.

She frowned. “I can clean myself up. I
am
qualified to do that much, at least.”

“You can't see all of the cuts that well. Come on, sit down. Afterward, we'll go check the clothes and belongings Keith has with him at the hospital.”

As she sat by the table, he strode toward her, holding the disinfectant bottle up so she could see it. “Does this stuff sting?”

“No, I keep it on hand for Em.”

Her mouth trembled slightly at the mention of her daughter, but she quickly suppressed it, controlling the emotion that was undermining her. He put the bottle and cotton on the table and leaned over her to examine the deep gouge on her collarbone.

“Tip your head back.”

She obliged and met his gaze with those beautiful brown eyes of hers. A completely irrational response swept through him.
Careful.
He couldn't understand the feelings erupting within him—this almost compulsive urge to gather her into his arms. When this was over, the last guy on earth she'd want to spend time with would be him. And the feeling ought to be mutual. As he separated the edges of the wound, he tried not to notice how silken her skin felt. What
was
his problem, anyway?
Randy, remember Randy.

“Ouch!” She pulled away and threw him an accusing glance.

Mac realized he hadn't been paying enough attention to what he had been doing. He apologized and uncapped the bottle of disinfectant and saturated a cotton ball. Leaning over her again, he dabbed gently at the cut. She kept her head tipped back to afford him a clear view, her face only inches from his, the sweet steaminess of her breath feathering on his cheek. His guts tightened.

“Undo the blazer so we can see what else we've got.”

She started to do as he asked, then hesitated. Mac met her gaze head-on. He had to get those cuts cleaned. No telling what chemicals might have been on those shrubs and the bark dust. Weed killers, insecticides. He hated to think about it. She could medicate most of the abrasions herself, but he'd seen a couple of deep-looking cuts that she couldn't get at unless she was a contortionist.