--8--

i

After driving for the better part of an hour, they ended up at his townhouse in Annapolis. She'd spoken only a few words to him in the car, even less as he defrosted the leftover linguini and prepared a light salad, and nothing at all once they sat down to eat. As he watched her study the cubes of ice floating in her tea, he wondered whatever could have possessed him to bring her here.

As if reading his mind, she sent him a strained smile from across the table. "I guess I'm not much of a bargain as a dinner date, huh?"

"Amanda . . ." A large puff of air slipped through the word as he exhaled. "There's no need to apologize."

"If you say so."

She seemed vaguely disappointed, and he wanted to tell her that he was the one who should ask for forgiveness, that he hadn't meant to sound off about her relationship with Brad Stevenson. But he just couldn't bring himself to say the words. There was already too much deceit between them. And the simple truth of it was that he wasn't sorry at all.

She expelled another decidedly unhappy sigh. "Well, anyway, I appreciate you giving me some space."

He shrugged, as if it hadn't taken all of his self-control to leave her alone. "I've needed space a time or two myself."

She reached for a roll, broke it and spread a generous pat of butter across the top. "You have a really nice home." Her eyes drifted over the light blue walls to the large framed photograph of Chesapeake Bay. "That's a great picture."

"Yeah, it is," he agreed, warming to his subject. "I picked it up at a local artists' fair over Labor Day weekend." He longed to add that the photo had earned Jamie third place honors, that her son had been thrilled to have his work recognized by a board of real artists, that Phillip had even agreed to suffer his stepfather's presence long enough to attend the presentation ceremony. Instead, he merely said, "You seem surprised that I'd have an appreciation for amateur art."

She raised a perfectly sculptured brow, the way she always did when he annoyed her. "Nothing about you should surprise me anymore, but you seem to keep on doing it. Take this house, for example."

He pushed back his chair and stretched his leg out alongside the table. "You don't like the décor?"

"On the contrary, it's a beautiful place." She tapped her fingers on the tabletop. "How many bedrooms did you say you have?"

"Three upstairs. There are two rooms and a bath on the lower level that I haven't decided what to do with yet. An 'in-law' arrangement, I think the listing called it."

She looked at him strangely. "A definite benefit—if you have in-laws."

He straightened in his chair, turned his attention back to his food. "It's good for the resale value."

They ate in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the scraping of forks against the china plates. "I didn't mean to pry," she said at last. "I guess I didn't picture you as the type of person who would live in a place like this," she swept her hand across the table, "or have so much food in his refrigerator, either."

"A man's gotta eat." He tilted his head. "So, if you don't mind my asking, where exactly did you picture me living?"

She popped a piece of roll into her mouth. "Some place smaller, closer to work. An efficient little apartment in the city, I suppose, complete with a doorman to screen uninvited guests."

"Been there, done that." He grinned. "This suits me better."

"The daily commute sure can't be easy."

"I enjoy driving." He looked her squarely in the face, almost daring her to challenge him. "It gives me time to think."

She leaned toward him. "And what exactly do you think about on those drives of yours, Mr. Stetson?"

He grabbed his iced tea, tilted back his chair and took a long gulp. "Sorry, that's strictly 'need to know.'"

"And I guess I don't, huh?" Her lips curved into a wry smile. "Need to know, that is."

He set the glass back down on the table. "Not at the moment."

She lifted her eyes over his shoulder to the picture window. "Is that a stream in your backyard?"

"Gingerville Creek winds through that little patch of woods out back. And if you look over there, you can see the lights from the bay. Of course, the view is much better in daylight."

She let out a soft sigh. "It kind of reminds me of home. In Michigan, I mean. Looking at the water gives me such a peaceful feeling."

"I've never really thought about it, but I suppose it does."

"You strike me as the high energy type—always running off to some nightclub, never sitting still."

Lee twirled the strands of pasta around his fork. "Oh, I can sit still, given the right incentive."

"And that would be . . .?"

Thoughts of quiet evenings curled up on the couch with his wife immediately sprang to mind, and he forced himself to adopt a teasing tone. "Isn't it obvious? The spy game can be exhausting."

"So I've heard," she conceded, a hint of amusement in her eyes. "Well, if you're not into club hopping, what do you do for fun?"

"I did a lot of sailing this past summer, after I moved here. I got a pretty good deal on a second-hand ketch—a real beauty. A friend of mine lets me use his slip at the marina dock."

"Sounds wonderful." She eyed him suspiciously. "It must be kind of tricky to sail a boat like that on your own, though."

"Oh, I managed to scare up a crew." Jamie had actually become fairly proficient by the end of the summer. He hoped to take Annie out one day; Phillip, too, if his stepson would ever agree.

"I love to sail," Amanda told him, her smile growing along with her enthusiasm. "Brad has a small sunfish that we take out on the lake, but . . ." She cleared her throat. "I always thought it would be more fun to take a crack at something larger."

"We sailed the Mati Hari II up and down the Potomac a few times."

"The Mati Hari II?" Her heavy lashes fluttered up. "Was she big?"

"Big enough. The Agency keeps her at a special berth—purely for professional purposes, of course."

She chuckled softly. "I guess you never know when you might need to go undercover as a yachtsman."

"It's come in handy a time or two." He flashed her a wide smile. "Of course, our little ketch couldn't compare to the fifty-five footer you crewed up the Chesapeake one summer."

She stared at him, intrigued. "With you?"

He dipped the tip of his bread in the marinara sauce and spread it around his plate. "No, it was the summer after your college graduation. I didn't know you in those days."

She took a sip of tea. "We met in the fall of '83, right?"

"Yeah, just over nine years ago. I'd been working in Europe for most of that summer and had just gotten back in town." His voice grew softer. "I sure as hell didn't expect to find a new partner, let alone . . . well, never mind."

She frowned, her finger skimming the rim of her glass. "So it was the sailing that brought you to Annapolis, then?"

"Not exactly. The move kinda fell into the 'line of duty' category."

"Were you undercover or something?" Her mouth parted in a teasing smile. "Or can't you tell me?"

Lee grinned. "Oh, I could tell you, all right, but—"

"But you'd have to kill me." Her laugh was relaxed, almost happy. "Yeah, I think I'm beginning to understand the drill."

"Truthfully speaking, I enjoy living here. It's been a fresh start, away from D. C., the Agency—everything. It's given me some space to breathe, if you know what I mean."

"I know exactly what you mean. I was feeling the need to breathe a little bit myself, earlier."

"Yeah, I kinda suspected you might appreciate some peace and quiet."

"It's a rare commodity these days." She wiped her mouth with the napkin, although her lips were already clean. "I'm feeling a little guilty for deserting Annie, though."

"You don't have to worry. I called the house earlier after I made my last check-in with Billy. Let them know we'd be gone a little while longer."

"You didn't tell them where we were?"

Her eyes grew wide with alarm, and Lee sighed. "Nobody but Billy knows where we are, Amanda. Security, remember? Besides, I spoke to Jamie, not Stevenson, if that's what you're worried about."

She shifted in her chair and set her gaze out the window. "Was he very upset?"

"If you mean Jamie," he answered pointedly, "No he wasn't." In truth, Jamie had been downright thrilled. Unfortunately, Annie's howls of protest had made her opinion equally apparent, and he had a feeling that, if given half a chance, Stevenson would have gladly joined her chorus.

"Maybe we should think about heading back soon, in any event," Amanda said, as if speaking to herself. "If Annie wakes up and I'm not there . . ."

Lee stood. "We can go right now, if you want. I'll just pull the car out of the garage."

"Well, we don't have to leave right this minute." She rose, also, and began to gather their plates. "If you don't do these dishes, you'll probably end up tossing them out and buying new ones. And while I have a feeling that might not bother you too much, it seems like a waste of money to me."

He reached for her. "You don't have to do that, Amanda—"

"Sure I do. You cooked dinner, after all."

He allowed his fingers to linger for a moment on her arm before releasing her. "How about we compromise and do them together?"

"Fine by me—I never turn down a volunteer in the kitchen."

As he finished clearing the table, Amanda filled one side of the double sink with water and started to scrub the dishes. Lee couldn't help but grin as he noted she hadn't given a thought to using the dishwasher. Even without her conscious memories, her subconscious stubbornly adhered to old patterns.

They finished cleaning up in companionable silence. It all felt so . . . well, normal was the only word that came to mind . . . helping her in the kitchen, systematically drying the plates she washed, watching her forehead scrunch into a tiny frown as she concentrated. As he stood beside her, his gaze drawn to a recalcitrant strand of hair that evaded her clip, it suddenly hit him with crystal clarity. He knew exactly why he'd brought Amanda to Annapolis. It wasn't to give her time to catch her breath or even to savor an extra hour or two in her company.

He'd brought her there to tell her the truth.

ii

Francine Desmond frowned as she stepped off the Georgetown portal elevator. It had been a rough day, and she'd been counting the minutes until the end of her shift at the safe house. But instead of relaxing in a hot bath with a cool glass of Zinfandel, she'd found herself back at the Agency for a late briefing. One thing was certain—whatever reason Billy had for calling her in at this hour couldn't be good.

Not that she minded an excuse to escape the house a few minutes early. Between Jamie's openly hostile frowns and Brad Stevenson's cool stares, the atmosphere was anything but comfortable. Annie's behavior wasn't much better; she had finally been carried off to bed, kicking and screaming. The child was evidently used to getting what she wanted, and tonight she wanted Amanda—in no uncertain terms. Francine smiled. One more thing she had in common with her father. She hoped Lee, at least, was faring better than his daughter.

Slowing down at the double doors, she nodded briefly to the guard. "Is he in?"

"Yes, ma'am," the Marine sergeant replied smartly. "He told me to send you right through."

Turning with clipped precision, the soldier lifted the cover on a small rectangular box. Francine stepped forward and placed her thumb in the indentation, tapping her foot impatiently while her identity was verified. Level Twelve was the home to the recently formed Anti-Terrorist Bureau, as well as the executive offices, and security was much tighter here than on other floors of the Agency. Entrance required an alpha green security clearance, as well as thumb and voiceprint identification. Dr. Smyth worked from this level when he was in the building, as did Billy Melrose. Her former section chief's appointment as State Department Liaison had thrust him into the upper echelons at long last.

As the light in the corner of the security box flashed green, she jumped to attention and spoke clearly into the concealed speaker. "Desmond, Francine, security clearance eleven." The lock automatically turned at the sound of her voice. Aware that her weight on the specially pressurized tiles triggered hidden security cameras, she straightened her shoulders as she traversed the long hallway. She was a firm believer in looking her best while under surveillance.

The hall gave way to a common reception area shared by the executive offices. Despite the late hour, Francine wasn't surprised to find Billy's administrative assistant still seated behind her desk, hard at work.

"Good evening, Mrs. Marsten." She greeted the older woman with a tight-lipped nod.

"There's nothing good about it at all, Ms. Desmond," she responded tersely.

Francine's eyes widened as she recognized the pseudo-refined tone emanating from Billy's office. "I take it he's in conference with Dr. Smyth."

Mavis Marsten nodded grimly. "It's reached a rolling boil."

"Wonderful." Francine grimaced; the special briefing was certain to be worse than she'd originally anticipated. "Should I go right in or run in the opposite direction?"

Mrs. Marsten pointed to the office then held up a finger, indicating that she was waiting for a break in Dr. Smyth's latest diatribe before interrupting them.

"How's your son doing?" Francine asked politely.

"Wonderfully well." She frowned lightly, her eyes fixed on Billy's office. "Thanks to his medication."

"That is good news." Francine mumbled her reply to hide her embarrassment; the 'hearts and flowers' routine was really not her style. Truth be told, being around Mrs. Marsten made her slightly uneasy. There was a somber, almost brooding, quality to the woman these days, as if she was shouldering a burden too heavy to bear. It must be her son's illness that had caused the change in her demeanor; even though he was doing well, the worry remained a constant.

Mrs. Marsten seemed to sense her discomfiture, for she had the good grace to let the conversation lie. It was still an adjustment to find the elegant, gray-haired woman working here in the bowels of the Agency. She had to admit to being a little surprised when Mrs. Marsten had moved up the Agency ladder along with Billy. Somehow, she'd envisioned the redoubtable sentinel sitting in the Georgetown lobby until retirement, her presence as much an icon as the restored portrait of the Agency's founder, Harry V. Thornton, hanging in state on the wall across from her desk.

Pursing her lips, Mrs. Marsten pressed down firmly on the intercom. "Mr. Melrose, Ms. Desmond has arrived."

"Send her right in," she heard Billy mutter. "And then head home yourself, Mavis. You've put in more than your share of hours today."

Francine raised an eyebrow as Mrs. Marsten indicated the door with a wave of her hand. At least some people were lucky enough to be calling it a night, she thought, as she steeled herself for what was sure to be an adversarial encounter. From the sound of things, their fearless leader, as Lee was wont to call him, was definitely on the warpath tonight.

"I'm telling you, Melrose," Smyth was saying as Francine attempted to slip unobtrusively into the room, "there's been enough of this coddling. Are we in nursery school or the intelligence game?"

"I'm not sure I can dignify that question with an answer." Billy rolled his eyes as Francine hugged the wall, trying to keep out of the old man's line of sight.

"Balderdash. If you're going to play in the big leagues, you have to be prepared to get burned."

Billy leaned his elbows on the desk, his fingers forming a steeple. "Dr. Smyth has a new theory on the identity of our mole," he explained, looking over Smyth's shoulder to Francine.

"Tsk, tsk, Billy." The words, muttered through teeth that clamped a cigarette holder to his lips, came out like a slow hiss of air. "Is that the sound of a bleeding heart I hear? She's guilty as sin. A kindergartener could see it."

"We've progressed to the kindergarten level, I see," Billy muttered, leaning back in his chair. "Can Junior High be far behind?"

Francine stepped into the center of the room. "I don't understand, Dr. Smyth. Who's guilty?"

"Amanda," Billy supplied before Smyth could spout another platitude. "Dr. Smyth has decided she's our mole."

"Amanda?" Francine's eyes widened. "But the woman has amnesia. She can't even remember her own name!"

"Or so she would like us to believe," Smyth rejoined, unperturbed. "But let's look at the facts, shall we?" Removing the ornate cigarette holder from his mouth, he slipped it into his pocket. "Fact one—Jill goes up the hill five years ago and conveniently vanishes, leaving Jack with a broken crown and our investigation into Brimstone tumbling after."

Francine made a face. "Dr. Smyth, with all due respect—"

"That's quite correct, Desmond." Smyth's eyes narrowed as he stared her down. "As head of this Agency, I am due some respect, and don't you forget it. Now, if you'll kindly let me continue—"

"Yes, sir," she snapped, reigning in her temper as she caught Billy's warning look. His new position gave him more leeway where Austin Smyth was concerned. Francine's options were much more limited, a conclusion Smyth had obviously reached as well. Maybe that's why she'd been summoned tonight—the old man needed someone to bully.

Dr. Smyth eyed her coldly before turning back to Billy. "Fact two, boys and girls," he continued, puffing up his chest, "a few weeks ago the prodigal suddenly returneth, claiming amnesia, after surviving an attack on her new love nest by an unknown number of gunmen and an explosion that could best be termed 'mysterious.'"

Francine clenched her teeth. "And your point is, sir?" she asked with stilted politeness.

"Isn't it obvious? Brimstone is on the move again. They need their rodent to tunnel back in so the information can flow back out."

Billy swiveled his chair, his frown deepening. "That's the biggest piece of . . . baloney . . . you've come up with yet, Austin. Amanda King is one of the most loyal recruits this agency has ever had. I'd stake my career on it."

Smyth gave him a thin-lipped smile. "You may have to do that before this is over, Melrose."

"I have to agree with Mr. Melrose, sir," Francine chimed in. "Amanda King may be a lot of things, but she's not a traitor."

"So sings the chorus—repeatedly. But I say it's time we let Dr. Quidd write the final verse."

"But that's nothing short of drug induced torture!" She turned to her former boss, her voice pleading. "Billy, if you let him do this, it could destroy what slim chance she has of getting her memory back. After everything Lee and Amanda have been through, the least we owe them is a chance—"

"We're not running a lonely hearts club here, kiddies," Smyth interrupted. "Let Scarecrow straighten out his love life on his own time. Our need to know outweighs his, not vice-versa."

"I beg to differ with you, Austin. They're intimately entwined." Billy crossed to the built-in bookcase, opened the locked cabinet beneath it and withdrew a thin file. "This represents the sum total of our knowledge of Brimstone's activities. Practically zilch. Lee and Amanda were onto something five years ago—that's why they were taken out of the game. If we push too hard, too soon, whatever information Mrs. King has locked up in her mind could be lost to us forever. We need to tread carefully here."

Dr. Smyth crossed his arms over his chest. "No can do, folks. The Oval Office is involved now, and there's no turning back. The order came down from the President himself. No more namby-pamby over at that cozy little ménage you've set up in Arlington. She's to be brought in for questioning pronto."

"Hold on, Austin. This isn't only your call. I spoke to the White House myself, thirty minutes ago to be exact. They said—"

"I don't give a tinker's dam what some low level bureaucrat over at State has to say. They don't run this agency—I do! Stetson and King knew that when they—"

The jarring ring of the phone interrupted the conversation. Yanking the receiver from its cradle, Billy yelled a terse, "Melrose here."

Avoiding Dr. Smyth's glare, Francine kept her eyes fastened on Billy. As the lines around his eyes deepened, she released a sigh. Evidently they'd left the frying pan for the fire, because Billy reached into his desk drawer and grabbed his gun even as he hung up the phone.

"This will have to wait, Austin," he yelled over his shoulder as he bolted for the door. "Desmond, you'd better move it if you're coming with me."

"Now hold on," Austin Smyth yelled as he chased Billy and Francine through the reception area. "We still haven't decided—"

"Good, Mavis, you're still here." Ignoring the Agency's flustered director, he handed his assistant a slip of paper. "I need you to make contact with Scarecrow ASAP—he should answer on this line, but keep trying until you reach him. Tell him to double-time it back to Arlington."

The woman's face paled. "Yes, Mr. Melrose, right away."

As Billy motioned Francine to follow, Smyth stepped in front of the door, blocking their exit. "Okay, Melrose, you win. I'll concede the point tonight. But I want to see Mr. and Mrs. Scarecrow in your office tomorrow morning at nine o'clock sharp, capisce? We'll decide her fate then." Moving aside with an exaggerated flourish, he sent the pair one final, supercilious smirk before disappearing into his own office.

"Billy," Francine huffed as she sprinted after him, "you aren't going to let that vampire get his hands on Amanda, are you?"

Melrose jammed his finger against the elevator button. "Not if I can help it. At least I've bought them a few hours' reprieve."

"But Billy—"

He held up his hand. "Smyth is the least of their troubles at the moment. I'll brief you in the car, but we need to get to Arlington as quickly as possible. The roof is about to fall in over there. I just pray we're in time to catch it."

iii

The place had an unaccustomed feeling of home about it, or so it seemed to Mandy as she wandered restlessly through the well-appointed rooms. The townhouse on Gingerview Lane sat comfortably on a quiet residential street, the kind of neighborhood families gravitated to. Behind the rugged brick and cedar exterior, the fine hand of a chic decorator was evident throughout. Yet pictures that had never seen the inside of a gallery were prominently displayed alongside sophisticated objects d'art. A perfect reflection of the contradiction she'd come to know as Lee Stetson.

His words, spoken in deep, gravelly tones, resonated from the small den he'd told her doubled as his in-home office. Though the unexpected phone call had clearly upset him, the timbre of his voice still worked magic, smoothing the jagged nerves that pierced her, filling her with warmth. It was a peculiar reaction, one she was at a loss to explain.

Mandy paused a moment to rub her grainy eyes, refusing to succumb to the exhaustion that washed over her in a sudden wave. Fatigue had become such a constant companion that she scarcely noticed it anymore; her desire to unravel the puzzle surrounding Lee's life was stronger by far.

Take the lower level of this house. There was a convenient walkout leading to the backyard, yet he'd chosen not to use this room at all, save for the pool table sitting prominently in one corner. If they had more time, it might be amusing to challenge Lee to a game. She had a feeling he would underestimate her prowess; her opponents usually did. Brad had taught her the basics one cold, snowy evening at the local tavern on the outskirts of town. Many a wager had been lost over the ensuing winter nights, until eventually she became so proficient with a cue stick that she consistently beat him. He didn't appear the least bit bothered by the switch; on the contrary, he was proud of her accomplishment. Brad really was one of the most giving men she'd ever known.

Of course, she really hadn't known many men at all—not that she remembered, anyway. In some ways, where the opposite sex was concerned, she felt like an adolescent testing the wings of her independence. Was that the reason she'd assigned such careful boundaries to her physical relationship with Brad, drawn lines she refused to let him cross? Her three children notwithstanding, emotionally she was still very much a virgin.

Pushing aside thoughts of Brad for the moment, she slowly climbed the stairs. She couldn't probe the labyrinthine complexity of her feelings for him right now; she simply didn't have the strength.

But Lee Stetson . . . he was another matter. The more she explored his wonderful townhouse, the more bewildered she felt. Of course, this wasn't really a house at all; he'd transformed it into a home. Maybe that was the root of her confusion.

As she reached the top floor, she paused to admire anew. Lee's terse description hadn't begun to do the fantastic layout justice. The architect had situated the master bedroom at one end of the hall, an oasis of welcome privacy. But the other rooms were equally well-located, with a large common bathroom conveniently placed between them.

Peeking into the bedroom closest to her, she saw twin beds neatly made up, almost as if they were waiting for someone. She tried the other bedroom door to no avail. Had Lee locked it earlier, when he'd hurried upstairs? Perhaps the room contained classified documents that needed to be protected from prying eyes. Mandy felt a sudden flash of guilt; it was almost as if he'd expected her to snoop.

Making her way into the bathroom, she ran her hand appreciatively over the granite sink top, admiring the contrast of black and gold. It had a strong look, masculine, not unlike Lee himself. The rest of the amenities were equally impressive. The bath boasted a large soaking tub as well as an octagonal standing shower, encased by glass doors. She smiled, thinking of the fun little Annie would have drawing on the pristine glass with her bath soaps. Lee would have to pay his cleaning lady overtime.

About to leave, her eyes were drawn to the round receptacle in the corner of the vanity. There, in stark contrast to the well-scrubbed elegance of the room, a worn toothbrush stood, alone and abandoned. It made her feel sad somehow to see it. His breakup must have been fairly recent if he hadn't yet cleaned out all of the little personal touches. Or maybe the toothbrush had been overlooked on purpose, something he couldn't bring himself to part with.

Had the woman Lee was involved with had a child? That could certainly explain the look of extraordinary sorrow in his eyes. It was strange—until she'd seen this house, Mandy hadn't imagined Lee as the kind of man to settle down with a family. For some reason, she'd pictured an endless parade of women, each more glamorous than the last, vying for his attention. But it was painfully obvious that he'd lost more than a lover; he'd lost his chance to be a father as well.

Shaken by her discoveries, she made her way blindly back to the stairs. It was time to beat a hasty retreat before her reconnaissance mission was exposed.

At the top step, she hesitated. Though she could still hear him on the phone, the conversation appeared to be winding down. She glanced down the long hall. Did she dare?

The master bedroom, its door slightly ajar, beckoned her on, as if it wanted its secrets revealed. Curiosity overcame hesitation. Just one quick peek into Lee's sanctum, she rationalized as she crept down the hall. What could it possibly hurt? Tentatively, she nudged the door open the rest of the way.

She sucked in a sharp breath as she stared, dumbfounded. Never had she seen such a spectacular room. The master bedroom had it all—French doors that opened onto a deck, A bathroom with a whirlpool tub roomy enough for two, even a fireplace across from the king sized bed. The only jarring note was the single wing chair that stood in solitary splendor over by the hearth.

Mandy ran a trembling hand over one of the chair's upholstered wings. It was almost as if someone had reached into the depths of her mind and transformed the bedroom of her dreams into reality. She felt an unaccountable pang of jealousy that Lee had shared this perfect space with someone else.

She blindly crossed the room, opened the French doors and stepped out onto the deck. The last threat of rain had finally dissipated, and the sky was alive with stars. Mandy struggled to resist the overpowering urge to cry that suddenly welled up from deep inside. She wouldn't give in to tears, not here, not now. She couldn't let Lee see how much this visit to his Annapolis home had upset her equilibrium.

She closed her eyes for a moment, taking comfort from the night sounds emanating from the woods. The air, washed clean by the earlier rain, smelled sweet and pure. She couldn't help but notice how mild the evening was for the end of October; in Michigan, the air would already be tinged with the promise of frost. She felt her breathing even out, a sense of calm return. Just a few more minutes and she'd be ready to head back to the little house in Arlington, face the demons of her past once more.

"Nice view, isn't it?"

Despite the warm breeze, she felt gooseflesh rise on her arms as that wonderfully guttural voice spoke the words close to her ear. "It's beautiful," she replied simply. She hadn't heard his silent footsteps; still, on some level, she'd known he was there.

"Sometimes when I can't sleep, I sit out here at night." He rested his forearms on the deck railing. "I guess this is my peaceful place. You know, the way you talked about the ocean earlier."

"The lake," she corrected, with a small smile.

"Sorry." He gave a short laugh. "We shore-dwellers tend to think in grandiose terms."

"Hey, the Great Lakes aren't exactly puddles, you know." Leaning her back against the railing, she caught his eye. "Maybe I'll have to show you sometime."

"Maybe you will." His voice fell to a soft whisper, almost indistinguishable from the breeze.

"So . . ." She let out a deep breath. "Aren't you going to ask me what I'm doing up here?"

He shrugged. "If you want to tell me."

"I didn't mean to invade your privacy or anything. I'm just trying to get a few things straight in my head, I suppose."

"And prowling through people's personal, private things helps you do that? Boy, I guess times really have changed." He grinned, but there was something else behind his eyes, an emotion Mandy couldn't quite name.

"Have I changed that much?" she asked suddenly. "Am I really that different from the woman you knew?"

"No, I guess not." His eyes raked over her, leaving a tingling in their wake. "Standing here with you right now, it almost seems as if the past five years never happened."

"Lee . . ." She stepped closer and laid a hand on his arm. "Would you tell me the truth if I asked you something?"

He seemed to melt toward her. "If I can."

"Was I . . . were we . . ."

He swallowed hard then asked, "Were we what?"

Her cheeks flushed. "Were we really as good a team as everyone said? In the field, I mean."

His eyebrows shot up and he took a small step back, as if that wasn't exactly the question he'd been expecting. "What does it matter now?"

"I don't know." She walked to the other side of the deck, her gaze roaming across the floodlit back yard. It had the same look of care as the house on Maplewood Drive—well groomed, tended with love. "I keep running through everything you've told me about the day of our accident, and it doesn't add up."

"What doesn't?"

She turned to him. "Well, if that file was so important, like everyone says, why didn't I tell you where I'd hidden it? You were my partner, after all. The senior partner, right?"

"So they tell me," he said, a trickle of sad amusement rippling through his words.

"Then what was going on with us? Why didn't I brief you that day? Could I . . ." She hesitated then plunged ahead, her need to know outweighing her fear of the truth. "Could I have had some secret agenda of my own that you didn't know about?"

"Amanda." Moving to her, he put his hands gently on her arms. "Stop second guessing yourself. There wasn't anything covert going on. At least," he snorted, "not in the way you're thinking. You were a damned good agent, and I was proud to be your partner. You're the only person I know that I'd follow blind into a blizzard and still expect to come out safely on the other side."

She smiled. "I think I'm flattered."

He smiled back. "I think you should be."

"Still . . . something seems wrong," she insisted stubbornly. "I just feel so . . . I don't know, I can't explain it."

"Amanda . . ." He looked down at her, a strange glow of intensity about his eyes. "We need to talk. But it would be . . . better . . . to do it downstairs, okay?" Abruptly releasing her, he walked back into the bedroom.

"It's the phone call, isn't it?" she asked in a low voice as she followed. "Something's happened . . ."

He ran a hand through his hair. "No, the phone call wasn't important. Just one of my family, checking in."

"Your family?" She licked her lips. "But I thought . . ."

"My network of eyes and ears, I should have said. In the business, they're usually referred to as 'family.' I put the word out the other day, asked them to keep tabs on Brimstone. One of them had a lead, but it didn't pan out."

"Oh." Her cheeks reddened, and she turned away. What was the matter with her? It seemed she was always jumping to the wrong conclusion where Lee was concerned. Why couldn't she stop thinking about his relationship with that other woman? It was simply concern she felt for him, she told herself, nothing more; the caring concern of one close friend for another. He had once been her partner, after all.

Still unable to look at him, she fixed her eyes instead on the photograph on the nightstand. A man and a woman stood on the front steps of a small house, their arms wound around each other. They appeared happy enough at first glance. Yet there was a funny sadness about them, as if they shared a secret too painful too divulge. It was the same expression she saw in Lee's eyes whenever he looked at her.

"My parents," he explained from the doorway, as he saw her staring. Slowly crossing to her, he picked up the photograph and ran one long finger around the edges of the silver frame. "This was taken at our house in D.C., shortly before they died."

The pain in his voice was clearly evident, an aching wound that had never quite closed. As if sensing her unspoken question, he added, "I keep it here as a reminder, I guess, of the things I've lost."

"That doesn't sound very healthy—emotionally, I mean."

"Are you sure you haven't been talking to my shrink?" he asked, with a low laugh. "You're right, I suppose. I certainly have pictures of them that are less . . . painful . . . to look at, but . . ." He sighed. "Someone very special had this framed for me. An anniversary present of sorts. And I can't seem to make myself put it away."

"The woman you lost," she said, almost to herself.

"Yes." He sighed. "Amanda, I really think we should go downstairs . . ."

She took the picture from him, tracing the man's face before she set it back in its place of honor. "You look like your father."

"You think so?" His voice sounded boyish, hopeful.

"I do. It's easy to see the resemblance." She took a deep breath as she encountered his eye at last. "Do you think . . . well, do you think you'll ever get back together with her? The woman who gave you this, I mean."

Lee edged closer. "I hope so," he said, his eyes burning as he looked at her. "I loved her very much. Still do."

There was a tingling in the pit of her stomach as he spoke those words. "I can imagine how hard it must have been . . . losing her, I mean. I know a little bit about what it's like to be all alone."

"You're not alone, Amanda."

"I know I have Brad and Annie, but . . ." She looked away. "I'm sorry. I don't know how to explain it."

He spoke in a voice so low she could barely hear him, "Stevenson loves you."

"I know he does . . ." She hiccupped, choking on the tears she couldn't hold in any longer.

"Shh, shh, don't cry, Amanda. It'll be okay."

"I don't see how it can be. Everything is such a mess . . ."

"It's okay," he murmured again, his arms closing around her. "I'm here." He soothed her with gently whispered words, the way a parent would a child, the way she did with Annie when she hurt.

As if a dam had suddenly burst in her heart, the tears flooded out of her, an overflow of emotion she'd kept tightly in check since the night her cabin exploded in flame. Lee bore the torrent calmly, holding her close while she cried herself out on his shirtfront. His capable hands rubbed slow circles on her back, and for the first time in a long while, she no longer felt afraid. "Amanda," he whispered over and over, and suddenly it sounded so right that she no longer felt like Mandy at all.

Her tears dried on her cheeks as she lifted her gaze to his beautiful hazel eyes, their color so warm, so . . . familiar. "Amanda," he murmured again, and this time she shushed him as she traced the outline of his lips with her fingertip. They were so soft . . . she hadn't expected that. Leaning into him, she replaced her finger with her mouth.

He returned her kiss uncertainly but didn't pull away. She sensed something held him in check, some intricacy of emotion she couldn't begin to fathom. To her, it suddenly all seemed so clear, so simple. This time there were no doubts, no nagging little voices in the back of her head telling her to stop. She wanted him . . . more than she'd ever wanted any man . . . as if only by making love to him could she understand what was happening to them both.

Surprised by her own boldness, she hooked her fingers into his belt and pulled him toward the bed. They fell back onto the mattress, her softness molding willingly to his hard body as he covered her. All hesitancy vanished as he kissed her again, a kiss that caused her heart to hammer wildly in her ears. "Oh, Lee," she moaned softly. There was nothing remotely virginal about the passionate response he drew from her, and she arched her body happily beneath him.

Spurred on by her actions, his lips seared a path down her neck to her chest. She could feel his hot breath tickling along her scar as he skimmed his mouth over her in the most tantalizing way. In the past, she had always felt ashamed of her wounds, but here, with him, they didn't matter. She somehow knew Lee would accept her physical imperfections just as she accepted his emotional ones.

Slipping from beneath him, she tenderly pushed him onto his back. Driven by the need to touch and stroke, her fingers made quick work of the buttons on his shirt. She felt so greedy as she ran her hands over his flesh, as if she couldn't get enough of him. His heartbeat throbbed against her lips as she kissed the smooth skin of his chest. His breathing quickened, but instead of responding, he muttered breathlessly, "Amanda, wait. I can't—"

"Yes, you can," she whispered, her lips curving into a smile. "See?"

"Oh, God," he groaned. Pulling her closer, he kissed her, his tongue probing with hungry need. Then, just as abruptly, he pushed her away. "I can't," he reiterated, his chest heaving. "Not like this."

Her face flushed with heat as shame washed through her. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to . . ." Choking back a sob, she readjusted her disheveled clothing even as she tried to escape his bed.

His hand caught her arm, drew her back to him. "Wait, Amanda," he pleaded again. "You don't understand."

"I think it's perfectly obvious," she replied in a small voice. "You want her, not me."

She started to roll away again, but he moved more quickly, pinning her to the bed. "Let me go," she growled, struggling to escape the crushing weight that only minutes ago had been so welcome.

"No," he told her, just as insistently. "Not until you give me a chance to explain."

She swallowed hard and averted her eyes. "Go on then," she challenged. "I'm waiting."

He exhaled loudly, endeavoring to regain some small measure of control. "If I let you go, do you promise not to bolt out of here?"

Annoyance leant a sharp edge to his voice, but his eyes held a plea Mandy couldn't refuse. Silently acquiescing, she ceased her struggle.

He released her and sank back on the bed, his shirt open. Mandy rubbed her wrists, watching the rise and fall of his muscled chest as he drew in a series of deep breaths. "Well," she said, forcing her eyes away, "are you going to talk to me or are we just going to lie here?"

"You've always been the most exasperating woman," he muttered between gasps.

"I'm exasperating!" She whirled to face him. "What about you?"

"Give me a minute. I'm in too much pain to be much of anything at the moment."

Their eyes met, and she gave him a wry smile as she suddenly saw the humor in the situation. "Should I be flattered again?"

"Oh, yeah," he grinned back, "most definitely." His smile slowly faded as his breathing returned to normal. Turning toward her again, he cupped her cheek with his palm. "I have so much to tell you, but I don't know where to begin. Everything's gotten so complicated, so fast—"

"It's only complicated if we let it be—" The phone rang loudly, making them both jump. "Don't answer it," she urged, burrowing into his embrace. "Please."

"I have no intention of answering it." He paused, allowing his lips to brush through her hair for just a moment before continuing. "I'm not saying any of this very well—"

"Lee . . ." She extricated herself from his arms and propped herself up on her elbow. "Is it Annie?"

"Annie? God, no, this has nothing to do with her. At least . . ." He sighed again. "Amanda, this has to do with us, you and me."

She smiled and leaned in to give him a brief kiss. "I'm all for talking about us."

"You may not be once you hear me out." He twirled a strand of her hair absently around his finger. "I should have told you this long ago, but the doctors said . . . well, never mind what the doctors said. They don't know you like I do, don't know what's best for—"

The phone interrupted again, an abrupt buzzing sound this time. Tensing, Lee's eyes traveled to the small beeper tossed carelessly onto the bedside table. "It's Billy's office," he groaned as he checked the number. "Great timing, as always."

Pulling away, he grabbed for the phone. "I'm sorry, Amanda, I can't ignore him. Billy wouldn't interrupt us unless it was urgent. It might be about Brimstone."

"It's okay," she muttered, saddened as he morphed back into the consummate professional before her eyes.

He didn't appear to notice. "Scarecrow," he barked, the full force of his concentration focused on the call. Before Mandy had time to ponder the oddly familiar name he'd called himself, he broke the connection and abandoned the bed.

"Come on," he ordered, shoving his half-buttoned shirt back into his pants. "Let's go."

Alarmed at his abrupt change in demeanor, she bolted upright. "Lee, what—"

He cut her off with a shake of his head. "We need to get back to Arlington. There's trouble at the house."