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"Yesterday."

Spence dragged his hands down his face. "We thought she was just poking around Washington, but if she sought you out, she means business." "Oh, she means business, all right. She had a whole backpack full of tabloid clippings about me and Vanessa. She'd done her homework and had set up shop to get the goodies. I told her I had nothing to say about the Merritts and wasn't interested in hearing anything she had to say about them."

"Did she say anything about them?"

Gray chuckled. "Get ready for this one, buddy. She thinks Vanessa killed the baby and only claimed it was crib death."

"I hope you're joking."

"Have you ever known me to joke?"

"Jesus Christ," Spence whispered. "We knew she was out in left field, but

. . . She actually believes Vanessa could do that? That's preposterous."

"Of course it is."

"But if Travis even leaks something like that, I don't have to tell you the harm it could do, not just to David and next year's campaign, but to Vanessa. She's very fragile now. George has had to increase her medication to keep her in balance. She's grown real fond of the grape, which contributes to the problem. If Travis's theory became public, Vanessa would fall apart completely."

Gray could envision Spence's mind clicking along its single track: protecting and preserving the presidency for David and therefore for himself.

"Where's the Travis broad now?"

Gray shrugged. "On her way back to Washington, I guess. I told her to get lost."

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Spence was on his feet again. "I'd better call Washington. David will want to hear this immediately."

"Phone's in the bedroom on the nightstand."

"Thanks. And, by the way, great breakfast," Spence said over his shoulder as he left the room.

Gray turned on the radio to listen to the news and weather while he cleared the kitchen. Methodically he returned perishables to the refrigerator and staples to the pantry.

In the course of putting things away, he opened the drawer where he kept large utensils and exchanged a longhandled spatula for a Beretta.

Then he turned on the faucets and began filling the sink with hot, soapy water. He dunked the dirty dishes into the sink. As he washed them, he kept both eyes on the toaster. When its chrome surface reflected movement behind him, he yanked the pistol from his waistband, spun around, and fired.

His gun hand dripped soapsuds onto the kitchen floor.

Barrie's return flight to Washington was long and turbulent. National Airport was as chaotic as a Turkish bazaar. By the time she retrieved her car from the parking lot and reached the TV station, she was frazzled. She hoped to sneak in, check her desk for mail and messages, then leave without being seen or having to talk with anybody.

There were no messages on her e-mail; four were in her telephone mailbox.

Two were from acquaintances, one was from the dry cleaners saying they couldn't get the stain out of her blouse, and the last was from Charlene the kook, demanding to know why Barrie hadn't returned any of her previous calls.

Barrie wondered what Charlene's hot news flash was: terrorist infiltration of the Boy Scouts, mafia activity among Eskimos, cyanide in Corn Flakes?

"Poor thing," Barrie muttered as she deleted the phone messages. "She's probably just lonely and wants someone to talk to."

"Who does?"

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"Dammit, Howie!" she exclaimed, swiveling her chair around. "Does sneaking up and scaring the daylights out of me give you some kind of sick thrill?"

"You wouldn't've jumped if you didn't have a guilty conscience."

"Don't start. I'm in a black mood."

"You are?" he exclaimed in a shrill voice. "What about me? I was the one who covered your ass when the feds came calling. I was the one you lied to and made to look like a fool in front of Jenkins. Memo, schmemo!"

"I'm sorry about that, Howie. Truly. I wouldn't have lied if it hadn't been necessary."

She stood to leave, but he blocked her path. "What are you investigating, Barrie? Tell me."

"Not till I've got more."

"Why didn't you take a photographer with you?"

She had wondered when it would occur to Einstein here that she hadn't requested a video photographer to accompany her when she went in pursuit of a big story. What was a TV news story without a visual?

"It would have been premature to take a photographer. You'll be the first to know when someone's ready to go on record with a statement."

His expression turned nasty. Nastier. "I'm only a few years away from retirement. If you think I'm gonna blow my pension on you, you got another think coming. You were a bad risk to start with, but I took a chance on you."

"For which I'll be eternally grateful. Now, I've crossed the Continental Divide and two time zones. I'm tired, cranky, and none too fresh in the hygiene department. I'm going to pick up my dog and go home to bed. Good night." She squeezed past him.

"Okay, fine, bury yourself. But don't expect to drag me down with you!

That's the last time I'll go to the mat for

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you." She was almost out of hearing when he got in a parting shot: "And you look like hell."

She considered leaving Cronkite at the kennel overnight but decided she needed the company. Besides, she hated to keep him confined any longer than necessary.

She arrived at the kennel minutes before closing. Both the personnel and Cronkite were overjoyed to see her. "He's well behaved, but terribly spoiled," the young woman said as she relinquished the pet to his owner.

"Yeah, I know. But he's a prince among dogs." Barrie knelt down and ruffled his coat while he enthusiastically lapped at her face.

His exuberance didn't abate on the drive home. "I promise you'll get a treat as soon as we get inside," she told him as they got out of the car.

"Just please calm down." Since someone had taken the parking space in front of her townhouse, she'd had to settle on another, half a block away.

"Cronkite, please!" Ninety pounds of dog strained at the leash. Knowing he was close to home, where a treat awaited, he was nearly in a frenzy.

"Okay, okay." Barrie removed the leash from his collar. It was either that or be dragged along behind him. Once freed, he went airborne for a millisecond, then bounded down the street, his nails clicking on the pavement.

"Go in through your doggie door," she called after him.

She leaned into the backseat to retrieve her satchel and luggage.

The concussion of the blast struck her like a giant hand and knocked her backward to the ground.

A gigantic fireball burst into the night sky, washing the entire neighborhood with the eerie red glow of hell.

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"Ohmygodmygodmygod." She managed to get onto all fours. For several seconds, she could only gape at the inferno half a block away where her townhouse had stood. Black smoke roiled above it, blotting out a quarter moon.

For several moments, she was too stunned to move. Then adrenaline kicked in. Swaying drunkenly, she came to her feet and began running down the sidewalk. At least she tried to run. Actually it was more a stumble-lurch.

"Cronkite!" Her scream was little more than a croak. "Cronkite! Here, boy!"

She was unaware of the heat as she staggered up the brick walkway that had led to her front door.

"Lady, are you crazy!"

Restraining hands caught her from behind and held her back.

"Somebody help me," a man called out. "She's trying to go inside." Then several pairs of hands were on her, holding her back. She struggled, but to no avail. They dragged her across the street and into a neighbor's yard, out of harm's way. She tried to make herself understood, but could only sob. "Cronkite. Cronkite."

"I think Cronkite's her dog."

"Not anymore. If he was in that house, he's. . ."

"Does anybody know what happened?"

"Whose house was it?"

Barrie was only vaguely aware of the voices around her. Neighbors poured from their houses. The sidewalk and street were now crowded with gawkers.

From a distance came the wail of sirens.

When her well-meaning neighbors were sure that Barrie wasn't going to barge into the conflagration, they released her and drifted away to watch the fire. She shrank back into the hedgerow between lawns and watched in hor-134 Sandra Brown

ror as her property continued to disintegrate. No one paid any attention to her. The bystanders were chattering among themselves, trying to piece together the sequence of events.

"Here come the fire trucks. Can they get through?"

"I hope they hose down our roofs."

"Was anyone inside?"

"Only a pet. Somebody said it was the owner's dog."

Unheard, Barrie whimpered, "Cronkite."

That was her last word before a large hand clamped over her mouth and she was yanked backward through the hedge.

She screamed, or tried to, but the hand across her mouth only increased its pressure. Barrie dug her heels into the neighbor's backyard grass, but her captor jerked her off her feet. When they reached the alley behind the house, she kicked his shins hard enough to make him relax his hold, but she was free only long enough to fall and skin her knees on the pavement.

She screamed, but there was no way her scream could have been heard above the racket and confusion of the crowds and emergency vehicles.

She scrambled to regain her footing, but once again was swept up into a breath-stealing bear hug. "Shut up or I'll hurt you."

Believing him, she put up no more resistance as she was dragged through another yard, then another alley, and another yard. Finally they reached a car parked at the curb two streets away from hers.

When her abductor reached for the door handle, her teeth came down hard on the meaty part of his palm and she rammed her elbow into his belly. He flinched and grunted a curse; Barrie took off at a sprint. Her freedom was short-lived. He grabbed a handful of her hair and brought her up short.

She was spun around and shaken so hard that she feared she would break.

"Stop fighting me, goddammit. I'm trying to keep you alive."

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When her brain stopped jiggling, she realized she was in the company of Gray Bondurant.

"Do you have your glasses with you?"

He was driving, heading toward a suburb in Maryland. He drove skillfully, but safely within the speed limit. The last thing he wanted was to be stopped for a routine traffic ticket. He kept one eye on the rearview mirror, but after a few blocks, he was positive they weren't being followed. No one was looking for him. Yet.

Realizing that his question hadn't registered with his passenger, he glanced across the car at her. She was staring straight ahead through the windshield, dazed. "Do you have your glasses?" he repeated.

She turned to him, stared at him blankly for several seconds, then nodded.

Inexplicably, she'd managed to keep her satchel on her shoulder.

"Take out your contacts and put on your glasses," he instructed.

She wet her lips, swallowed. "How did you know-"

"I know. Just do it. Then tuck your hair up under that baseball cap." He'd brought one along. It was lying in the seat between them.

"What . . . Why. . ."

"Because I don't want to risk your being recognized."

"By whom?"

"By the guys who blew your house to smithereens, who do you think?"

"My dog's dead."

Her voice cracked. The headlights of an oncoming car were reflected in her teary eyes. She began to cry, quietly. Gray took the coward's way and said nothing. He couldn't think of anything to say. He wasn't much good at 136 Sandra Brown

that sort of thing. But he preferred her crying to acting like a zombie.

He continued to drive, literally going with the flow. When her tears finally subsided, he pulled into the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour coffee shop.

"We've got a lot to talk about," he said. "I can't take you in there if you're going to fall apart on me and attract attention."

He sat by while she removed her contact lenses and put on her eyeglasses.

He'd seen the glasses in her satchel when he'd gone through it after discovering her asleep on his sofa.

"Do you have a handkerchief?" she asked.

"No."

She wiped her nose on her sleeve. "Then I'm ready. But forget that cap.

Nobody's going to recognize me."

Before he could stop her, she opened the door and got out. He caught up with her as she was greeted by the smiling hostess, who escorted them to a booth. He declined the glossy menu. "Just coffee, please."

It was a well-lighted place. Only a few of the booths were occupied. One section of the dining room had been roped off; the floor was being mopped with a strong solution that compromised the aroma of fried ham and pancake syrup.

"Mr. Bondurant, how is it that you managed to abduct me just seconds after my house was blown up?"

He refrained from answering until after the waitress had poured their coffee and withdrawn. "I didn't do it, if that's what you're suggesting."

"That's exactly what I was suggesting."

"Well, you're wrong." Looking down at his coffee, he added, "Too bad about your dog."

"This from a man who hasn't even named his horses," she said snidely.

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"Look, I did you a favor by hauling you away from there."

"But why hauling? Why didn't you just escort me from the site?"

"Because you were in no condition to listen to reason. I had to get you away from there, and that was the fastest way. I thought they'd be after you, and I was right. But if you want to split up now, that's fine with me."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she exclaimed, but in a low voice that wouldn't attract attention.

"Then why don't you shut up and let me tell you."

She sat back against the vinyl booth and folded her arms.