She heard him breathing, but he said nothing. "First of all, call Boone in Birmingham and tell him to call my folks and Clint and Dean and tell them I'm all right."

"Are you?" Mark asked softly.

"Yes, I'm fine," Shea a.s.sured him. "Ask Boone to check into the Taggert trial and the Winkler murder and see if he finds anything odd."

"Done," Mark said, all-business.

"Then call my friend Grace Madigan and see if she'll do the same. She and Boone will take different tacks, so they might come up with different results." Grace's husband was a private investigator in Huntsville, and she'd been working for him for months. Mark and Boone and Grace. Shea didn't trust anyone else.

"Okay. Shea? What's going on?"

"Just ... trust me, Mark."

She heard his uncertain sigh over the crackling line.

"Do you have caller ID yet?" she asked.

"Nope."

"Don't get it," she said. "I'll call you in a few days and this will only work if you don't know where I am."

"Jeez, Shea," he said in a low voice. "This sounds dangerous."

She glanced at the man sleeping beside her. "It is," she said softly.

* * * Tara, Nick thought dizzily as he opened his eyes. A gravel driveway crunched beneath the slow-moving truck tires, and the moonlight shone brightly on ... Tara.

"You're awake," the weathergirl said in a low voice. "That's good. I was afraid I wouldn't be able to rouse you, and I really do not want to spend the night in this truck."

He'd been out for hours. Plenty of time for Shea Sinclair to reconsider her foolish plan and drive him directly to the nearest police station.

But she hadn't. "Where are we?"

"Marion," she said with a smile. "My aunt's house. They're on vacation. My cousin Susan lives in California, and her first baby is due in a couple of days. Aunt Irene and Uncle Henry won't be home for weeks."

The gravel drive circled the house, and Shea stopped before the back door. Not Tara, Nick thought as he looked at the peeling white paint and overgrown garden. But not a police station, either. It was such a relief to know that someone, anyone, believed in his innocence. He might be a good story to the weathergirl, but she had to believe... She wouldn't bring him here if she thought he was guilty. She wouldn't stay with him if she thought he was a cold-blooded killer. She didn't kill the engine, but jumped out of the driver's seat to circle the truck and open his door. She offered an arm in a.s.sistance, and he took it and stepped down.

"You wait here," she said softly, "while I hide the truck in the barn."

"There's a barn?" He leaned on her and remembered ... something. The way she smelled, the way she tasted. The way she tasted?

"It's pretty far back on the property and hidden from the road, so I don't think anyone will even think to look for the truck there. It's too far for you to walk, though." She left him leaning against the kitchen door and hurried back to the truck. As it rumbled away, he watched the tail lights. When he couldn't see them anymore, he closed his eyes and slumped to the ground. How did he know what she tasted like?

The next thing he knew Shea was there again, and he was sitting on the porch with his back against the door. He'd fallen asleep, or pa.s.sed out, while she'd been taking care of hiding the truck. She lifted a potted plant and reached beneath it, pulling out a key. What kind of a town was this?

"The kind of town where people trust their neighbors," Shea said as she a.s.sisted him to his feet and placed an arm around his waist, propping him up while she slipped the key into the lock.

"Did I ask that out loud?" he whispered.

"You mumbled," she said, opening the door to a dark kitchen.

"No lights," she said. "I don't expect any of the neighbors are up this late, and most of the house is shielded by trees anyway, but I don't want to take any chances. We haven't come this far just to get caught because we turned on a light."

We, she said.

"The moonlight will do," she said sensibly. "For now."

He let her lead him through the kitchen, through a huge dining room, to the foot of the stairway.

"Can you make it up the stairs?" she asked, uncertainty in her voice.

"Of course I can," he snapped, angry at his weakness, at his inability to think straight. Tomorrow morning everything would be better. Tomorrow he would know what to do.

Moving up the stairs was slow going, with Shea on one side, the banister on the other and his body being completely uncooperative. He was breathless when they reached the first landing, near to pa.s.sing out again when they reached the second floor.

"Carol's room is the closest," Shea said, turning him to the right. "I hope you like purple."

Nothing had any color in the moonlight, but oh, the double bed looked soft, and warm, and if he could just make it that far...

At the edge of the bed he tumbled, falling to the soft mattress, pulling Shea with him. She squealed a little, in surprise, just before they laded with a gentle bounce.

He held on tight to still the spinning in his head. Shea Sinclair could make the spinning stop. She could ground him. He drew her close, testing her softness and warmth. Feeling the wonderful way her curves settled against the length of his body.

"You can let me up now," she whispered.

"Not yet." He buried his face against her hair, reached out and removed the rubber band that contained the dark strands, so her locks spilled down and around. "You smell so good."

"So I've been told," she muttered unhappily.

"You smell like sunshine and soap and ... s.e.x."

"I do not," she insisted, pushing against his chest.

He didn't let go. He hadn't slept in a real bed in ten months, had forgotten what a soft mattress felt like. He'd forgotten what a woman felt like, but Shea brought it all back. The feminine shape. The gentle suppleness.

"How do I know how good you taste?" he asked, pulling her close and resting his head against her shoulder as he laid one leg, the uninjured one, over both of hers.

"You don't," she snapped. "You're delusional."

He pressed his lips against her neck, very briefly. "No," he said. "I'm not." He used what little strength he had against her, holding her down gently, locking his leg around hers, laying an arm over her chest.

"Let me go."

"I just want to sleep," he said, feeling himself drift away. "And I want to hold you while I sleep. Smell you. Taste you."

"Taggert..." she said, her voice distant and uncertain.

"I won't hurt you, I swear," he whispered. "I would never..."

As he drifted away he heard her whisper, "I know."

* * * Taggert was heavy, warm and ma.s.sive, and sound asleep. It might've been possible to slip out from under him and make her way to Susan's room for the night, but Shea allowed herself to remain beneath him as her own exhaustion washed over her.

Besides, maybe he really did need to hold her as he slept. She liked that idea, that someone needed her in such a simple way. She didn't have to worry about him trying anything funny. He was in no shape, physically, to be a threat to her.

Stretched out beside and over her exhausted body, touching and holding her, Taggert seemed ma.s.sive and overwhelming. He fixed her to the mattress with his muscled arm and one long leg. He leaned into her, too, in a way that pinned her down without crushing her beneath his weight.

Still at last, safe in the dark, she finally had time to ask herself the big question. What had she done? Taggert had given her the chance to escape, and other chances had come and gone. Yes, this was a big story, but it was more than that.

The same sense of right and wrong that had driven Dean to the U.S. Marshals Service and Boone to the Birmingham Police Department and then into his own P.I. practice lurked within her, too. She couldn't stand by while an innocent man went to prison, and maybe even to the electric chair. It went against everything her parents had taught her. Justice. Honor. Moral integrity. Okay, they were old-fashioned ideals in a technical world, but they were what she knew and believed in.

She sank into the mattress, Taggert's heavily muscled leg over hers, his arm across her midsection, his breath against her neck. She had to admit, as her eyes drifted closed, that it felt good, after an endless, crazy day, to sleep entangled with a long, warm man. It was a sensation she'd never experienced before, one she was surprised to like so much.

Shea didn't drift toward sleep, but fell. Hard and fast.

Chapter 5.

S he remembered this large old kitchen well. Summers spent in this house had been magical for Shea. For a few weeks she had the sisters she'd never known, a mother who danced in the kitchen and a father who told gross jokes to make the girls laugh.

Not that she didn't love her own family. She adored her brothers, each and every one of them, and her parents had been wonderful to her. They just weren't much fun. Her mother was reserved and her father was solemn. The only time she'd seem them display any real emotion was when Clint had run off to join the rodeo. Her mother had almost fainted, and her father had turned quite pale and said words she'd not heard from his mouth before or since.

They would be livid when they learned that she'd pa.s.sed up a chance at escape to remain with Nick Taggert. And they would find out. When this was all over, she couldn't let anyone think he'd kept her captive this long! She'd tell anyone who would listen that he'd tried to let her go a couple of hours after the initial kidnapping.

She'd awakened this morning to find herself still trapped in his arms, but extricating herself had not been difficult. He'd been dead to the world. His breathing had been deep but normal, and he hadn't felt hot to her, so she decided to believe that he was simply sleeping deeply. Not unconscious. If he got worse, she would have to call in a doctor. Nick wouldn't like that, and if anyone knew where they were hiding they wouldn't have time to find the real murderer. But what good would the truth be if Taggert was dead?

Shea rearranged the sizzling bacon in the pan and sang along with the ca.s.sette that played in the boom box on the windowsill. With two female cousins to hang out with and Aunt Irene's all-time-favorite music playing most of the day, they had formed their own girl group every summer. They hadn't sung and lip-synched to the popular stuff of the day, but to good old sixties Motown. The Supremes. Martha Reeves and the Vandellas. Oh, Shea had so wanted to be a Vandella, a doo-wop singer in a slinky green sequined gown and a voice that made people stop in the streets.

Well, she had a voice that made people stop in the streets, but not for the right reason. Still, she wanted to be able to doo-wop, and when she'd stayed with her cousins and her Aunt Irene, she had. They never threatened to gag her the way Boone always did when he caught her singing.

"Heat Wave" came on, and Shea couldn't help but sing along; very softly, of course, to keep from disturbing the man who slept upstairs. She turned the bacon again and then threw in one of the old moves she and Susan and Carol had practiced. A step to the right, a swing of the hips, a twirl ... and she found herself facing the tall, dark man who leaned against the kitchen doorjamb. In spite of herself, she squealed.

A wry smile crept across his face. "Good morning. I smelled the bacon."

In the jeans he'd slept in and a very wrinkled plaid shirt, his short dark hair only slightly mussed, Nick Taggert still was temptingly handsome. That stubbled chin made him look rough and untamed.

Shea quickly gathered her composure. "I found a package in the freezer, and a half-dozen eggs in the fridge. What are you doing out of bed? I was going to bring you breakfast when it's finished. You should be resting."

His smile didn't last long. Too bad. It was rather nice. "Where's the pistol?" he asked in a low voice.

She prepared to do battle. "Sitting in the front seat of my car, along with what's left of our clothes."

"At Lenny's," he said, his nostrils flaring slightly.

"At Lenny's." She wasn't going to allow him to intimidate her. They had too much to do, no time to waste. Besides, with three older brothers to hara.s.s her all her life, she'd never intimidated easily. "What's the matter, did you plan to shoot someone this morning?"

"No."

"Neither do I." She flashed him a grin. "So you see, we don't need that pistol at all."

He sighed, long and slowly, before speaking again. "Why are you still here? Didn't you wake up this morning and come to your senses?"

"Apparently not," she answered softly, aware that no matter how she tried to pretend otherwise, the mere presence of this man kindled something inside her. Cool was impossible, calm was unlikely. She, who was always so together, felt jumpy when he rested those blue eyes on her this way.

Shea dismissed her inappropriate attraction for a dozen different reasons. She'd never slept with a man before. That alone might give her these tingly, jumpy sensations. They were surviving a crisis together. She'd probably be attracted to any halfway decent looking man in these dire circ.u.mstances. And Nick Taggert was much more than halfway decent looking.

Then there was a woman's habit of being drawn to exactly the wrong kind of man. Shea had never let herself fall into that trap before, but Taggert was definitely the most wrong kind of man a woman could imagine.

He limped to the kitchen table and took the nearest chair, moving cautiously, stretching his wounded leg carefully before him. "Now that my head is clear, I want you to explain to me exactly why you're still here and what you're planning to do."

"You're a great-" Shea began.

"A great story, I know," he snapped. "Honey, I'm already a great story. I kidnapped you on camera. You could leave here right now and be interviewed by all the major networks. Every morning show in the country will want you to be a guest, every-"

"But you're innocent," she interrupted.

He locked his ice-blue eyes to hers. "You still believe me?"

"I do."

"Why?"

Shea took the bacon off the stove and set it aside, and grabbed the chair across the table from Taggert's. She sat, perching on the edge of her seat. "Instinct," she said softly. "Common sense."

"Your nose for news?" he asked sarcastically.

"I want to get at the truth," she said, not letting his anger or her unsuitable fascination deter her. "If I let an innocent man go to prison, then I'm just as guilty as the ones who falsely convicted you."

She caught the softening of his eyes, the spark of hope there. It only made him more attractive to her. Vulnerable and all too real. Not a story at all, but a person who needed her.

"I didn't think anyone cared about the truth anymore," he said quietly.

"I do."

He nodded his head once, and she jumped up and left him sitting there, grateful to return to the stove.

"So," she said brightly, feeling better with her back to him. "How do you like your eggs?"

* * * "Who's Boone?" Nick asked as Shea leaned over his leg and very tenderly cleaned the wound. She lifted her head sharply and met his gaze. "My brother," she said. "How did you know about Boone?"

He gave her a small smile. Brother! "You mentioned him last night, at Lenny's. What about Dean?"

"Also a brother."