"Clint?"

"The youngest of the Sinclair boys," she said, returning her attention to his leg. "He's just a year and a half older than me."

Nick would never forget walking toward the kitchen, drawn by the smell of food, and catching sight of Shea as she danced into his line of vision, singing off-key to "Heat Wave" and twitching her hips in time to the music.

She had found more clothes, a pair of khaki shorts suited to an old house with no air-conditioning, and a white tank top. No bra, he noticed, though he tried not to allow his eyes to wander there too often.

Her dark hair had been pulled back and up again, off her slender neck. Just a touch of sweat made her skin take on the sheen of summer. Shea Sinclair was sleek and fresh, an all-American girl with a pretty face and an unusual sense of justice.

And she was modest, too. She'd turned her back while he removed the old jeans Lenny had given him, waiting until he was in the bed with the covers strategically placed over his midsection before turning around to examine and tend to his wound.

He hurt like h.e.l.l, he was on the run, and at the moment all he could think of was the feel of her hands on his leg, the way her fingers were so tender, the way she smelled, the way she'd slept beneath him last night.

"All brothers," he said after a delay that lasted too long. "What about a husband? A boyfriend?"

"No," she said nonchalantly. "I don't have time for a love life, thank you very much."

Maybe she looked so good because he'd been in jail for almost a year, or maybe it was because she was helping him that he felt ... affection.

No, he corrected himself. Not affection. l.u.s.t. And if she didn't have 'time for a love life, maybe she wouldn't be averse to a little casual s.e.x, something hot to blow off steam. A heat wave of their own, when he was stronger and could give her the time and attention she deserved.

He didn't think it would be long now.

But he had to keep her talking, at the moment. It was too soon, for her and for him, to take this conversation where he wanted it to go.

"Tell me about them," he said as she began to rebandage his leg.

"My brothers?" she asked, obviously surprised.

"Yep."

She finished wrapping the length of gauze around his leg and sat on the side of the bed, one protective hand on his knee. "Dean is the oldest. He's seven years older than me, which makes him thirty-two. He was always the serious one." She smiled affectionately. "Determined to keep Boone and Clint out of trouble, taking responsibility for ... for everything. He's a Deputy U.S. Marshal now."

Nick swallowed hard. "A Deputy U.S. Marshal?"

"Yeah," Shea said, grinning widely as she looked down at him. "Boone was next, two years younger than Dean."

"What's he, FBI?" Nick snapped.

"No," Shea said with a shake of her head. "Growing up, Boone was always in trouble, and Dean was always trying to help Boone when he didn't want any help, thank you very much. He drove my parents crazy, and the girls ... well, let's just say no one got near the phone for a few years."

"Where is he now?"

"Birmingham. He used to be on the police force there, but he had some problems. Boone has never been very good at following the rules." She lifted her eyebrows meaningfully. "A couple of years ago he quit the police department to open his own P.I. business. He specializes in finding lost children."

Nick sighed deeply. "I am afraid to ask about the youngest brother."

Shea's smile turned brilliant. "Clint is a rodeo clown. We all thought Boone would be the black sheep of the family, until Clint ran off to join the rodeo. It was quite a scandal," she teased.

"I can imagine," Nick drawled.

"He rode bulls for a while, but he got bored with that and became a clown."

Nick sat up straight, his back resting against the pillows at the headboard. "So, of all the women available for kidnapping, I had to choose the one who has a brother who's a federal agent, another who's a bad-a.s.s ex-cop, and another who'd rather play with bulls than ride them."

Oh, her smile was brilliant. "That's about it."

He reached out and snagged her wrist. Her reaction was to flinch, not because she was afraid, but because she felt what he did. He didn't let her go.

"Okay, is there anything else you're not telling me? Any other vital information I should have?" He pulled on her arm and she scooted along the bed, coming closer. Her hazel eyes flashed; her cheeks flushed pink. And he wanted, more than anything, to pull her down beside him and kiss her. That's all he wanted, for now. Just a kiss.

"Well," she said finally, "my Uncle Henry? The one who owns this house?" She was close now, close enough for him to pull her down for that kiss. He tugged on her arm, just slightly, and she didn't protest as her face came close to his.

She bit her lower lip, then licked. "He's a district judge."

Nick forgot about the kiss and laughed bitterly. He was so screwed.

* * * Thank goodness the summer days were long. There was no need for lights, even at this time of night. She didn't want to rouse the suspicions of anyone pa.s.sing by who knew the Hunters were out of town.

Shea stepped into Nick's room bearing a tray. She'd raided Aunt Irene's pantry and found crackers and tuna fish and peaches and English peas. It wasn't fancy, but the major food groups were here. She figured Nick would need plenty of protein and vegetables to heal well. And quickly. Like it or not, they, didn't have much time.

He'd slept most of the day, awakening when she cleaned his wound or gave him his medicine. If he was in a lot of pain, he hid it well. He never complained. Lenny had said the wound was only a scratch, but it looked like much more than a scratch to Shea. The damage was deep, the furrow ugly. It pained her to look at it, but she did what she had to do without complaint. What choice did she have?

"Taggert?" she whispered, wanting to wake him gently.

"Nick," he said in a low, clear voice as he came awake and rose carefully to a sitting position. "After all, we have slept together."

The memories of last night's closeness made her heart jolt and her face grow heated. She hoped there wasn't enough light for him to see her blush. "Behave yourself."

"Never," he said promptly, and with an unexpected touch of humor.

"I brought you dinner. I hate to wake you, but I want you to eat before it gets dark."

Nick pushed himself into a sitting position, using his arms. He'd removed his shirt hours ago, thanks to the heat, and beneath the thin quilt all he wore was a pair of boxer shorts. Shea tried to think like a nurse, or a doctor. Professional, distanced, unaffected.

But he had such a nice chest, lightly dusted with dark hair and firm and ... just a little too thin. She wondered if he'd lost weight during his ten months in jail. The very idea of him locked away in that awful place made her want to cry. Fortunately, Shea Sinclair never cried. It was unprofessional and childish.

She placed the tray on his lap and scooted the hard-back desk chair to the side of the bed, where she sat. Nick ate in silence, and she waited.

"Aren't you going to eat?"

"I ate in the kitchen an hour ago," she said.

"I could've come downstairs-" he began.

"No," she interrupted. "I don't want you pulling that again until you're better. What if you'd fallen?"

"And broken my neck? Story over. An unhappy ending, but then, what do you expect?" He sounded angry.

She ignored the anger. He was hurt; he was a fugitive. He was angry at the world. She felt compelled to fix all that. To repair his leg and his life and find the truth.

"I watched the evening news," she said softly, wondering if she should tell him everything.

He nodded simply, unaffected. Unsurprised.

"They're searching all over for us, but it looks like they're concentrating on your old friends, for now. Someone gave them a tip that you might've gone to Mississippi to an old army buddy's farm."

Nick listened, but he said nothing.

"They found my car at Lenny's, along with the gun you took and what was left of our clothes."

This news made Nick's head snap up. His eyes narrowed. "We knew they'd find it eventually. Is Lenny okay?"

"He's fine." She smiled, remembering watching the gruff old man play to the camera. "He said he had no idea you'd left the Saturn and taken his truck, and then he said you could have the truck because he knew you weren't guilty."

"And they actually aired that opinion?" Nick asked dryly.

"The station I watched did. Lenny has a good face for the camera. And he defended you well."

Nick shook his head and sighed. "What a mess. I never wanted Lenny to get in trouble over this, and your family must be worried sick."

"No," Shea said sensibly. "I called Mark last night and asked him to tell them I'm okay. They won't worry."

Nick put his fork down. His eyes flashed dangerously. "You did what?"

"Relax," she said in a soothing voice. "I called from my cell phone when we were out in the middle of nowhere. I didn't call from this area, and I didn't use Aunt Irene's phone."

He nodded and returned to eating. He ate slowly, as if he didn't have any appet.i.te but knew he needed the food.

"Tomorrow, if you feel up to it, I want to start taking notes."

"What kind of notes?" he asked, setting the half-finished dinner aside.

"I want you to tell me everything about what happened the night Gary Winkler was murdered."

He nodded solemnly.

"Do you have any ideas about who might've killed him?"

Nick shook his head. "Could've been anyone. To be honest, no one liked Winkler. He was a coa.r.s.e-mouthed, unbearably rude excuse for a human being."

"We'll start a specific list tomorrow, if you're up to it." Shea reached for the tray, wanting to get all the dishes cleaned up before it turned dark. Once night had fallen she'd go on to bed. What else was there to do?

Nick grabbed her wrist and held her there, leaning toward her. Her hands gripped the tray. If she tried to jerk away the dishes and leftovers would fly everywhere, and besides, his grip was so tight she wasn't sure she could manage to free herself. A wounded man who had lost as much blood as he had shouldn't be so strong.

"Are you going to sleep with me again tonight?" he whispered.

"No," she said softly, unable to look him in the eye.

"Why not? It's not like I'm in any shape to do anything but sleep."

She shook her head. Heavens, she was tempted. It had been nice, to snuggle against him when she got cool in the night, to bury her nose against his chest. It had been nice not to be alone. Still, it was a very bad idea to even consider allowing last night's sleeping arrangements to continue.

"I liked it," he said softly. "I liked waking up in the middle of the night and feeling your body against mine. You were warm and soft and smelled so sweet. You smell sweet now."

"I'll be right next door if you need anything."

"I need you here," he whispered.

"No."

He sighed his acceptance. "Then kiss me good-night?" She shook her head, but lifted her face to look at him.

His eyes smoldered and his lips looked soft and inviting. Good heavens, what was she going to do when he was well? How was she going to handle this appealing man?

She leaned forward, her lips heading for his rough, stubbled cheek, but he shifted at the last minute and her lips touched his.

His lips were soft, easy, and he didn't try to make the caress more than it was. A sweet, tender good-night kiss. When she pulled away, bringing the tray with her, he didn't try to stop her.

"Good-night, weathergirl," he whispered.

For once she didn't correct him, but hurried from the room with the tray of his unfinished dinner in her hands. What on earth had she gotten herself into?

Chapter 6.

"There has to be another reason," Shea said, pacing through the dining room and twirling a pencil in her slender fingers. "I just can't believe that the police would consider Winkler painting his house green a motive for murder."

Nick sat in a solid dining room chair, his bandaged leg resting atop another chair. His mind should be on the questions, but he found his attention wandering to the red shorts and navy blue tank top Shea wore. They hugged her body and showed off her fine legs. Watching her pace was sheer torture.

He dragged his mind to the matter at hand. "They made a big deal out of the fact that I'd built the house, suggesting that I suffered some kind of artistic outrage."

"Did you?" she asked, glancing at him warily.

"A little, but ... you're right. That wasn't enough, not even for the morons investigating my case."

"So?" she asked impatiently.

"Sit down," he ordered softly.

"I can't."

"You're making me dizzy."