Disappear.

Just keep flying. Refuel, continue on to the Caribbean.

Start over.

But he didn’t want to start over. He had a life in western Mexico – a home in Cabo San Lucas, on the tip of the Baja Peninsula, with stunning views of the Sea of Cortes. It was everything he wanted. There, he was a successful American business consultant, with no ties to New Hampshire or Washington, D.C.

Cal and Harris had found out about Cabo.

Jesse knew he couldn’t go back without dealing with their treachery. He’d had to stretch his finances to buy his Mexican dream house. He needed the million he was due, but he could find a way to replenish his accounts if he refused to cave in to Cal ’s demands. He had been putting together deals since his parents ran him out of the house.

He’d learned the hard way to rely on no one, trust no one, but himself.

If he kept on going now – if he didn’t dig back into the lives below him – he would have to give up Cabo. With no control over his own identity, Jesse couldn’t trust Cal Benton to hold up his end of the deal – to send the money and keep quiet.

Never.

And with that idiot Harris sneaking off to the FBI, Jesse wasn’t willing to risk having Cal ’s “insurance policy” end up in the feds’ hands.

He had two choices. Disappear and rebuild his life from scratch. Establish a new identity. Find a spot that he loved as much as Cabo. Give in to blackmail and thievery.

Or…not.

He was the one who turned other people’s lives into nightmares. People paid him to go away. Cal and Harris had turned the tables on him, threatening to become his nightmare. Jesse drove a hard bargain, but if they had cooperated and kept up their end, he’d be back in Cabo by now, investing his profits and enjoying his life.

Leaving behind the money those two weasels had stolen from him was possible but not desirable. It would be annoying to have to replace it. Very annoying. But he could. There were always people with secrets who would pay not to have them exposed to the world.

Jesse had secrets of his own. Cal and Harris hadn’t unearthed all of them.

It was almost as if they’d ripped out his soul and were holding it hostage. How could he just leave now, without putting things right? He wasn’t going to return to Cabo and look over his shoulder for the foreseeable future. He had no intention of giving up his life there out of fear of what they had squirreled away on him.

On the other hand, if they hadn’t betrayed him, he never would have seen Mackenzie Stewart. He never would have attacked her.

That’s changed everything, hasn’t it?

A silver lining in his dark cloud. How could he just fly away without seeing his redheaded girl marshal again?

A sudden bump from a shift in air pressure brought him back to the present. Flying required concentration. It anchored him. He couldn’t let his thoughts drift for very long or he’d crash.

A simple enough equation.

He landed at a small, private airstrip northwest of Baltimore. Another rented BMW awaited him. As he disembarked from his plane, Jesse visualized Deputy Mackenzie. She was self-reliant, too. Her ability to fight, her gritty determination and her work as a federal agent were incongruous with her delicate appearance and soft, heart-melting eyes.

She didn’t belong in the violent world she’d chosen. Jesse wasn’t at all sure that he approved.

He caught his reflection in the side mirror of the BMW. He didn’t appear hunted or out of control. It was a steamy, hazy Monday afternoon in the Washington area, and he looked good in his expensive, casual clothes. Nothing of the deranged mountain man remained.

Within the hour, he unlocked the door to the expensive condominium he’d leased in the same complex where Cal Benton had bought his post-divorce home. Cal ’s condo was one floor below. But of course, he had no idea who his upstairs neighbor was.

Using his cell phone, Jesse dialed Bernadette Peacham’s number in New Hampshire. He knew it by heart, because he was a planner. He doubted she had caller ID, but it wouldn’t have mattered – his was a private number.

“Hello.”

Mackenzie. His throat tightened. He pictured her, her big blue eyes staring out at the beautiful lake. Was she healed enough to wear her gun? It was wrong, her and guns. So wrong.

He heard her inhale.

“Sorry,” he said. “Wrong number.”

He hung up and looked out at the Potomac River, calm and still in the hot afternoon sunlight. He was no longer a knife-wielding lowlife. He was a wealthy Washington consultant home from an important meeting.

His transformation was complete.

Fifteen

Mackenzie pulled her backpack out of the small plane’s overhead compartment and slung it over her right shoulder. The tight quarters and the rough skies had jostled her just enough to make her feel every millimeter of her wound, but she’d resisted reaching for pain medication. She hadn’t taken any since Saturday. It was late Tuesday now, four days since the attack that had slit open her left side.

Four frustrating days, she thought as she disembarked, trying not to look too grouchy in front of the flight attendant, pilots and her fellow passengers.

Time to return to her ghosts, fall into her own bed and get back to work in the morning. Her attacker’s trail was stone-cold dead. The search teams hadn’t turned up any evidence of his identity or whereabouts in the mountains, and prints the police got off his knife didn’t match anyone in the system. Mackenzie had done what she could to help with the search, but she’d been too optimistic about diving right back into work.

She melted into the line exiting the Jetway. Her side ached, but as much as she wanted to go straight home, she had one stop to make first.

Bernadette Peacham had asked to see her.

A taxi was in order tonight, Mackenzie thought as she made her way into the crowded terminal. She could have called any number of people for a ride, but she’d kept her flight arrangements to herself. She was bedraggled and wobbly. If she had a good night’s sleep, she was confident she could be her usual kick-ass self by morning.

But as she stopped to figure out which way to turn to reach the terminal exit, Andrew Rook eased in next to her, catching her totally by surprise. He was in jeans and a lightweight jacket, and he was heart-stoppingly sexy, looking neither bedraggled nor wobbly.

“Allow me.” He took Mackenzie’s backpack from her shoulder. “All those pink swimsuits and dolphin towels get heavy, don’t they?”

“Rook, if you told anyone it was a pink suit -”

“I didn’t have to.”

“It’s all over Washington, isn’t it?”

“The suit. Not as many people know about the dolphin towel.”

Small comfort, she thought. “What are you doing here? How did you find out what flight I was on?” She stopped herself and sighed. “Damn FBI.”

He smiled. “We aim to please.”

Although he was dressed casually, it was a Washington crowd at Reagan National Airport. Anyone paying attention would peg him as an FBI agent. That she hadn’t the night they’d met still stuck in Mackenzie’s craw. No one would see her and think, Deputy U.S. Marshal. Certainly not tonight, with her hair yanked back in a loose ponytail and her baggy, casual attire covering up her bandages for the flight. She had dark circles under her eyes from pain and four nights of near sleeplessness as she’d tried to figure out who her attacker was, and rehashed all she’d done wrong.

Free of the backpack, she picked up her pace and said good-naturedly, “I liked you better when I thought you worked for the IRS.”

He ignored her. “My car’s in the parking garage. Do you want me to get you a wheelchair?”

“Since you have zero sense of humor, I assume you’re serious. No, I do not want you to get me a wheelchair. If you want to do something for me, flag me a cab.”