“That’s right,” he said. “There isn’t.”

“You know, I’m not a prisoner you’re transporting.”

“It’d be a hell of a lot easier if you were,” he said, getting out of the car.

Sarah decided not to pursue that one.

In spite of the bullet wound in his arm, he insisted on carrying her bag, and bought her a bottle of water for her flight. He was a federal officer, and thus allowed to escort her all the way to her gate.

When her flight started to board, she felt a prick of panic at the idea of leaving. “If there’s any change in Rob’s condition-”

“I’ll let you know myself. I promise.”

She had the feeling Nate was a man who didn’t make many promises. “I’ll be on the first flight back to New York.”

“Understood.”

“All right. Fair enough.” She straightened, sighing, awkward. “Well. I guess that’s it. Take care of yourself, okay, Deputy Winter?”

He gave her that toe-curling smile. “Just get on that damn plane.”

She blew him a kiss, hoping to throw him off his hard-ass game and assert some control over her situation, but he grinned and winked at her, sending hot sparks right through her.

Just as well she was getting out of town. Another day with him, and they’d be in bed.

The thought propelled her down the jetway.

When she took her seat on the plane, the realization that she was alone hit her. Her throat tightened.

But wasn’t this what she was used to? Never mind that she’d been all but run out of town on a rail, she was on her own with no one to answer to, no one to rein in her impulses-and no one beside her, she thought with an unexpected rush of emotion. When she got to Night’s Landing, she could do as she pleased. Wasn’t it the way she liked it?

Whether she liked it or not, it was the way it was.

Twelve

Nicholas Janssen waited until after midnight Amsterdam time for the call from Claude Rousseau, who should have arrived in New York yesterday afternoon. Janssen was still in the Dutch city, isolated in a suite of rooms in a seventeenth-century gabled house that had been converted into a very small, very private hotel along picturesque Herengracht, one of the finest canals in Amsterdam.

He was surrounded by men he paid well to protect him. He had no other relationship with them. Nicholas didn’t delude himself. They weren’t family, they weren’t friends.

Even at his chalet in Switzerland, he was isolated, his fugitive status in the United States hanging over him. His international jet-setter neighbors distrusted him. Swiss natives wanted nothing to do with him. He knew about the dubious origins of the fortunes of some of the people who snubbed him. Tax evasion was the least of what their fathers and grandfathers had done.

But it was the least of what he’d done, too.

Finally the call came. “Rob Dunnemore is improving and should make a full recovery,” Rousseau said. “His sister is on her way back to Tennessee.”

“The second marshal? Winter?”

There was the slightest hesitation. “He could become a problem.”

“But the FBI have their shooter, don’t they?”

“Maybe. Maybe not.”

Janssen sat forward in his leather chair next to an open window. The low ceilings in the old building made him claustrophobic. The call was secure-the owner of the hotel, who understood his clientele, had the best technical people in Europe regularly sweep for bugs, check with their sources for any attempt to tap the phone lines, legally or otherwise. But, still, Janssen was careful with what he said. “You’ll do what needs to be done, won’t you?”

“Of course.” Rousseau had arrived in New York only yesterday but exhibited no sign of jet lag. “I’m in touch with your man here. We’re working together on the problem.”

“No ties back to me. None.” Janssen didn’t need to remind Rousseau that he had access to Rousseau’s family-his mother, his ex-wife, his two teenage daughters. “Is that clear?”

“Very,” Rousseau said calmly.

“Keep me apprised.”

After he hung up, Janssen lit his pipe and lifted his feet onto a leather ottoman. His dogs, two Rhodesian ridgebacks who always traveled with him, lay atop a thick Persian carpet. They were his best, most trusted companions. Like him, they had learned discipline, patience.

But they were of a kind, and they had each other. He had no one.

The wealth he could reveal openly wasn’t particularly impressive-it was the wealth he concealed that one day he would blend with his legal fortune, that would widen eyes and open doors. Then he could lead the life he’d always imagined for himself. He’d have the woman he wanted, the position, the power, the respect.

By then, perhaps Stuart Dunnemore would have died in his sleep, and Betsy would be free.

She’d need time to mourn, of course, but not that much. She had to know she’d outlive Stuart-she’d had to be preparing herself, even now, for going on without him.

But first, Janssen knew he had to get her to help him deal with the fact that he couldn’t return to his own country without facing prosecution and the certainty of a prison sentence. Betsy would eventually see that it was unfair. That he’d paid for whatever mistakes he’d made and could offer the world more as a free man.

No, his legal status wasn’t first. He tightened his grip on his pipe and controlled a wave of irritation.

Dealing with the situation in New York was first.

He prayed that the Dunnemore twins hadn’t seen him in Amsterdam -that the shooting in Central Park in no way involved him and any of his people.

But if they had, if it did, Nicholas was prepared to act. Too much was at stake for him not to.

Thirteen

It was after dark when two deputy marshals dropped Sarah off at Night’s Landing. Ethan waited until she’d reassured them she was fine there on her own and their car had pulled out of the long, curving driveway. Then he knocked on her kitchen door.

Sarah opened it, looking drawn and tired, but she attempted a smile. “Hey, Ethan.”

He adopted his stereotypical good ol’ boy demeanor. “I didn’t expect you home so soon, Miss Sarah.”

“Rob and his marshal buddies basically kicked me out. A classic case of projection. Really they’re worried about themselves and their own safety, but instead they say they’re worried about me.”

Ethan doubted it was projection-the marshals probably had damn good reason to worry about her. She was an attractive academic with no experience in law enforcement and sniper attacks. In their position, he wouldn’t want her underfoot, either.

“Anything I can do for you?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I’m going to take a bath and go to bed. Thanks. Tomorrow-I don’t know.” Her eyes brightened for all of half a second. “I might just go fishing.”

“I didn’t know you liked to fish, Miss Sarah.”

“I don’t particularly, but it’s better than sitting around here worrying about Rob and feeling sorry for myself.”

Ethan smiled and managed to shuffle his feet. “I know it’s a hard time for you. The neighbors stopped by to give their regards. Mr. Fontaine, Miss Prichard, Mr. and Mrs. Kidd. They wanted to bring casseroles and flowers, but I told them I didn’t know when you’d be back.”

“That’s sweet of them.” She seemed to take pleasure in the concern of her neighbors. “I’d love to have a few more casseroles in the freezer for when Rob gets here. He’s coming down to recuperate as soon as his doctors allow him to travel. What about reporters?”

“A few. I let them pound on the door, then came out and looked scary when they started peeking in the windows.”

That brought on a genuine smile. “Good thinking.”

He left her in the big empty house, the ground soft under his feet as he walked back to his cottage. He could smell the wetness of the river, hear it lapping the limestone along its banks. The stars and half-moon created enough light for the trees to cast dark, wavering shadows. He hadn’t grown up near water and trees.