Nate glanced at her. “Want me to do it?”

She shook her head. “I watched Granny catch snakes with the mop a dozen times, at least. Usually grass snakes, though.”

The snake slithered under the table. Nate still had his gun pointed at it. Careful not to do anything sudden, Sarah came up behind the snake, then, in a swift, one-chance-only move, she pinned it down within the hardware that usually held the mop head in place, just as her grandmother had done so many times.

She didn’t hesitate. She grabbed the snake just behind its head, removed the mop handle and stood up straight, the black body wriggling in front of her. “This was a lot more fun when I was a kid.”

Nate stepped forward and took the mop from her. She ran out the back door, the snake’s thick three-foot body hanging past her knees. She kept going, all the way down to the dock.

She flung the cottonmouth as hard as she could into the river.

It disappeared in the brown water.

She was breathing hard, aware of Nate behind her on the dock.

Ethan eased in behind them. “I’d have shot it if I were you, Deputy.”

Sarah spun around at him. “Did you put that snake in my house? Because I got on your case about Conroy-”

“Not me, Miss Sarah.” Ethan was unruffled. “I grew up in West Texas. I’m not that big on snakes.”

She glanced at Nate and saw that he’d returned his gun to its holster. She turned back to Ethan, who just watched her calmly. She was still on edge. “We haven’t had a snake in the house in years, and I don’t remember ever having a cottonmouth in the house.”

Ethan shrugged. “If I were your granny and had to fetch a snake out of the house, I don’t know as I’d tell a little kid it was poisonous.”

Sarah expelled a breath. “I’m sorry. I have no business accusing you of anything. I’m sure it was an accident.” She tried to smile. “At least I know how to catch a snake. I wonder if that poor snake knows I saved its life.”

Nate shook his head. “I’m with Brooker. Easier just to shoot it.”

“You’d clean up the mess?”

Ethan gave an exaggerated shudder, his eyes sparking with unexpected humor. “You know, Miss Sarah, I could have gone all day without that picture in my head.”

“Sorry. But the snake didn’t do anything wrong. It’s not like it wanted to be in the house-it just found itself there.”

“Next time you find a snake in the house,” Ethan said, “you call me, okay? That’s what I’m here for.”

“You won’t shoot it?”

“No, ma’am, how could I shoot it? I don’t carry a gun.”

He ambled off the dock and back toward the fence. Nate stared out at the water. The sun broke through the clouds and played on the ripples of coppery water. A bright red male cardinal flew into the low brush along the river, and Sarah could hear a mourning dove with its intermittent, almost plaintive song.

So quiet, so peaceful.

But her heart was thumping, and she couldn’t stop thinking about the snake and how it had gotten into the house.

“About last night,” Nate said. “It shouldn’t have happened.”

She nodded.

“Your brother’s trusting me to look after you-”

“I can look after myself.”

He half smiled. “You did all right with that snake.”

She glanced up at him and forced herself to smile. “I did, didn’t I?”

“You’re pals with the president. For all we know, a dozen Secret Service agents are camped out here.”

“And saw us last night? I don’t think so. Nobody saw anything.”

His eyes sparked. “There was plenty to see.”

She thought of diving into the river. The snake was probably halfway to Nashville by now. Nate’s words had brought back all of last night. She could feel her body quaking with him inside her, remembered how she’d resisted screaming out-how uninhibited she’d been with him. He was not an inexperienced lover. She warned herself not to expect anything more.

She ran her hands through her hair. “I think we should check the house for more snakes, don’t you?”

“Damn straight.”

But when they reached the house, he stopped in the front hall and curved an arm around her middle, kissing her softly. “Last night wasn’t just opportunistic,” he whispered. “When this thing gets settled-” But he didn’t finish, just stood back and sighed. “We’ll see.”

He didn’t trust himself right now on any level-she guessed that was what he was trying to say. Which made sense to her, because she didn’t trust herself, either.

Twenty-Three

Betsy Dunnemore looked even more drawn and stressed-out than she had the other day when Nicholas had intercepted her at the café. She stood in the elegant living room of his hotel suite as if she were his captive. In a way, she was. His orders to his men had been precise-bring her to him without fail, but voluntarily. Persuade her. Create a sense of urgency that she couldn’t ignore.

Anything could happen in New York. Anything at all.

He needed to speak with her before she got there. He wanted her on his side. He wanted her at least to understand his position.

And if he could get it, he wanted information from her. What did she know about the sniper investigation? Did anyone realize he’d contacted her? Were the feds trying to pin the Central Park attack on him? Rousseau was drawing blanks in New York. He was useless.

“Who were those men?” Betsy tossed her head in an obvious effort to look outraged, but she was too upset, too frightened, to pull it off. “Your hired thugs?”

“Bodyguards. In my position-”

“As a fugitive,” she cut in coldly.

“As a wealthy man who not only my enemies but my own government want to bring down.”

She snorted. “Spare me your self-pity. What do you want?” Her tone was slicing. “Your ‘bodyguards’ made it clear they’d drag me here if I didn’t come on my own.”

“I’m sure you’re reading into their manner. I apologize for any-”

“Just tell me what you want. My husband and I are flying to New York later this afternoon.” She had on her travel clothes, a smart black suit with her fashionable but comfortable shoes. “A car is picking us up in half an hour. I have to be back.”

Nicholas sipped a glass of a Belgian beer he was fond of. “You’ll be back in plenty of time. Won’t you sit down?”

“No.”

She was strong willed, a beautiful woman in her prime. According to Janssen’s sources, Stuart Dunnemore was still a vital, interesting man, but at almost eighty, he wasn’t the man she’d married. He was increasingly dependent on her. But Betsy would never let people think she had any regrets about having married a man so much older than she.

“Can I offer you some lunch?” Nicholas asked mildly.

She shook her head, her hands clasped firmly on her handbag. The way she was dressed, the way she carried herself, her hair, her grooming-she looked as if she belonged in the tasteful surroundings. Janssen had to work at looking the part, although his wealth far, far exceeded that of the Dunnemores. But inside, Janssen felt like a phony. A thug, a common criminal.

That, he thought, would change.

“You’re free to leave. It’s not as if you’re my prisoner.” He spoke with wry amusement, but Betsy didn’t relax even slightly. He set his beer glass down on a small, antique table. “I have contacts in New York who tell me that the FBI’s spinning its wheels in its investigation into the shooting. They haven’t made any headway since they found that drug addict dead-”

“What contacts?”

“That’s not important. What’s important is that you and your husband are walking into a very tense situation. My contacts also tell me that the FBI and the Marshals Service are bracing for another attack.”

“I want to see my son,” she said tightly. “That’s all.”

“Of course. I understand.”

She leveled her unflinching gaze on him. “I’m going to tell Rob-and the investigators-that you’ve approached me several times since last fall. As soon as I learned of your legal status I’ve asked you not to contact me.”