“Hello, Shane, my old friend,” Strauss said in a silky tone that raised Shane’s hackles. “How do like my little boat? Brutus. I named it after you.”

“I’m flattered all to hell,” Shane remarked dryly as he crossed the gangplank and stepped aboard.

“I knew you would be. Drop the gun overboard, Irish.”

Reluctantly Shane tossed the Smith and Wesson over the side. Strauss smiled at the soft splash that sounded as the gun hit the water.

“Now the little surprise you have tucked into the back of your trousers.”

Scowling in the pale glow of the security light, Shane reached behind him and gently eased a small pistol out of his waistband. It joined its companion on the bottom of the Anastasia marina.

“And that little darling you’re wearing for a sock garter.” Strauss’s laughter floated eerily on the damp night air as Shane muttered a stream of curses. “Ah, yes, my friend. I know all your secrets.”

“Yeah, you’re a regular genius,” Shane commented. His expression a blank, stony mask, he turned to Faith. “Are you all right, Ms. Kincaid?”

Faith winced a bit at his cool, businesslike tone. This was not the same man who had held her and loved her fears away. This was Shane the cop, the man who leashed his emotions and instinctively lived in the shadows.

She prayed she would get the chance to see that other Shane again. The one who was so patient with her daughter, who was a tender lover full of sad, sweet music, the one who sometimes looked at her as if he couldn’t quite believe she was real. She told herself she would see that man again. All they had to do was get through this nightmare.

Finding her voice with some difficulty, she managed to stutter, “I-I’m f-fine, Agent Callan.”

She was terrified, Shane knew, but as she had so many times over the last few weeks, Faith managed to dredge up a little more strength from that well that ran so deep inside her. He watched her swallow down her fear and stick out her little chin. How one woman who seemed so ordinary could have so much heart and courage was a mystery to him, but he loved her for it.

He loved her, and now she could die because of him. The knowledge twisted in his gut like a knife.

“Shane, you cut me to the quick,” Strauss said, pouting like a petulant lover. “I’ve been a perfect gentleman.”

“Gentlemen don’t kidnap innocent women and hold guns to their heads,” Shane pointed out, his voice low and smoky.

Strauss grinned. “Point taken. Let’s call it a temporary breach of conduct-rather like your seduction of a federal witness.”

The bastard. He knew. He’d been watching them. A muscle jumped in Shane’s jaw. His hands clenched at the thought of wrapping them around Strauss’s throat. The idea that this piece of scum had any knowledge of the tender, loving relationship that had blossomed between himself and Faith made him sick. But the wisest course would be to ignore the remark as if it meant nothing to him.

“Let her go, Strauss. Your argument is with me.”

Strauss’s eyes narrowed as if in consideration, but his hold only tightened on Faith’s shoulders. “I think not. I know you, Irish. I know your weaknesses, few though they may be. I know your flaws-melancholy, gallantry, and good Irish whiskey. I mean to take advantage of your gallantry. You won’t try anything as long as I hold the lovely lassie. Never make an enemy of a friend, my dear Lancelot,” he advised. “That enemy will slay you with your own sword.”

Shane heaved a sigh and hitched his hands to his lean hips. “You’re boring me, Strauss. If you want to kill me, then kill me and be done with it.”

“Oh, no.” A thread of rage tangled with the madness in his cultured voice. “I won’t make it that easy for you, I mean to see you suffer.” Jerking his head in the direction of the dock, he ordered, “Cast off. We’re going to take a little midnight cruise. Revenge should be a very private thing, I think.”

Shane weighed the odds. He couldn’t rush Strauss now, Faith would never have a chance. For the moment the deck was stacked in the killer’s favor. Obviously Strauss didn’t realize it, but sea would take some of his advantage away. So Shane went about the task of setting the Brutus free, skills he had learned as a boy surfacing without effort. The Atlantic had been a second home to him when he’d been growing up. He could only hope the Pacific would prove to be as good a friend.

Keeping a firm grip on Faith, Strauss motioned Shane toward the ladder that led to the navigation bridge. “You’re driving, Captain Callan.” He flashed a wicked grin in the dim yellow light that spilled out of the cabin. “As you can see, I have my hands full.”

The muscles in Shane’s jaw tightened against the snarl that threatened to curl his lip as he turned and hauled himself up the ladder. He didn’t care if he died trying-his life hadn’t seemed worth much for a long time-but Adam Strauss was going to pay for putting his hands on Faith.

Faith wasn’t sure if the wave of nausea that sloshed through her stomach was seasickness or fear or both. The Brutus had been under way for ten or fifteen minutes, bucking through choppy water, when Strauss ordered Shane to cut the engine. Now it bobbed like a cork on the black water, dipping and swaying beneath their feet as the three of them stood in the cockpit behind the cabin.

It was all Faith could do to keep her balance, and she half fell against her captor as the powerboat rocked. Annoyed, Strauss took her hand and pressed it to the gin pole. “Hold on to that, Ms. Kincaid. If you let go, I’ll shoot you.”

She couldn’t keep from looking to Shane for some kind of sign. He was nearly invisible with his dark hair and clothing, like a panther in the night, but she caught his almost imperceptible nod. Her hand closed around the cold metal pole, and her fingertips brushed across a loosely knotted rope. As Strauss’s attention swung away from her, she stole a glance.

A heavy block-and-tackle rig hung down from the top of the gin pole and was secured to it with nothing more than a flimsy piece of nylon. Praying wildly Strauss would keep his focus on Shane, Faith began trying to work the knot loose with her fingers. She didn’t want to think about what the madman had planned for her, but she knew he meant to kill Shane, and she had to do everything she could to stop him.

“You betrayed me, Shane,” Strauss said, raising his voice so his dramatic accusations could be heard above the wind and the sea and the creaking of the boat. He stood with his feet braced slightly apart, his Italian loafers offering footing that was less than sure on a deck slick with mist. The gun he had pressed to Faith’s temple was now leveled at Shane. “We were like brothers. You were my friend.”

Shane answered him with a curse. “I was doing my job, Strauss. I’d sooner make friends with a cobra.”

“I know differently. We’re two sides of the same coin, you and I, my darling Shane.”

The statement was so close to being accurate, it nearly made Shane sick. He had come so close to that edge, but he had pulled back. He had struggled with the darker side of himself. For a time he had felt he would never escape the shadow of it. Then Faith had let sunlight into his life, and he had felt his soul begin to heal.

Abruptly he pulled back from his thoughts. He had to concentrate, had to find some way to get Strauss’s gun away from him. Strauss had said he wanted to play on Shane’s weaknesses. Two could play at that game. Adam Strauss had an enormously overinflated ego. It was time to start punching holes.

“I’m sick of your theatrics, Strauss,” he said, caustically. He let one foot inch ahead as the deck swayed beneath his sneakers. “Besides being a lousy actor, you’re nothing but a two-bit killer with a fake diploma.”

Even in the faint light that glowed out of the cabin Shane could see the man’s eyes flash with insane outrage. “How dare you! I am a scholar-”