LITMIR.BIZ

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gave him ample time to compare Ms. Brandt in the flesh to the Ms. Brandt captured by the cameras of the Washington driver’s license division.

      The eyes were the same misty green. The freckles were still there, a faint spackling across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks. Her hair was longer than in the photo. A tumble of dark brown, the silky mass just brushed her shoulders. Although the features were essentially the same, their setting had changed. There were dark smudges under her eyes and her face appeared thinner. Much thinner.

      So did the rest of her. Her license had tagged her at one thirty-two. She didn’t look anywhere close to that. The loose windbreaker concealed most of her upper torso, but he’d had plenty of opportunity to observe the lower portion as he’d trudged up the ramps behind her. Her jeans hugged a tight, trim rear. Her slender thighs looked as though they’d wrap perfectly around a man.

      Too bad he wouldn’t get the chance to test that supposition. For one thing, Tracy Brandt was his target. For another, the woman heard voices in her head.

      Or had. Apparently she wasn’t hearing them any longer. Looking uncomfortable, she admitted as much and fumbled for an explanation of her erratic behavior.

      “I guess I’m just a little stressed.”

      Losing a job would stress anyone, Drew thought. So would messing with highly classified information you weren’t supposed to have access to.

      A loud rumble from the vicinity of her stomach interrupted his thoughts and drew an embarrassed laugh from her.

      “Or maybe it’s just hunger. I missed lunch.”

      She’d just handed Drew the perfect opening. “Then we’d better get you something to eat.”

      “Thanks, but you’re on the tour. I’ll just head back down on my own and—”

      “Those ramps are steep. You might get wobbly again. I’ll walk down with you.”

      “Really, I’m fine. You don’t have to cut short your tour on my account.”

      Ignoring her protests, he took her elbow and steered her back through the Moorish arch. The rest of the group was just entering the ballroom. The guide looked distinctly displeased with their temporary absence.

      “I must ask you not to wander off on your own like that.”

      “My friend felt dizzy and needed air,” Drew explained calmy. “I’m going to take her down. Thanks for the very informative tour.”

      His grip remained firm as they exited the ballroom. A fierce satisfaction hummed through him. He couldn’t remember the last time a prey had fallen into his hands so easily and conveniently.

      “My name’s Andrew, by the way. Andrew McDowell. Drew to my friends.”

      “Tracy Brandt.”

      “Where’s home, Tracy?”

      “Puget Sound, Washington. For now, anyway.”

      Drew kept it casual. “You’re moving?”

      “Maybe. I don’t know.”

      He cocked an eyebrow, but she dodged the implied question with a small shrug. “It’s a long story. Not worth boring a stranger with.”

      Baby, you’ve got that wrong! Hiding a sardonic smile, Drew helped her negotiate the sloping ramps. Once outside, he released her elbow. Her cheeks were still pale, making the shadows under her eyes stand out in stark relief, but she seemed to revive in the brisk salt air.

      “Do you like seafood?” Drew asked.

      She angled her head and gave him a smile. A real one, he saw, surprised at the way it transformed her face.

      “What kind of a question is that to ask someone from Puget Sound?”

      “My mistake. The restaurant at the inn where I’m staying supposedly does a great grilled tilapia. At least according to the manager of the Bella Vista.”

      “You’re staying at the Bella Vista? So am I.”

      “There you go, then. We’re neighbors. Want to give the tilapia a shot or have you already tried it?”

      “No, I haven’t.”

      Tracy hesitated, chewing on her lower lip. She couldn’t afford to rack up a bill at the inn’s fancy restaurant. The only reason she’d stayed at the Bella Vista was because it offered a modified American plan that included a continental breakfast. Unfortunately, she’d been too wired this morning to down more than coffee and half a blueberry muffin. She needed to eat something soon or she’d make a fool of herself—again!—by keeling over at this man’s feet.

      “I’m not really dressed for a nice restaurant. I saw a place out on the pier that serves fish and chips. We could try that.”

      “The pier it is,” he said easily.

      Catalina’s Green Pier jutted into the harbor from midpoint on Avalon’s narrow, sandy beach. It got its name from the green-painted structure perched in the center of the pier. According to a tourist brochure Tracy had read, the wooden building, with its dazzling white trim and distinctive clock tower, was the island’s second most recognizable landmark after the casino. Originally a fish market, it now housed the official weigh station for sport fishermen, souvenir shops and eateries.

      To Tracy’s secret relief, her escort insisted on paying for their meal. They ate in the open air, carrying their soft drinks and red plastic baskets to a long wooden table with an unobstructed view of the circular harbor and the town that hugged it. As advertised, the fish was crunchy on the outside, deliciously moist and flaky inside. The French fries and hush puppies were steaming hot. Tracy burned the inside of her mouth on the first bite, yet had to fight to keep from scarfing down another.

      “This is nice,” Drew commented, his gaze skimming over the boats rocking gently on the swells.

      “Yes, it is.”

      Those scary moments on the casino balcony faded as Tracy munched on her hush puppy and drank in the scene. The late afternoon shadows had deepened into an early evening dusk. Lights were beginning to twinkle on in the shops and houses that stair-stepped up the steep hills surrounding the bay. The breeze had died and the temperature hovered at a comfortable sixty-five or so. The scene was so calm, so idyllic. Just as Jack had described it.

      “Very nice,” she murmured with a hitch in her voice that matched the one in her heart.

      Dunking a fry in ketchup, she pushed it around and waited for the ache to pass. When she looked up, she found Drew watching her with a question in his eyes.

      They were really sexy eyes, Tracy decided, a palette of gold and brown and green framed by lashes the same color as the mahogany streaks in his dark hair. She liked the face they were set in, too. She wouldn’t qualify it as handsome, exactly. More rugged-looking, with a strong chin and tanned skin that suggested he spent more time outdoors than in. With his broad shoulders and lean, athletic body, he didn’t look the type to go in for salon tanning sessions.

      Not that Tracy was any judge of type. Except for Jack, her relationships with the male species had been brief and somewhat less than satisfactory.

      The thought made the ache sharper, until it lanced into her like vicious little shards. It took an act of sheer will to respond to Drew’s silent query.

      “A friend of mine used to come here years ago. He fell in love with the place and talked all the time about coming back.”

      “Why didn’t he?”

      “I guess…I guess he just never got around to it.”

      She couldn’t talk about Jack. The hurt was too raw, too private. Scanning the harbor, she latched on to a sleek white yacht as a change of topic.

      “Look at that. What do you suppose something like that costs?”

      “More

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