LITMIR.BIZ

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The twin-size brass bed looked tidy and inviting with its pink chenille spread. The only thing lying on the spread was her plump throw pillow.

      The closet door stood open. She habitually left it that way to eliminate a hiding spot. The few clothes she owned hung as she’d left them. Her suitcase sat on the closet floor, its lid open for quick packing.

      Although it increased her sense of security, Regan knew her nightly check of doorjambs and locks was futile. Creath had once disabled the high-tech alarm on her apartment. She’d known he’d been inside solely because of the peppermint candies he left strewn across her bed.

      The cop who had methodically stalked her, killed because of her, then set her up to take the fall for Steven’s murder had wanted her to know how effortlessly he could get to her.

      Her gaze went to her reflection in the wavy-surfaced mirror hanging over the vanity painted a garish yellow. Sometimes when she looked in the mirror she still got a jolt. The dark-haired woman she saw wasn’t her, couldn’t possibly be Susan Kincaid, who had spent six years saving lives and wearing her auburn hair in a short cap of curls. Now, her hair was midnight black and board straight, and belonged to a bartender named Regan Ford. But the nightmares that still woke her up in an icy, terrified sweat were Susan’s.

      She swallowed back a sudden rush of tears. She was so tired—physically drained, emotionally exhausted, sick of feeling out of control.

      Because she had learned the uselessness of tears, she scrubbed a hand over her eyes, grabbed her laptop off the rocking chair angled in one corner, then returned to the living room. Nudging the newspaper aside, she plugged the computer into the phone jack. That done, she toed off her shoes, then settled onto the couch. While the computer booted up, she rested her head against the wall. Was it sick to consider celebrating, since Creath hadn’t found her after an entire year?

      Not yet, anyway.

      Listening to the modem connect to the Internet, her thoughts centered on Dan Langley, the private investigator who was her one link to the life she’d left behind. Not just for safety’s sake, but her own peace of mind, she’d had to ensure Creath hadn’t followed her when she disappeared. No matter how sly and patient the monster inside him, he couldn’t personally track her if he stayed on the job.

      Langley had no idea where she was or what names she used. All he had was her e-mail address to which he had sent messages for the past year to let her know Creath was still in New Orleans.

      Regan accessed her e-mail account, saw she had no message from Langley. That meant the P.I. still had Creath in his sights.

      Even as relief rolled over her, a sharp rap on the French doors brought her chin up. Through the sheer curtains she saw a man’s shadowy form on the balcony beyond. He stood just outside the light fixture’s pool of illumination. Purposely?

      Panic fizzed through her. Had Creath slipped out of New Orleans without Langley knowing? Somehow found her? Was it Creath waiting for her on the other side of the door?

      Regan pressed a hand between her breasts to hold in her frantic heart while she fought a short, ferocious battle to pull herself together. Creath’s style wasn’t to announce himself. He would slide into the apartment like smoke, and grab her before she knew he was there.

      Closing her laptop, she rose. Because she believed in evening the odds, she moved into the kitchenette and pulled a knife out of a drawer. Her breath shallowed as she neared the door. Fingers clenched on the knife’s hilt, she used her free hand to edge back one side of the sheers.

      When she saw Josh McCall, the flood of adrenaline in her veins became a full-blown tsunami. In the dim light, the prominent planes of his stubbled face looked sharp as glass. The cop eyeing her through the door’s pane in some ways presented as great a danger to her as Creath.

      She lowered her gaze to the pie carrier in his hand. Since he’d planned to drop by Etta’s after he left the tavern, Regan knew exactly what had happened. It was bad enough that Etta had been on her injured foot long enough to bake pies, but she was ferrying them via cop.

      Having no choice, Regan undid the dead bolt, opened the door a few inches. “You moonlighting as Etta’s errand boy?” she asked smoothly.

      His smile flashed charmingly. “Making deliveries gets you access into places you might not be otherwise invited to.”

      Before she could react, he’d nudged a shoulder against the door, forcing her to take a step back. A slick move, she thought as he stepped past her. She narrowed her eyes. “Uninvited places like my home, you mean.”

      “Exactly.” His gaze dropped to her hand. “You’re as pasty as Etta’s biscuit dough and that’s one hell of a grip you’ve got on that knife. Something wrong?”

      You. “Yes, you pounded on my door at one o’clock in the morning.” When she reached for the pie, he shifted.

      “If you try to juggle the pie and that knife, you might cut yourself,” he said as he headed to the kitchenette. “Wouldn’t want that.”

      Teeth clenched, she remained at the open door, struggling for calm. “If anyone gets cut, it won’t be me.”

      He set the pie on the counter, then turned, studying her with unconcealed interest. “You’re a tough customer, Ms. Ford.”

      She felt her throat tighten. “I didn’t tell you my last name.”

      “That’s right, you didn’t. I asked Etta.”

      “Why?”

      His gaze swept the room before returning to her. “You wouldn’t tell me.”

      Sweat pooled on her palm against the knife’s handle. “You didn’t ask.”

      “True.” He raised a dark brow. “Aren’t you going to offer me a piece of pie?”

      “Etta never bakes just one of something. I’m sure you’ve already had your fill.”

      “You’d make a good detective, Ms. Ford.”

      “Like you?”

      He crossed his arms over his chest. “I didn’t tell you my profession.”

      “Howie mentioned it.”

      He angled his chin. “You asked Howie about me?”

      “No, he commented you used to be a wild kid who wound up a cop.” Regan knew she had to act with confidence or blow her cover. So, she forced her mouth into a slight upward curve. “He mentioned something about you and Etta’s son raiding a Camp Fire Girls jamboree.”

      Josh stroked a finger along his stubbled jaw. “Now there’s a great memory. During the raid I stole a kiss from Mary Beth Powers. That was the first time I’d kissed a girl and it was a moving experience. For my part in the raid, Chief Decker made me pick up trash along Sundown’s roadsides for a week.” He wiggled his dark brows. “After I served my sentence, I went back and kissed Mary Beth again.”

      The wicked amusement in his eyes sent the primitive sensation Regan had felt before seeping over her, heating her flesh and making her stomach jitter.

      “Doesn’t sound like you’re a man who learns from his mistakes,” she said, hoping the nerves jumping inside her didn’t sound in her voice.

      His finger shifted from his jaw to the thin scar on the side of his neck. “If I wasn’t, I’d be long dead.” He wandered to the sofa, glanced down at her laptop, the fading daisies. “I’m worried that Etta doesn’t learn from the past.”

      “How so?”

      His gaze slowly lifted, locked with hers. “She takes in strays. That kitten she has? Etta probably hasn’t had her checked for rabies.”

      Knowing he was talking about more than just the kitten had Regan’s stomach burning like acid. “One look at Anthracite and you can tell she’s okay.”

      He moved to her bedroom door, glanced

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