LITMIR.BIZ

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you tell Joe Collins?”

      “Oh, yeah. Big time. He’s Mr. Cool. Just said, ‘Thank you, Deputy.’” She did a perfect imitation of the FBI investigator. “He might have known already, but I wasn’t taking any chances.”

      “Smart move.”

      “Bet he’s got the Secret Service hanging on his shoulder, not that we’ll ever know. If the shooter targeted Rob specifically because of his friendship with the president—” She broke off, no further comment necessary. “Sarah wanted me to leave her to her own devices last night, but I gave her a choice of me in her hotel room with her or her on the futon at my place.”

      Nate gave a wry smile. He’d known Juliet since she’d started with the Marshals Service four years ago. She was tough and ambitious. “You warned her about the fish and the plants?”

      “I did. She was fine with them. Me—I didn’t sleep a wink. I kept picturing assassins bursting through the window and shooting us both dead.”

      “You’d have shot them before they shot you.”

      “What if someone wants to upset the president by—”

      “Don’t go there.”

      Juliet clamped her mouth shut. She was thirty and good at her job, but she’d say anything—and nothing intimidated her. Sometimes it scared senior deputies like Nate, but she’d been an asset since her arrival in New York eighteen months ago. She’d kept her relationship with Rob quiet. Then he ended up in New York, but the two of them working out of the same office had apparently killed their relationship.

      Nate poured himself a cup of coffee that smelled as if it’d been made hours ago. He added powdered creamer but didn’t stir. He took a sip before the creamer had melted, the little fake milk lumps making the brew even nastier that it might have been.

      He eyed Juliet. She had outdoorsy good looks and a direct manner that sometimes took people by surprise. She could be irritating as hell, but she’d earned Nate’s respect. “I take it Rob never told you he and President Poe were friends, either.”

      “It didn’t come up.” She stretched her arms above her head, yawning. “Knowing Rob, he wouldn’t want it to become a ‘thing,’ get in the way of his work, make other people feel self-conscious. I gather the sister’s closer to the president than Rob is.”

      “Makes for a hell of a fly in the ointment. What’s the word on Rob this morning?”

      “He’s doing better. They’ve got him off the respirator. What about you? Should you even be here?”

      The Tylenol had kicked in, but Nate still could feel the ache. He didn’t want his brain fuzzed up with prescription painkillers. He swallowed more of the lousy coffee. “I won’t be doing push-ups for a couple weeks, but otherwise I’m fine.”

      “What about your head?”

      He set his cup on the edge of the coffee station. He couldn’t drink another sip. “I didn’t get shot in the head.”

      Juliet scowled. “You know what I mean. Everyone says you should go home to New Hampshire, at least for a few days. Why don’t you?”

      He didn’t answer. Gus and his sisters had asked him the same question, and he hadn’t answered them. He wasn’t that close to Juliet Longstreet.

      But, of course, she had no instinct for when she was pushing up against her boundaries. “Christ, you are a case, aren’t you?” She got up and poured herself a cup of coffee, taking it black. “I hope you don’t plan to go into the office today and start pissing people off.”

      “Juliet—”

      “Someone’s going to tie you up and toss you into a trunk, drive you to New Hampshire.” She took a big gulp of coffee, no sign she thought it was old and near rancid. “It’s hard to stand on the sidelines. Can’t be easy seeing the FBI working the case.”

      “It’s their job to investigate the shooting of two federal agents—”

      “So? Doesn’t mean you have to like it.”

      He reminded himself that she’d had a shock yesterday herself—arriving on the scene in time to see the paramedics working on her ex-boyfriend. Rob was still in rough shape. Nate figured he could cut her some slack.

      She grinned feebly at him. “I’m overstepping, huh? At least you can go home and climb mountains. I’m stuck here baby-sitting Rob’s twin sister. She’s—oh, shit.” Juliet groaned, nearly spilling her coffee. “Damn. Now I’ve done it.”

      Nate glanced behind him and saw a pretty blonde in slim jeans and a black sweater turn about-face and retreat down the hall.

      “Sarah Dunnemore?” He shook his head. “Good one, Longstreet.”

      “Crap. At least Rob and I ended it on a positive note or this’d be even worse.” She set her coffee on the small refreshment cart. “Sarah’s really nice. Why don’t you come meet her?”

      “You dug your hole. I’m not going to help you dig yourself out of it.”

      She snorted at him. “I could tell you what people say about you behind your back, you know.”

      As if he didn’t know. As if he cared. Nate grinned at her, but she squared her shoulders and headed out into the hall. He had the feeling she’d rather face the sniper who’d shot at him and Rob rather than have to make amends to Rob’s offended twin sister.

      

      The armed deputies securing all access to her brother—medical, professional and personal—underscored for Sarah the gravity of his situation and the cold fact that the shooter was still at large.

      The deputies let her pass without explanation of why she’d returned so soon. She’d just left the private corner of the I.C.U. where Rob lay with his tubes and monitors, asleep. She thought she’d step into the waiting room and collect herself before her next visit. Now she wished she hadn’t. Juliet’s words, which she obviously hadn’t meant for Sarah to hear, had stung.

      Rob stirred when she approached him, as if sensing her presence, and any thought of her embarrassment receded. “Hey, kid,” he said without opening his eyes, his voice hoarse from the respirator. “How ya doing?”

      It was the first time he’d managed to speak to her. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. Rob—oh, God, Rob, you’ve been through absolute hell, haven’t you? But your doctors say you’re doing well.”

      “Yeah.” He moved his fingers, and she took his hand, his skin moist and pale. His eyes fluttered open—they were bloodshot, glassy looking—but the effort was too much and he shut them again. “Sarah, listen to me…”

      “Sure, Rob. What can I do for you?”

      “You’re on vacation.” He coughed, and she noticed spots of some kind of brownish ointment on his gown, the fresh bandage on his abdomen. He was weak, heavily medicated, exhausted. His attempt to talk—to make sense—had to be a struggle. “I don’t want you here if I’ve got someone shooting at me.”

      It wasn’t what she’d expected to hear. “Just relax, okay? It’ll be all right.”

      “If this guy sees you…”

      “Nobody’s going to see me.” She tried to sound cheerful, but his fear was palpable, unnerving. “Rob, please don’t worry—just concentrate on getting better.”

      His eyes still closed, he mustered his energy and squeezed her hand. His hair was matted, dirty. “You’re too trusting.”

      She wanted to reassure him, but she had no intention of going back to Tennessee, not until he was more himself. “I’ll go home. Of course I will. I can’t wait to go home. After I know you’re better.”

      “What time is it?”

      “It’s

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