LITMIR.BIZ

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      She remembered him standing there just inside the bedroom window, dripping wet, his face pale and haggard. Blood had dribbled down the side of his head, mixing with the water. Sandy shuddered. She never wanted to see that apparition again as long as she lived. She did not believe in voodoo. She did not believe in ghosts or demons or goblins—not on this earth. But she knew she couldn’t live here if Tristan was going to keep showing up, even if he was just a figment of her grief-stricken imagination.

      She knew he was only in her imagination, because if he were alive, he would never hurt her by pretending he was dead.

      If Tristan were alive, he’d be here with her and their unborn baby.

      * * *

      TRISTAN UNLOCKED THE French doors of his home with the spare key that had been hidden in a fake flowerpot bottom for as long as he could remember. He shook himself, trying to get rid of the rainwater dripping off him.

      Boudreau was right again. He’d been sure Tristan wasn’t strong enough yet. Now, with his leg throbbing with pain and his head fuzzy with fatigue, Tristan had to agree. But he’d had no other choice.

      Boudreau had told him about Sandy showing up at his cabin that morning while Tristan was swimming. But Tristan already knew she’d been out walking.

      He’d gotten a glimpse of her at the dock from the water. She’d been shading her eyes and craning her neck, so the odds were that she couldn’t see him because of the sun’s glare. The fact that she hadn’t shouted at him or marched back up to Boudreau’s asking about him had been reassuring.

      According to Boudreau she’d been agitated and nervous, as if she was afraid of something. And she’d seemed desperate to talk to him. But Boudreau, knowing that Tristan would soon be coming up the same path that Sandy would be walking down, had put her off and sent her home, hopefully in time to prevent them from running into each other.

      Tristan made his way across the kitchen floor to the alarm control box behind the hall door, worrying about the squeaking of his sneakers. He disabled the alarm with two seconds to spare. He was way too slow.

      He shook his head in disgust. He’d brought his walking stick with him, but he’d abandoned it by the French doors. He didn’t want to use it inside the house and take a chance on dropping it or banging it into something.

      He hobbled down the hall to the nursery, where he’d hidden the flash drive in plain sight. He’d thought at the time that he’d chosen an excellent hiding place. He had no idea how well it had worked, although he figured if anyone had found it, Boudreau would know.

      So unless Sandy had noticed it, the device was probably still exactly where he’d put it. He’d grab it and go, and Sandy would no longer have anything that anyone wanted.

      Of course, he’d have to figure out a way to assure the mysterious head of the terrorist group that had tried to smuggle guns, using his dock, that Sandy had no idea that he had been working undercover, nor was there anything in the house that could incriminate him.

      But he would work that out later. Right now he just needed to get the drive and get out of the house without Sandy hearing him.

      As he started to open the nursery door, he heard a sound from behind him. He stopped dead still and listened.

      Nothing. What had he heard, exactly? He reached for the knob and heard the same sound again. It was soft and low-pitched, and his heart wrenched when he realized what it was.

      That was Sandy. He was sure of it. She was talking. It was almost two o’clock in the morning. She should be sound asleep. She was a lark, an early riser. She’d never stayed up past midnight or gotten up later than seven or seven-thirty. Although she was pregnant now, and he remembered his mom telling her that she’d be going to the bathroom almost constantly by the time the baby was born.

      That was probably it. She’d gotten up to go to the bathroom. On the other hand, maybe she was talking or moaning in her sleep.

      He waited, listening. He was in no hurry. Once she settled down he could sneak out without her ever knowing he’d been there.

      He stood there on his left foot, flexing the right, trying to stretch and exercise the muscles that were left beneath the ugly scar where Boudreau had stitched up the gaping wound. Point then flex. Point then flex.

      After a few moments without a sound, he turned the knob again. He was just about to push the door open and slip into the nursery when he heard a familiar sound that twisted his aching heart even more. The sound of Sandy’s bare feet on the hardwood floor. Then the knob on the master bedroom door turned. Within the couple of seconds while he wondered if he had time to push the door open, slip through and ease it shut, the master bedroom door opened and his wife stepped through it into the hall.

      In the dim glow of a night-light from the kitchen, he saw that she had on pajama pants and a little sleeveless pajama top that stretched over an obvious baby bump. She’d hardly been showing at all the last time he’d seen her.

      He stared at her smooth, rounded belly barely covered by her pajama top. He wanted to touch it, to kiss it, to feel the movements of the tiny little child growing inside. He had missed her so much, and here she was, close enough that he could reach out and take her into his arms, and he couldn’t.

      If she knew he was alive, she would be furious—more than furious—that he’d let her believe he was dead. She wouldn’t understand the danger. She’d spent her entire life in the belief that just because he was with her, she was safe.

      That was the one thing about her that had always awed him.

      Sandy had always believed in him.

      He just prayed that she loved him enough to forgive him for this unforgivable hurt he’d caused her.

      She yawned and pushed her fingers through her hair, leaving it sticking out in tangled waves all over her head. He smiled. He knew her, knew her every move, her every little gesture. She was three-quarters asleep, padding on autopilot to the kitchen in her bare feet. Her habit of getting a drink of water without ever completely waking up might save him if he stood perfectly still. Often, people only noticed things that moved.

      He concentrated on keeping his bad leg still. If he tensed it too much, the muscles jerked involuntarily. “It’s okay,” she whispered.

      Shock flashed through his body like lightning and instantly the muscles in his right leg cramped. He clenched his jaw. Was she talking to him? He couldn’t move. Didn’t dare.

      “Ow. Watch it, bean. I know I woke you up. Just need some ice for my water and maybe a couple of crackers. Kinda nauseated,” she murmured, rubbing the side of her belly. “Then we’ll get back in bed.”

      She wasn’t talking to him. She was talking to her baby. To their baby. Tristan’s eyes stung. It hurt his heart to know how much he had missed. He’d been gone too much, working on the oil rig for two weeks or more at a time, and he’d missed most of the pregnancy. And now...now she thought he was dead.

      He held his breath as she took her first step up the hall. There was no way she could pass by without seeing him. He debated whether he should speak to her or wait and let her notice him on her own. Which would be less traumatic?

      Sandy jerked as the baby’s foot knocked the haze of sleep right out of her head. “Oh, why do you have to kick, bean,” Sandy said, rubbing her belly. “One day your foot’s going to kick right through—”

      She gasped and stopped cold. What was that? Her heart suddenly vied with the baby’s foot to see which could burst through her skin first. She pressed her fist to her chest.

      Dear God help her. There was someone there. In the dark. Right in front of her. Her first instinct was to turn and run, but she couldn’t move. Her arms and legs were numb with fear.

      “Who are you? Wh-what do you want?” she asked, trying to force a cold sternness into her voice, but hearing it quaver.

      The dark shadow didn’t move.

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