When a blush began to creep over my face, I was more mortified by my own

reaction than his mistake.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to embarrass you." He ducked his head sheepishly, but kept his warm grip on my hand.

"No, I'm not. It's just ..." It's just what? '"--l don't even know your

name."

A second set of warm fingers closed over my cold, trembling ones. HIS heated smile seared my heart as he cradled my hand between hi, palms.

"My name's Jack."

"Ppleased to meet you. I'm Tess." I lost my train of thought, staring

into the azure depths of his laugh-crinkled eyes. I shivered with an unexpected sense of excitement.

Concern replaced his amusement.

"You're shaking. Are you cold? Why don't we step outside on the balcony?

It's still quite warm out there. It's actually hot." "Hcyr ... Itorr ..." Jack's moan broke into her narrative, and Ellenscrambled out of her fictional world to return to his side. His temperature. was spiking again. He struggled against the swaddling as hecontinued to mutter the word hot. Pressing a wet cloth to his' foreheadshe wondered whether she should loosen the quilt.

"Jack, stop! You're going to hurt yourself. Please, Jack, Calm down."

He thrashed and groaned, heedless of her verbal reassurances.

"It's hot ... too hot! Fire everywhere. Burning ... watch out!" He

panted.

"Oh, God. Look out! Look out!" A fist shot out of the folds of the quilt and struck her in the forearm.

Hermitt suddenly came to life with teeth bared, streaking to her side

and pushing himlf between Ellen and her Killer Smile A Killer Smile

patient.

She ignored the sound and fury of Hermitt's growls as pain ricocheted upher right arm, leaving her fingers drawn up in an agonizing cramp.Shifting away from Jack, she cradled her injured arm close to her body,trying not to voice her pain in very unladylike, four-letter wor .

Obeying his protective instincts, Hermitt stood at alert even afterJack's contorted features relaxed.

"Hermitt," Ellen called.

"It's okay, Hermitt." The dog shot her an almost dubious look.

"It's really okay. Lie down."

Hermitt growled as he stretched out, pointedly placing himself betweenhis mistress and thek intruder. But in a few minutes, the old dog's goodintentions faded away as he fell asleep.

Ellen sighed and rubbed her arm, trying to bring a re-spouse into herlifeless fingers. After the sensation of feeling returned in pricklyneedles of pain, she wrapped the quilt tighter around her patient,wishing fervently it were a straitjacket.

Well, Mister Doe, Mr. Whoever, you're strong. Too strong. One more stuntlike that and I'll have to haul out the ropes and restrain you for myown protec--Protection. Protective.

Protective custody. Ellen eyed her sleep' rag guest. All her fearsflooded back to her, perhaps even stronger than her ore She could nolonger pretend she wasn't scared to death. She glanced down at the man,feeling the panic rise in her throat. Was he the one?

Was this the newly sculpted face of death?

Sleep softened his features, erasing the hard edge that the delirium hadadded to his face. His eyes were hidden behind lids fringed with thickblack lashes, and a small amount of color was returning to his cheeks.Then she noticed a thin scar along his jaw.

Plastic surgery ?

She backed away, battling the terror that engulfed her in an ice-cold wave.

Over the years, she had grown lax. Too lax. Had she actually believedtime and distance could erect an impenetrable barrier to proigct herfrom the ghosts of her past?

Of course not. Yet, somehow, she had felt safe.

She hadn't thought about Hank in a year. For twelve glorious monthsshe'd forgotten about his madness and his threats, forgotten about thosewho had died. She'd even fooled herself into believing she had chosen tolive in isolation for her own reasons, not for far of his retribution.

Hank had sent her a long rambling letter soon after he was settled inthe hospital, eight years ago. The first half of the letter accused herof all sorts of crimes against him, for making a mockery of their "pure" love. The second half was a precise, perverted description of what heintended to do about her betrayal.

Hank Bartholomew was crazy, considered legally insane by a court of law,but he wasn't stupid. When he began to act out the initial steps of hissyslem of vengeance against her, Ellen realized he meant to carry hisplans to a lethal finale. So she ran away, finding solace and safety inher isolated mountain cabin. She'd been there a little over four years,three years in fear, one year in feigned ignorance, an ignorance thathad now shattered.

"You'll never know when," he had written, repeating the threats he hadscreamed in the courtroom, "or where, or even who."

Ellen looked down at Jack's sleeping face.

Her first instinct was to ran. Again.

A Killer Smile A Killer Smile - She pushed her fist through the sleeveof her coat, but a plaintive sound cut through her anxiety and made herstop.

Jack groaned again.

What if he was Hank?

She studied 'his face carefully. He didn't look like Hank. didn't soundlike Hank.

The important question was: what if he wasn't Hank? Could she live withthe guilt of allowing an innocent man to die in order to protectherself? Wasn't that why she'd escaped to the mountain in the firstplace? So no other innocent people would die?

She stared at the thin scar.

I won't be able to help this man ifi think he's Hank. I must believehe's exactly what he seems to be--a hiker who fell on the trail and hurthimself.

I have to help him . She contemplated his features. Surely no plasticsurgeon could make such. radical changes to a man's face. It's not Hank.

It couldn't be; Ellen's renewed convictions succeeded in pushing thedoubt to a dark corner of her mind. Tension drained from her body as shehung her jacket back on its peg and returned to the fireplace, feelingtired and just a little light-headed. She stared at Jack's passive face,t13ring to hide her sympathy and lingering fears beneath a layer. ofcuriosity.

I wonder if he has blue eyes. No. that would seem too open, too honest.

She stopped herself. Why do I assume he's not honest? I don't knowanything about him. Not really. Her mind jumped ahead, despite herself-reproach.

Amber? The right color for a man of mystery ? She shook her head as iftrying to shake away the unwanlxl thoughts.

Any color but green. please!

After a few minutes she gathered enough courage to touch him. Herfingers barely grazed his bristled cheek, but an uncomfortable spark ofelectricity rode a wave of heat from his skin. Suddenly, the entirequ'dt shook. A tremor rocked Jack's body. His lips trembled as hemuttered something over and over.

She leaned closer.

"What? Say it again, I can't understand you." She flinched when his eyessnapped open. They weren't blue like Jack's, the high-society partygoer,or amber like her supposed man of myslery. Reflecting the light from theflickering fire, his eyes were a very ordinary and murky shade of brown.She recoded slightly when he focused directly on her.

"Am I dead?" His voice was surprisingly clear.

She tried to give him a reassuring smile, but her face wouldn't cooperale "No ... you're not:' She took as much consolation as she dared inthe unfamiliar timbre of his voice; he didn't sound like Hank.Definitely not like Hank.

"H-how do you feel?" she asked, stuttering under his direct gaze.

"Lousy. Who are you? Where am I?"

"I'm Ellen Coster. What's your name?" .

A thin furrow creased his forehead.

"My name?" His focus seemed to waver.

"Uh ... my name is ... Jack."

Chapter Two.

Lowering herself to the rocking chair, Ellen stared at the orangetongues of flame curling around the log in the fire place.

"Jack ..." As the word trailed from her lips, she felt a surge of reliefstart at her toes and flash up her body.

Brown-eyed Jack. Living and breathing and asleep on her floor. Jack, notHank. Not Hank with his green eyes, the color of greed, envy, and in hiscase, the color of mad- hess.

She permitted herself' to stare at him, to regategorize each featurethat seemed so damning. His height, the shape of his face, the breadthof his shoulders . all now seemed SO very unhanklilre.

Feeling a renewed sense of safety, Ellen curled up on her bed andallowed sleep to win the battle it had been raging with herconsciousness all night.

She had intended to awaken every few hours and check on her patient, butfatigue overpowered her and she slept SOUNDLY. What seemed to be onlymoments law, she woke with a start, instantly aware of the quiet chillin the air.

A fine coat of white ash covered the dying embers. Hours had passed, andnight had faded away to a hesitant dawn. In the pale, gray morning lightshe could see the A Killer Smile man stretched out in front of the stone hearth, still wrapped up in her grandmother's quilt. She tiptoed overthe cold wooden floor to stir the coals and add more wood to the weak fire.

Ellen knew she'd SOON be forced to venture outdoors to the woodshed to restock her dwindling indoor fuel. There was plenty of wood outside,split, cut and stacked, but she shivered at the thought of entering the'blizzard that had raged all night.

Another chill ran up her back, and she turned, knowing instinctivelythat Jack was awake. Her sense of safety vanished. He might not be Hank,but he was still a stranger.

She glanced into his inquisitive eyes.

"Good morning. How do you feel?"

"Like I slept in a straitjacket." He glanced down at the patchworkmaterial rocked beneath his chin.

"Would you mind?"

A hot flush of embarrassment crossed her face. She knelt beside him,struggling to unwrap the quilt.

"Sorry about this. You were delirious last night, and I didn't want youto hurt yourself."

Once his hands were free, he took over the task, ragging at the matexialand uncovering his bare torso. His eyes grew wide as he lifted the edgeof the quilt and peered he-neath at his level of undress.

Ellen felt her blush deepen.

"I had to undress you. It was so cold and your clothes were wet."

"I see." He cleared his throat and tucked the blanket back across his chest.

"How did I get here?"

"I'm not totally sure. You must have crawled here. I came home and foundyou by my fireplace."