"How is your shoulder?"

"Not bad. A little stiff."

Marisa watched him as he flexed the fingers of his injured arm and then looked up at her.

"So how did you get off the reservation?" she asked. "If you don't mind telling me, that is."

"I don't mind. It was the usual story. A teacher took an interest in me, helped me get a scholarship."

"To college?"

"To a prep school first, then to college."

"I can't imagine you at a prep school," Marisa said, before she could censor herself.

"Cochise at Choate?" he said, raising one dark brow.

"I didn't meant that," she murmured, unable to meet his eyes.

"That was about the size of it. I didn't go to Choate, but the school was similar."

"Was it awful?" Marisa asked softly.

"I didn't exactly fit in with the preppies, but I endured it. I knew that it was my only chance and I took it."

"And college?"

He grinned. "Oh, college was different. I had a great time."

Marisa could imagine the swath he cut through the coeds. Her expression must have reflected what she was thinking because he said, "I became a significant minority experience for a number of female undergraduates, until I realized what was motivating them."

Marisa looked at him inquiringly.

"Curiosity," he said flatly. "Not very flattering certainly, but accurate. They weren't interested in me, but in something, or somebody, different."

"I'm sure that wasn't true of everyone," Marisa said quietly.

He tilted his head to one side. "How have you remained such an innocent, in your job?"

"In my job? I like that. I'm not exactly a hit woman for the mob, you know."

"But you've seen a side of life many women never encounter. Hasn't it changed you?"

Marisa thought about it. "I guess my experiences haven't exactly made it easy for me to trust people," she admitted.

He burst out laughing and the sound was so infectious that she had to smile, too.

"Tell me about it," he said, chuckling. "That first day when I tried to warn you there might be trouble you thought I was running you out of town."

"You wouldn't have been the first to try it," she said.

"So you're tough, eh?"

"Tough enough."

"You don't look tough. Right now you look like a tomboy about to play third base in a sandlot game."

Marisa's hand went to her hair self-consciously.

"Oh, leave it alone, I'm teasing you. You don't take much to teasing either, do you?"

"I guess not."

"It's time someone loosened you up, took some of the steel out of your spine. Does that sober air come along with your st.u.r.dy New England roots?"

"You make me sound like some Puritan marching around in a mobcap and starched ap.r.o.n. Am I really so forbidding?"

"No," he said softly, his eyes lambent.

She had to look away.

"Have you always lived in Maine?" he asked in a normal tone, pouring himself more coffee.

"Yes, I was born there, in Freeport. I went to the University at Augusta. Now I work in Portland and live in c.u.mberland Foreside, a suburb a few miles out."

"Foreside?"

"Oceanfront."

"I see. So you're a real Yankee, the genuine article. With that accent and a name like Hanc.o.c.k, who could dispute it? Are you one of John's descendants?"

"The family claims so, but who knows? I have an aunt who's always doing genealogical charts. It's a cottage industry in the 'colonies'. They draw them up for the tourists."

He smiled. "And where did Marisa come from?"

"My mother is French."

"An interesting combination." He put his cup aside and yawned. "I'm sorry," he said, rising. "The coffee did not have the desired effect, I feel..." He reached out suddenly and Marisa rushed to take his arm.

"Are you all right?" she asked anxiously.

"Little woozy," he mumbled. She led him to the bed and he sat on its edge.

"Is it time for some of your pills?" she asked.

He glanced blearily at his watch. "I guess so."

"You guess so?" she said, alarmed.

"Two, I think."

"Let me get you some water from the bathroom," she said, moving toward the door. She had trouble locating a clean gla.s.s and finally found a wrapped one in the medicine cabinet, then ran the water until it was cold. When she emerged with the drink in her hand she found him sprawled across her bed, fast asleep.

Marisa froze, staring at him, then crept closer. She was loath to disturb him. She felt guilty for keeping him talking to her when he was just out of the hospital, but the temptation to be with him, find out more about him, had been too great.

She set the gla.s.s on the lamp table and sat next to him on the bed, studying the sharp planes of his face, the hard line of his mouth now relaxed into sleep. He was not pretty, his individual features were bold and arresting rather than handsome, but somehow they worked in combination to make him the most attractive man she had ever met.

And now the most attractive man she had ever met was asleep on the bed in her hotel room.

What was she going to do?

She could try to wake him and take him back to wherever he was staying, but in his condition that would be a project, and his exhaustion was so apparent that she could not bear to wake him.

Making up her mind, Marisa drew the coverlet over his sleeping form and then hung the Do Not Disturb sign out for the staff. Remembering that Tracy would return later, she went through the connecting door to Tracy's room and left a note for her, asking her not to come through and saying that she would explain in the morning. Then she went back and checked on her charge.

Jack was sleeping peacefully, a slow pulse beating in his throat. Marisa found his jacket on the chair and rummaged in the pocket, locating his pills. They were a commonly prescribed painkiller, and since he seemed to be in no discomfort Marisa decided he could do without them. When she shoved the plastic vial back into his pocket a crumpled piece of paper fell out onto the floor.

Feeling ashamed of her snooping, she nevertheless smoothed it out and read it.

"Rm. 232, ex. 1545" was scrawled on it in a boldly flowing, masculine hand.

It was her room number and telephone extension at the hotel. He had been carrying it around with him.

Marisa sat in the chair he had vacated, clutching the sc.r.a.p as if it were a talisman.

This was all wrong, and she knew it. Jack was involved with her case and furthermore, he was the opposition's staunchest supporter. So why didn't any of it seem to matter? Why was she willing to jeopardize case and career and future for a man she'd spent barely a few hours with, under the most unfavorable circ.u.mstances? It seemed to be the question of the hour, of her life, in fact.

Meanwhile, she had a guest.

Mama took the clip out of her hair, switched off the lamp and locked the door of her room, and then slipped onto the bed next to Jack. She was sure she wouldn't sleep, but of course she did, too worn out from her emotions to stay awake. The last thing she remembered was the sound of Jack's breathing in the dark.

Jack woke first in the morning, grainy eyed and disoriented, squinting at the unfamiliar curtains on the windows. He turned slightly, gasped at the pain in his shoulder, and then caught sight of Marisa, sleeping on her stomach beside him. It took him several seconds to sort out what had happened; then he sat up slowly to get a better look at Marisa, being careful not to shake the bed and disturb her.

Marisa's face was crushed into the pillow with one flushed cheek exposed, a tendril of fine blonde hair trailing over it. She was fast asleep, lips parted to expose a row of teeth, one fist clutching the sheet like a child. Jack held back from touching her as long as he could, but the temptation was just too great. He slipped his hand under the weight of her hair and cupped the back of her neck.

Marisa stirred, then rolled over as he increased the pressure of his fingers. Her lashes fluttered and then lifted. She woke to find Jack leaning over her, his good arm beneath her shoulders.

His whiskey-colored eyes seemed to fill the world. The yearning in them so closely matched her own that no words were needed. She put her arms around his neck as he bent his head to kiss her.

His mouth was softer than she would have guessed, but his body was hard, lean and muscular, as he pressed her into the bed. She kept telling herself that she should pull away, but the delicious contact, so often imagined, was too wonderful to end it. His shirt parted from his belt as he moved and her hand found the naked skin of his back, smooth and warm and supple. He groaned as she touched him and his lips traveled from her mouth to her neck; Marisa arched to expose more of her flesh to his caress. He pulled her tighter against him and she sighed luxuriously; not even the crackling of the bandage beneath his shirt gave her pause. She was too hungry and he was too expert, too eager. When he drew back and pulled her top up she was submissive until his hand slipped beneath it and found her bare breast. Then she gasped and stiffened, but he mastered her immediately, rocking her gently, his breath fanning her cheek.

"Please," he muttered. "Oh, please."

Marisa was undone. She was no match for him, especially when she wanted him so much. She lay back and lifted her arms; he was tugging her shirt off over her head when the telephone rang.

They both froze, like blowzy characters caught in the act in a French farce.

"Ignore it," Jack murmured, tightening his grip.

"It might be the office," Marisa said, coming to her senses, color flooding into her face as she glanced down at her disordered clothes. She struggled away from him and sat up, tucking her shirt into her jeans.

"Oh, d.a.m.n the office," he muttered, falling back on the bed with his arm over his eyes.

Marisa grabbed the receiver. "h.e.l.lo?" she said hoa.r.s.ely.

"Marisa, is that you?" Charlie Wellman said.

She coughed, clearing her throat. "Yes."

"Are you coming down with a cold?" Charlie said.

"No, I'm fine. What is it, Charlie?"

"I sent you the files you requested by overnight mail, they should be there by noon. If they don't come to your room check at the desk."

"Thanks, Charlie. I'm going over to the courthouse this morning and I should be able to give you the final figures on the cemetery removal plan in a couple of days."

There was a long pause at the other end of the line. "Marisa," Charlie said gently, "it's Sat.u.r.day."

"Oh, right. Well, let's say by Wednesday, then."

"Is something wrong, kid?" Charlie said.

Marisa glanced at Jack, who was watching her through narrowed eyes, propped up on his good arm.

"No, of course not. Events have been moving so fast I'm just losing track of time."

"Are you sure you shouldn't come home? Every time I think about that boy taking a potshot at you I want to put you on the next plane. We'll find somebody else to take over down there."

"I want to finish what I started, Charlie."

"Okay. I can understand that. How is Bluewolf?"

"Out of the hospital," she said. And on my bed, she thought.

"All right. I won't keep you. Give my best to Tracy."

"I will."

"Goodbye."

"'Bye."

"The long arm of Portland?'' Jackson said dryly as she hung up the phone.

"Yes," Marisa said shortly.