"Nathan?" she called cautiously. "What are you doing?"

"Watch." He crouched down close to Phil and removed the gun from his coat pocket.

"Nathan!"

He aimed, cocked the hammer, and fired.

She screamed. She couldn't believe her eyes. Nathan had just shot a man in cold blood. She watched in stunned silence as he dropped the gun next to Phil.

A moment later, he was by her side, flipping open his cell phone and tapping in 911. "It was him or me, Sophie. You saw it. We fought. I got the gun away from him and fired. It all happened in a matter of seconds."

She stared at him. That wasn't the way it happened at all. But she got the message. It was what she was supposed to say when the police questioned her.

"I saved your life, Sophie. I don't want gratitude. I just want you to finally realize how much I love you, that I'd do anything for you." He listened to the phone. "Yes. My name is Nathan Buckridge. Send a squad and an ambulance to the Northland parking garage in downtown St. Paul, level DD. Hurry. A woman was just shot in the arm."

38.

The following Monday, Sophie woke to the sound of singing. When she opened her eyes, she felt as if she were floating in a beautiful garden. But then she remembered that her arm was in a splint, and the beautiful garden was a bunch of unwanted bouquets provided by one man.

Nathan entered, his tenor voice crooning out Sarah McLachlan's "Angel." He knew it was one of her favorites, but coming out of his mouth-with the spin he put on it-the song didn't have the desired effect. She wasn't happy to see him, nor was she thrilled with his effort to turn her hospital room into a floral exhibit. As far as she was concerned, it was just one more example of his obsessive, excessive nature. If he hadn't just saved her life, she would have insisted he be barred from the hospital.

Sophie had seen a part of Nathan that not only terrified, but sickened her. Since she was admitted to the hospital three days ago, he would pop in whenever he felt like it. She asked him to call first, but there was a new wariness in her requests, one that he seemed to relish. Perhaps he read it as acquiescence, that he'd proved his point: not only did he have a right to be part of her life, but she needed him. He hadn't said it out loud, but they both knew he'd been following her the day she'd been attacked. Okay, so if he hadn't been there, she might be dead now. It was that inescapable fact that had caused her to go along with his fiction about how Phil died. In some deeply twisted way, she knew it bound them together.

Sophie had wanted to tell Bram the truth, but she was afraid that if she did, he wouldn't be able to keep quiet about it. Either he'd go off half-cocked and beat Nathan to a bloody pulp, or be beaten himself, or he'd insist they tell the police what really happened. It wasn't that he was a stickler for total honesty, but Sophie was sure he'd think that Al could help her beat any charges stemming from lying to the police, and Bram would salivate at the chance of putting Nathan away for good. Her decision to allow Nathan to suck her into his lie hadn't been a smart one, but for good or ill, it was a done deal. As it stood right now, the police were calling Phil's death a justifiable homicide. Everything would blow over in time. She simply had to make Nathan understand that they weren't fated to be together.

But the worst part was how the entire situation had affected Bram. The poor man had to be grateful now to Nathan for saving her life. Bram felt he owed him-big-time-and yet he still hated the sight of him. Nathan had committed the perfect crime. He'd wormed his way into Sophie and Bram's life in a way that couldn't be easily dismissed.

"How's the patient this morning?" asked Nathan, pulling another bouquet of roses from behind his back. This time, they were peach. Sophie hated peach-colored roses. "Here, smell?" He brought them close to her nose.

"Thanks," she said.

"I know. I don't like the color either, but the fragrance reminded me of all the nights you and I spent in the Rose Garden by Lake Harriet. Remember?" He moved over to the window and made room on the ledge for his newest gift. "So? How's the arm?"

"It hurts." The bullet had fractured her left humerus, then lodged next to it. Sophie had undergone surgery a few hours after being brought to the hospital. The prognosis was good, but the recovery would be lengthy and painful.

"I thought the flowers would help." He smiled down at her. "Guess it will be a while before we can go dancing."

"Nathan-"

Out in the hall, Sophie could hear Bram's laugh. Her blood pressure zoomed. She hated it anytime Bram and Nathan collided. As her husband pushed through the door, she saw that Al Lundquist was with him.

"Well, Mr. Buckridge," said Al, extending his hand. "Good to see you again."

"Hi," said Bram. The smile on his face had already faded.

Nathan grinned. "Just brought Soph some flowers to cheer her up." Glancing at his watch, he added, "But I've got to dash. I have a restaurant to run."

"So I hear," said Al. "I'll have to get over there one of these days."

"Just let me know," said Nathan. "Dinner's on me."

"Hey, thanks."

"See you around," said Bram.

Nathan took one last look at Sophie, and then left.

"So," said Al, pulling up an orange plastic chair, "how's that nasty break doing?" He seemed totally unaware of the currents of emotion surging through the air.

"I think I'll live," said Sophie.

"She'll live, all right," said Bram, sitting down on the bed next to her and giving her a kiss. "I'll make sure of that." Folding his hand around hers, he said, "Al has news."

"About Phil?" asked Sophie.

"About Chris. Get this. Since she was married to the bastard before he died, she's now a relatively wealthy woman. He apparently had a lot of debts, but after she sells the house and the construction company, she figures she'll still have enough money to take care of her for a long long time. And she's going to keep the interests he had in various restaurants. Who knows? She may turn out to be a real restaurateur one day."

"I'm so glad," said Sophie. She'd been worried about Chris. The fact that there wouldn't need to be a trial now was undoubtedly a big load off her shoulders-and Sophie's.

"Okay, Al," said Bram. "Now that the case is closed, can you please tell us what the deal was with Bob Fabian? If he didn't die because of the gunshot, what did he die of?"

Al scratched the back of his neck. "Well, I suppose I can talk about it. We're nowhere on the case, and if my gut tells me right, it's probably headed for the cold case file. It seems he was poisoned."

"Poisoned?" repeated Sophie. "How? By who?"

"Like I said, we don't know. We don't even know what the poison was. But you're right. The bullet didn't kill him. We rushed him to the emergency room. The doctors were sure they could save him, but he died on the operating table. His body just flat-out shut down. They did some tox screens, and they're positive he ingested something lethal, but as far as what it was, who did it, and why, we've got nothing but a big goose egg."

"So two attempts were made on his life that night," said Sophie softly. "He was dying even before Phil shot him."

"Appears so."

"I guess when your number comes up, it really comes up," said Bram.

"At this point, the case remains open," said Al. "But it will probably be ruled a suicide. A sad end to an amazing life." He stood. "Well, duty calls. I'll leave you two lovebirds alone and get back to the grind."

"Thanks for coming, Al," said Sophie.

"You get better now." He cracked a knuckle.

She winced. "I will."

As soon as he was gone, Bram asked Sophie to scoot over so he could lie down on the bed next to her.

"Don't get any frisky ideas."

"Of course not," he said, turning on his side and putting his arm around her waist. Very gently, he pulled her close. "How long was Prince Charming here?"

"Only a few minutes."

He was silent a moment. "Soph?"

"Hmm?"

"I've been thinking."

"Uh-oh. You must be exhausted."

"Cute." More silence. "Nathan said he was in the parking lot Friday afternoon because he'd come by to see Margie. Except, she wasn't around."

"Right."

"The police bought it, Sophie, but I didn't."

She'd been expecting this conversation. She was surprised it hadn't happened earlier.

"He was following you, wasn't he."

She looked up at the ceiling. "Yes. I think so. I can't prove it."

"He's clever."

"I never know for sure. I think he's been . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"Stalking?"

She hadn't wanted to say that word out loud, but yes. That's exactly what it felt like. "I don't know what to think. Believe me, I've been doing my best to eject him from my life, but he never seems to get it."

"Oh, he gets it, all right. But he's got a different agenda in mind. Do you think . . . I mean, is it possible he's dangerous?"

Sophie looked down at her wedding ring. "I think he could be."

"I don't care if the pope makes him a saint. If he causes us any more problems, I'm getting a restraining order against him."

All she could think to say was, "Okay."

"God, I wish he hadn't just saved your life. I was the one who should have been there. Instead, I was sitting outside Phil's apartment, watching his girlfriend pack."

"You didn't know."

"But I should have. Al warned me to go home and keep a low profile. What I said on my radio show might have pushed him over the edge."

She turned and kissed him softly. "No more of this. What's done is done. We're both alive, and that's what's important."

He stared at her a moment, then smiled. "If my wife says it, it must be true."

She couldn't help but grimace.

Glancing around the room, he continued, "I would have brought you flowers, but they're so impersonal. Know what I mean?"

She laughed. "Absolutely."

"So," he said, dipping his hand into his jacket pocket, "I brought you this instead."

Her eyes lit up. "Kransakaka! From my favorite bakery?"

"Nothing else would do."

"Oh, honey, you know the way to a woman's heart-at least, this woman's."

"True."

This time when he kissed her, he didn't stop.

39.

"I have never ever in my whole life had someone talk to me like that," blurted Margie. "You have to do something about him, Dad. I think, at the very least, Henry owes me an apology."

Bram had taken his daughter to the Rookery Club for dinner. Sophie would be released from the hospital tomorrow, and he wanted to spend a little time with Margie before he brought his wife home.

"Look, honey-"

"That man hates me. Me! I'm one of the nicest people I know! Besides, what have I ever done that was so bad? He thinks I'm leeching off you and Sophie just because you're helping me out! I mean, that's what parents are for. They're supposed to help their kids. Like, I didn't ask to be brought into this world."

"Calm down, sweetheart." People in the restaurant were starting to stare.

"He called me a brat, Dad. He even spelled it, like I was some sort of moronic dweeb."

"Well, yes, dear, that was totally beyond the pale." Bram sipped his Manhattan and tried to look concerned.

"Damn straight it was. In my opinion, he's drawn a line in the sand. Our family against his. That's the way I see it. And if he wants war, he's got one."

"Margie, Sophie's father is used to giving orders. You interrupted him while they were working. It's really not that big a deal."

"Not a big deal? Not . . . a . . . big . . . deal! Dad, he sat there and accused me-me, the last word in diplomacy and tact-of sticking it to Sophie every chance I got."

"Well, actually-"