"You're not going to get away with this. Why don't you make this easy on both of us and give it up before someone gets hurt?"

"Someone already has been hurt," she snapped. "Angela is dead and for some reason unbeknownst to me, the police think I did it. Now they're trying to kill me and that innocent little boy."

She used the back of her sleeve to wipe the sweat from her forehead. Her face was so pale the skin looked translucent. Her pistol hand shook, and she blinked as if she were having a difficult time focusing.

Madrid stepped toward her. "You look like you need a doctor."

"What I need is to know why the police are trying to hang this on me and why they want to hurt that little boy."

"Let me help you figure it out."

Raising the pistol, she choked out a desperate laugh and took a step back. "Stay away from me or I swear I'll pull this trigger."

"Jessica, give me the gun."

"Don't make me use-"

He lunged at her, shoved the muzzle toward the ceiling. A cry escaped her as his fingers closed around her gun hand. A gunshot exploded, and bits of plaster floated down. She was surprisingly strong for her size, but Madrid overpowered her with ease. One twist and the gun was his. Grasping her other arm at the shoulder, he shoved her back.

"Settle down," he snapped.

She fought well, but he doubted she weighed much more than a hundred pounds soaking wet. She'd been no match for his six-foot-three frame and 180-pound bulk.

"I'm taking you in for the murder of Angela Matheson," he said.

"I didn't kill her." She staggered, using her arm against the wall to regain her balance. "You have to believe me."

"Tell it to the judge, honey." Tugging cuffs from his belt, he started toward her. "Turn around and show me your wrists."

Before he could enforce the order, she staggered again. She grasped the doorjamb to maintain her balance. But her eyes rolled back white. Her knees buckled and she reached out as if to break her fall. Then she pitched forward like a dead weight.

Chapter Two.

Madrid caught her just in time to keep her from falling. He knew the faint was a ploy. A feeble attempt to regain control of the situation-or the gun. He was forced to rethink that a.s.sumption when he noticed fresh blood on the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

"d.a.m.n it," he muttered.

She was like a rag doll against him. Her skin was hot to the touch and slick with sweat. She was burning up with fever. The scent of sandalwood and sweet vanilla t.i.tillated his nostrils as he swept her into his arms. He was aware of the brush of her hair against his face and the soft curves of a very female body. Details he shouldn't be noticing about a woman who'd shot and killed a fellow agent.

Cursing, he looked around the dim interior of the cottage. The small kitchen opened to a living room, where a leather sofa was piled high with Navajo-print pillows. He carried her to the sofa, shoved the pillows aside and laid her down. At some point her sweatshirt had ridden up. As if of its own accord, his gaze flicked to an exposed midriff that was curvy and flat. He saw the silhouette of smallish b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Lower, the denim hugged shapely hips and slender thighs. She didn't look like a killer, but he knew from experience that looks could be deceiving.

Dragging his gaze away from details he was a fool to notice at a time like this, he tugged the sweatshirt down and tried to ascertain where the blood was coming from. Turning on the lamp beside the sofa, he knelt, located another stain on her sleeve the size of a saucer. Definitely blood.

Madrid had seen enough shootings in the course of his career to know when someone had been shot. He wondered why Mummert hadn't mentioned it. In most police departments the firing of a weapon called for at least a ream of paperwork. Had he known there was a possibility she'd been shot, Madrid would have checked area hospitals. Had one of Norm Mummert's men shot her? Or had Angela done it while trying to protect herself?

Madrid tugged the sleeve up. The knotted gauze on her left biceps was blood soaked. From the look of it, she'd tried to bandage it herself, but hadn't been able to manage with one hand. Quickly he untied the haphazard bandage and removed it.

The bullet had grazed her, digging a trench through flesh and muscle. The wound wasn't dangerously deep, but it had bled plenty. If he wasn't mistaken, infection was setting in.

Considering what this woman had done, there was a part of him that thought she deserved whatever bad luck fate could dole out. But the human part of him hated seeing a pretty woman hurt.

She thrashed about and a moment later her eyes fluttered open, though they remained unfocused. "Didn't...do...it."

"Take it easy," Madrid said roughly.

"No." She lashed out with her fists. "Cops...tried to...kill me."

"Stay still."

"Please...don't let them...hurt Nicolas."

The reference to the boy gave him pause, but only for a second. "Where's the boy?" he asked.

"Angela asked me to...keep him safe...from the cops."

Madrid felt himself go still, wondering if she'd just said what it sounded like. "What did you say?"

She mumbled something unintelligible that ended with the only words he could understand. "She gave me...photo."

"What photo?" he pressed. "What the h.e.l.l are you talking about?"

But her eyes rolled back. She groaned and her body went slack. Frustration more than concern washed over him when she lapsed into unconsciousness.

He stared down at her, hating the fact that he wasn't going to be able to cuff her and drag her to jail by the scruff of her pretty neck. That maybe this wasn't as simple as he'd thought.

Cops...tried to...kill me.

Her words rang in his ears as he sat back on his heels and tried to decide what to do next. He told himself he shouldn't believe a word of what she'd said. The woman had shot a federal agent, a.s.saulted a police officer, kidnapped a minor and gone on the run. She was desperate and would do anything to save herself.

But there was one thing missing: motive. Because of that he couldn't quiet the niggling little voice in the back of his mind warning him that things might not be as they appeared.

Madrid had been an agent far too long to take anything at face value. He trusted no one, he believed very little of what he was told.

But he also knew that many times delirium was like a truth serum. When people were sick out of their minds they didn't have the wherewithal to lie. Especially an elaborate lie and a bullet wound to back it up.

Outside, the storm had broken. Rain lashed the roof with the same violence as the sea pounding the rocky coast. Thunder rattled the windows, and wind gusts shook the cottage. Heeding nature's message, Madrid accepted the fact that he would not be taking this woman back to the mainland tonight.

He considered calling Mummert's office to let him know he had her in custody. But something stopped him. He didn't want to acknowledge the doubt nipping at the back of his consciousness. But it was there, like a headache waiting to be reckoned with. Angela had been a top-notch agent; she'd had good instincts when it came to people. So why had she opened her door to this woman? Why had she told her about this cottage? The answer disturbed him as much as the questions themselves.

Angela had trusted Jessica Atwood.

Madrid stared down at her sweat-soaked face, the bloodstain on her shirt. All the while her words echoed hollowly in his ears.

Angela asked me to...keep him safe...from the cops.

Madrid knew better than anyone that people weren't always who they said they were; first impressions could be deceiving. After all, he was a master at deception himself. But he'd learned a long time ago to trust his instincts. He didn't like it, but right now his instincts were telling him something was amiss.

He'd wanted to end this tonight and take this woman in. He wanted her to pay for taking a life and leaving a little boy without a mother. He'd wanted to prove a point to Sean Cutter. Madrid hated it, but none of those things was going to happen as quickly as he'd wanted.

"Who the h.e.l.l are you?" he whispered above the din of rain against the roof.

Recalling she'd mentioned a photo, he looked around, found nothing, then glanced down at her. Her eyes were closed, but her limbs were restless. He wondered if the photo really existed or if she'd been delirious. Or lying. Would the photo answer any of the questions zinging around in his head?

He wasn't above searching a woman, unconscious or otherwise. Especially if it might help solve the murder of a fellow agent. The sweatshirt had no pockets, but her jeans did. Frowning, he slid his hand into her front pocket and felt around. Nothing. He shifted her slightly and tried the other, found it empty. Turning her onto her side, he checked the rear pocket. His fingertip brushed something slick-plastic. He slid it from its nest. A plastic bag...with a picture inside it.

The quality was grainy, but clear enough for him to discern the dozen or so young women jammed into what looked like a small room. He removed the photo and studied it. Most of the women appeared to be of Asian descent. Some were bound, a few looked battered. All of them looked frightened.

"What the h.e.l.l?"

The floor creaked behind him. He reached for the pistol he'd taken from Atwood, and swung it around. The sight of the little boy standing a few feet away hit him in the gut like a punch. He was five or six years old, tops, and wearing a pair of baggy blue jeans, a red sweatshirt and a Giants baseball cap. In his arms he clutched a stuffed hippo.

"Mah-mah."

For the first time since arriving, Madrid felt as if he were out of his element. He might be a whiz at chasing down killers, but when it came to kids he hadn't a clue. "It's okay," he whispered.

The little boy didn't acknowledge him. His eyes were fastened on the woman collapsed on the sofa. Crying out, the child ran to her, threw his arms around her and began to rock.

"Mah-mah."

Madrid watched the scene unfold. He might not know a d.a.m.n thing about kids, but he knew enough about human nature. One thing was for certain-this child was not afraid of Jessica Atwood.

"What the h.e.l.l is going on here?" he muttered.

The only answer he got was the pounding of rain against the roof and the uneasy sensation that nothing was as it seemed.

JESS FLOATED TO CONSCIOUSNESS one sense at a time. The first thing she became aware of was the incessant crash of the sea against the rocky sh.o.r.e. Then the ebb and flow of pain in her left arm. She was lying on her side with her knees pulled up to her chest.

Everything that had happened rushed back like the memory of some terrible nightmare. Adrenaline sent her bolt upright even before her eyes were fully open. Pain in her arm wrenched a cry from her, sent her back down. For a moment she lay there, confused and fighting panic.

"Welcome back" came a low male voice.

Jess opened her eyes and found herself staring at a man with eyes the color of midnight. A day's growth of whiskers darkened his lean jaw. He was watching her with an intensity that unnerved her, the way a predator might watch injured prey seconds before pouncing.

He was the man who'd accosted her outside the cottage. She remembered struggling with him. He'd identified himself as a federal agent. But then, why wasn't she in jail? Or at the very least in a hospital bed with an armed guard posted at the door?

"You don't look like a fed," she said.

One side of his mouth curved, but his eyes remained cool, aloof. "You don't look like a killer."

She thought of Angela and closed her eyes against the quick swipe of pain. "I'm not a killer."

"Save it for some bleeding-heart jury."

"I want to see your credentials."

The sound he made was more growl than laugh.

"The last guy who identified himself as a cop tried to kill me," she added.

Scowling, he tugged a thin black wallet from his jeans and held it out for her to see. It was a photo ID- Mike Madrid. U.S. Attorney's Office.

"It's a fake," he said.

"I figured that," she returned dryly.

"I'm not with the U.S. attorney's office. I'm CIA. More specifically the MIDNIGHT Agency. The fake ID was to get me past the local PD."

"Why is the CIA involved?"

"I was hoping you could tell me." He shoved the wallet back into his pocket.

"All I know is that one of my best friends in the whole world is dead and now the police are trying to kill me."

"You expect me to believe that?"

"I don't know what to expect anymore." Jess looked around, tried to get her bearings. The windows were dark. She could hear rain lashing the roof, the sea battering the beach at the foot of the cliffs. She had no idea how long she'd been unconscious.

"How long was I out?" she ask him.

"Almost an hour." He leaned back slightly and studied her with dark, inscrutable eyes. "How did you get that bullet wound?"

"I told you. The cops tried to kill me."

"That's pretty much standard operating procedure when a murder suspect attacks a police officer and tries to run."

"I was not armed and I did not attack a cop. I ran because the cop was going to kill us." Worry trickled through her when she thought of Nicolas. "Where's Nicolas?"

"In the bedroom."

"I want to see him." When he only looked at her, she added, "Please. He's scared. He misses his mother."

"You can see him after you've answered my questions."

Hating that he had the upper hand, that she was going to have to cooperate, she struggled to a sitting position, wincing when her arm protested. That was when she realized she was no longer wearing her clothes. She glanced down at the unfamiliar T-shirt. Alarm vibrated through her, followed by a terrible sense of vulnerability. "Where are my clothes?"

"In the dryer."

"But why did you..." Not wanting to finish the sentence, she let her words trail. "You had no right to..."

"The bullet wound wasn't going to wait. It needed to be cleaned and bandaged. You were covered with blood and mud, and frankly I couldn't see leaving you like that."