She moved to the living area-a couch, television and table. Serviceable and neat. He had an acoustic guitar; its case was open and some sheet music was spread across the coffee table. There were shelves stacked with books-Jacob was obviously a reader.

She felt a pang of sadness in her chest. She didn't even know what she was looking for. She just knew that she wanted to cry over having to do this.

And then, tucked between a sketchbook and a stack of spy thrillers, she found a textbook t.i.tled Hostage Rescue. Sinking onto the couch, she cradled the heavy volume.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

She gazed up at him. He had changed into jeans and a U.S. Secret Service T-shirt.

"Is this textbook from your work training?"

Jacob sat on the arm of the couch next to her. His voice was gentle. "Yes, it is. Are you looking for something? I've been watching you for a few minutes now."

She closed the cover of the book and tapped her finger on it. "Your father was involved in the rescuing of my two cousins. We haven't really talked about that."

Slowly he nodded. "You're right."

"Jacob, I'm sorry he was killed. That must have been horrible for you."

He smiled faintly. "Thanks. I never really knew him. My mom doesn't talk about him, either, so..."

"It must have been difficult for you growing up without him."

He shrugged slightly. "I'd always known he'd abandoned us, even before he was killed. I didn't have great feelings about him. I was angry that he'd left my mother. I wished I could talk with him and ask him why he did it."

"You never had answers?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Eventually, I just sort of put him out of my mind. When I became friends with Eddie, and we were both interested in applying to the police academy, my mom...she got really angry. That was the first time we'd ever had a rift like that. She didn't want me to join the NYPD, not after what happened to my father."

"Yes, I can see her point. But you did it anyway?"

"I...like being in law enforcement. I like being good at it." He caressed her cheek. "I think everybody needs to be good at something."

She felt a lump in her throat.

"This," he said, "what you and I are doing now, is how honest I want to be with you. It's how I want to be." He was silent for a moment. "Do you think you can forgive me for not being more honest with you earlier? I feel bad for making you look incompetent to your uncle. And for upsetting you."

"You do?" she breathed.

"Yeah." He traced his finger along her chin. "Your feelings are important to me, Isabel."

She lowered her gaze. "Truthfully, I spent most of the weekend thinking about the wedding...especially when Rhiannon was on the monitor and I told you all those things, in confidence, about who she and Malcolm were. That would have been a good time for you to tell me everything, Jacob." Her throat tightened, and she couldn't finish. She couldn't even look at him.

He sat on the couch beside her. He was staring at his hands on his knees. It seemed he couldn't look at her, either. "Maybe...I'm learning to be more open," he said.

She thought back to their lovemaking. He'd been open there.

She put her hand on his knee. "Is this because...your family doesn't talk about things?"

"I don't think you can blame them for what I do or don't do."

"I don't blame anybody. I think we all protect ourselves the best way we know how, don't we?" She ran a finger over the cover of his textbook. "I mean, n.o.body wants to be a hostage."

Least of all her. She kept thinking about what her uncle had asked her to do-or rather, what she had suggested in her rush to please her uncle.

A risk a.s.sessment.

What was Jacob's risk to them?

She looked at him point-blank. "You said that you need to know what happened with your father because...your employer requires it."

"Yeah. That's the immediacy of it. But..." He ran a hand through his short hair. "It's become more than that to me." He tapped a finger to his chest. "I'd like to know. And I should know." He paused. "The point being, it's truth. And I don't want to hurt you guys. Far from it. My father-my real father, Donald Ross-hurt me and my mother more than anyone else ever could. He abandoned us, long before he died. I have no illusions about that. There's no legacy for me to rehabilitate."

He shook his head. "I just need to know. Not just for work, but for me. To give me some sense of meaning that will never be shared beyond you, me, my employer and maybe my little sister, if she asks."

Isabel curled into his lap. She wanted to give all that to him. Maybe she could help him.

"Tell me what I can do, Jacob. What specific things do you need from my uncle? Do you need a Q&A session with him? Is that what the Christmas invitation with him was all about?"

"Yes. I asked him for a talk. That's all I want. Just to find out from him what happened, because he knows."

"My cousins were abducted and held for ransom strictly for the money, because we, as Sages, owned a private company. Malcolm and Rhiannon suffered for it-they were held for eleven days. My uncle has always felt guilty, I think, over what happened to Rhiannon, especially. He has a soft spot for her and Malcolm."

"Yes, I sensed that, too, based on what I saw at the wedding and what you also told me. But, Isabel, I don't want to open any old wounds. That's the last thing I want. If I can just get an investigator's understanding, the same as any case-study cla.s.s in a hostage negotiation-" He tapped the book. "Just the basics-like a diagram and layout of the facility where the incident occurred. A time line with numbers and scope of the law enforcement personnel involved. A narrative of the decisions made and operations taken. A description of the hostage-takers and their demands. The weaponry and caliber of bullets used."

"I'm not sure we can get you all that," she said, feeling overwhelmed.

"We can try, can't we?" His eyes were blazing, burning with desire and emotion.

And suddenly she knew. If she could somehow find a way to salvage this, to meet his requirements, then maybe they could salvage their relationship, too. Maybe they could find a way to make a love affair work.

It was crazy. And yet...

She turned to him. "Do you think we can make this relationship between us happen?" she asked.

He nodded, seemingly overcome with emotion.

All she could do was try.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

"UNCLE?" ISABEL SAID into her mobile phone at four-thirty in the morning, her time. She'd come home from Jacob's flat a few hours ago, and the first thing she'd done was jot down everything they'd discussed. "I have the risk a.s.sessment you asked me to perform."

"So soon?"

"Yes. I skipped cla.s.ses yesterday and spent the afternoon in a dialogue with Jacob."

Then she recited from her prepared notes, giving her uncle a sanitized version of what Jacob had requested from them.

She knew that Jacob cared for her, but that he burned even more with the quest he needed to fulfill. She understood because she also had a quest-one that she couldn't give up, either.

As they'd parted last night, snow had been falling, a light dusting under the streetlights of the city. He'd driven her home in his personal car; had parked a block away from her building and walked with her, just because she'd wanted to experience the season's first snowfall with him.

Her heart was already breaking at the thought of leaving him. They had less than three weeks together.

"Why does Jacob need this particular information with such urgency?" her uncle asked, cutting into her thoughts.

"His organization requires it of him. He can't advance without it."

"And why do you suppose that is?"

Isabel stood, leaning her forehead against the cool windowpane. Outside, the snow had stopped. The flakes that covered the ground were already blowing away in the wind. "A psychologist within his department is investigating Jacob's fitness to guard the president. Without that confirmation, he won't be approved."

"Is he fit? Or is he a risk?"

Jacob? She thought of her solid, protective bodyguard. "Of course he's fit," she said somewhat peevishly.

"Has he said anything else to you about us?" her uncle asked.

"No." Isabel tapped her finger against the back of the phone. "Just what I've relayed to you now."

"Given what you know of him," her uncle pressed, "how do you suppose he'll react if he is disturbed by the information he uncovers?"

What is the information? she wanted to ask.

But she didn't. She was so conditioned not to question him.

Isabel sat at her desk chair and looked at the sketch Jacob had drawn for her. She wasn't sure what her uncle was alluding to. The last thing she wanted was for Jacob to receive news that was any more difficult or upsetting than what he was already dealing with.

"Will he be hurt, Uncle?"

"The relevant question is whether we will be hurt. You and I should be concerned as to whether or not Jacob will stop when he gets his answers. Have you never found, Isabel, that answers to questions often lead to even more questions?"

She didn't have her uncle's experience in life or in business. She didn't know how to reply.

"Beware of getting too close to him," Uncle John warned gently. "You need to remain objective. It's the hallmark of a responsible CEO."

Too late. Isabel was making love with him. She was sharing confidences with him. They were helping each other in their day-to-day lives. She was as close to Jacob Ross as she'd ever been to anybody.

She was dangerously close to falling for him. Or maybe she already had. A part of her wasn't sure. She loved being with him. He was like no one she'd ever known. And yet, a part of her told her to remain cautious, as her uncle had said. But her reasoning had been different. After Alex, she needed to be sure.

"Isabel?"

"Uncle," she said, swiveling in her chair and making an impetuous decision, "could you please ask someone in our company to gather together the information Jacob requested? Send me the packet and I'll deliver it to him before I leave. I'll make sure that's the end of it, as far as Sage Family Products is concerned. Jacob will listen to me. He knows me."

There was silence on the other end of the line. "I prefer to speak with him myself."

Her uncle didn't trust her. That was what he was saying. "I've given you my risk a.s.sessment. I don't believe Jacob Ross is a threat to our company."

"My invitation for Christmas still stands, Isabel. Please pa.s.s that on to him."

The discussion was over, and she was dismissed. "Yes, Uncle," she murmured.

There was a pause. And then, "You haven't asked me about your role when you return to Edinburgh."

"I..." Hadn't she? She thought she had.

"We'll plan to talk about it at Christmas dinner as well, Isabel."

Was there to be a trade-did she need to show she could handle the "Jacob situation" in exchange for the more important role she desired at Sage Family Products? An either/or solution? "Uncle, what are your plans, honestly?"

"I'll arrange for the company jet to meet you both at the usual place in JFK airport. Murphy will call you next week with the details." He hung up.

Isabel listened to the silence on the line for a brief moment before she reached for her laptop. If her uncle meant to deny Jacob's request, then Isabel was determined to be prepared for it. She wanted to work with Jacob, not against him. She had one more idea, one more avenue that might give Jacob what he needed even without her uncle's involvement.

She climbed into bed and fired up her internet browser. An hour later, armed with the information she'd searched for, she phoned Jacob before he left for work.

"Hey," he said in a sleepy voice. "I told you you should have stayed over last night."

"Yes, I know." She felt herself smiling. "Can we meet for dinner tonight? I need your clever help with my business law exam. I mean, I really need your clever help. Everything is so tightly scheduled for me before I leave New York that it's the only time I'll have left."

"Sure, I can help." He paused. "Just you and me, then?"

"Yes, just you and me," she whispered.

When she hung up, she felt like dancing. But she took a deep breath instead. It was time to get to work, but not the work that her uncle or Jacob or anybody else expected of her. This was what she wanted to do.

Clutching her phone with the subway instructions already downloaded, she quickly grabbed a notebook and pen, and then headed out the door.

An hour later, a television archives clerk seated her in an empty cubicle with headsets and a machine that played videoca.s.settes from the past century.

Kidnapped from the Castle: The Rescue of the Maxwell Children flashed in a fuzzy picture across the television screen. Maudlin music played in the background, and cheesy production values showed not the MacDowall castle in the beautiful Highlands, but another, much larger castle in what she guessed to be either England or Wales.

So far, her efforts weren't getting her what she needed. She'd remembered that, growing up, her brothers had talked about the made-for-TV movie loosely based on her family's story. Her brothers had watched it at a friend's house, disobeying their parents. They'd told Isabel that the movie had changed and subst.i.tuted all sorts of facts about their family, but that it hadn't mattered because everybody in Scotland already knew it was supposed to be them.

Even as a child, Isabel remembered the talk and how frightened it had made her. She remembered Malcolm, older than her, being shipped off to school in America so he wouldn't grow up in Scotland and be constantly reminded of what had happened. She remembered Rhiannon, and how doctors had recommended she be treated at hospital, given her agoraphobia, but her parents insisting she stay and be schooled in her own home-the castle.

Isabel had thought that maybe if she watched the old movie, it would provide some answers. But it hadn't. After sitting through fifty minutes of the terrible script, she shut off the program that, unfortunately, had played on both sides of the pond.

Her uncle had obviously exerted his influence over the producers. Nothing she'd just seen corresponded to the few facts of the kidnapping or rescue that Isabel knew.

The names of all involved were changed. "Matthew and Sharon" were whisked, not from an Edinburgh street by three men in a white van, but from their beds as they slept in the family's castle. The family in the movie owned a chain of traveler hotels. Uncle John wasn't there at all, and several brave Scotland Yard detectives handled the case from start to finish. One died in a burst of heroics, and she was depicted as a single-mother policewoman with two wee children of her own at home.