"I hope she's found a safe place to hide. I wish she'd call me back, though." His cell phone had remained ominously silent for the past few hours.

"Well, good night." Catherine moved toward the door, then stopped, turning back to him. "Have you ever been in love?" "Where did that question come from?" he asked warily.

"I just wondered. Erica was a one-night stand. I'm sure there have been other women. But what about a real relationship?"

"I don't do relationships," he said bluntly. "Not ever?" "No. And I don't intend to start." "Your brother's happy marriage hasn't put you a lit tle more in favor of the idea?" He shook his head. "I'm not husband or father mate rial." "How would you know that?" "I just do. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree." Her gaze narrowed. "You're not your father." "His blood runs through my veins. As much as I'd like to believe we're completely different, I don't think we are. Go to bed, Catherine, and stop trying to convince me or yourself that I'm someone I'm not."

She looked like she wanted to argue, but after a moment of internal debate she left the room.

Dylan blew out a breath of relief at her exit and sat back in his chair. Rubbing his eyes, he knew he needed a break from the computer. He got up and stretched out on the couch. Despite his physical exhaustion, his mind spun with unanswered questions, all of them traveling back to the most basic question of all-how the hell had he gotten into this mess? He'd gone from having complete control over his life to having no control whatsoever, from being a respected TV news reporter to being a fugitive on the run, from living by a defined set of beliefs to not knowing what was real and what wasn't. He was starting to sound like Catherine.

And she was another problem. She was really getting to him. He didn't like how easily she read his thoughts or how perceptive she was. He liked being the man of mystery. He preferred being a person whom no one could quite figure out, but Catherine kept challenging him. She didn't buy into his act. She kept making him wonder if he was really who he wanted to be.

Damn her. Shaking his head, he tried to force her face, her body, her touch, her kiss out of his mind. She'd been so proud earlier, so full of joyous satisfaction at having gotten into Erica's house. She'd glowed in a way he'd never seen before. There was a new spark in her dark-blue eyes. She was coming alive. And he couldn't wait to see her go all the way.

But not tonight, he told himself, tempted to go upstairs and take them both for a ride. He knew she wouldn't say no. She might not think it was a good idea, but once they touched each other neither one of them would be thinking anymore.

Letting out a breath, he forced his mind off of Catherine, back to Erica. He brought up Ravino's image, too. He remembered quite clearly the steel glint of anger in the senator's eyes when he'd been arrested, when he'd looked at Dylan and realized a reporter had tracked down some of his biggest secrets. Ravino would love to get even. The only puzzling piece was not only why, but also how Ravino could get Erica to help him. If they were connected there had to be some proof that they'd spoken. Some phone somewhere had to have recorded that trail, or an e-mail could have been sent, or perhaps Ravino had used an intermediary, someone on the outside, someone who could get to Erica, make a persuasive case.

Of course, the real beauty of the plot would be to kill Erica and frame him, Dylan, for her murder, thereby getting rid of them both.

He should probably go to the jail tomorrow and confront Ravino. Maybe the man would give something away. It was worth a try.

Feeling restless and revved up again, Dylan got up and went back to the desk. But as his fingers hovered over the computer keyboard, his eye was drawn to a photograph of his grandmother and his father on one of the bookshelves across the room. He wondered again if she'd ever known what a bastard her son was, and what she'd known about his mother. He should have asked her at some point over the years, but she'd never brought up the subject, and neither had he. It was as if there were an unspoken rule between them.

He'd never followed any other rules, so why that one? It was interesting that his grandmother had not gotten rid of the photo of his parents at their wedding. Had she forgotten about it? It seemed odd, though, after the fuss his father had made about destroying all evidence of his mother's existence.

On impulse he opened the desk drawers, wondering if his grandmother had kept in touch with his mother over the years. Had they had a secret relationship? He vaguely remembered them laughing together. They'd seemed to get along when he was a little kid. Hadn't they? Or had he just been too young to know?

Shutting the second drawer, he opened the bottom one. He found a manila envelope filled with cards that his grandmother had received over the years: birthday cards, thank-you notes, condolences for when his grandfather had died. And there at the bottom were several childish hand-drawn notes.

His heart quickened at the sight of a stick figure holding a brown teddy bear. Slowly he unfolded the paper and read the message.

Dear Grandma, I feel better now. Thanks for the bear. I love you. Dylan.

He remembered that bear. He had slept with it in his arms for weeks when he'd been in and out of the hospital with some type of infection. He remembered all the needles, the blood tests, the long nights, and his mother, who had never left his side.

He swallowed back an unexpected knot of emotion. She'd brought him ice cream and juice and held his hand when he was scared. She'd lain down next to him in the bed, refusing to leave.

Finally he'd gotten better and gone home. Six months later his mother had left forever.

How had she changed from devotion to complete and utter abandonment in just a few months? What had happened between his parents?

He would have to find out. When this was over he would get answers to the questions he should have asked a long time ago.

Moving back to the couch he settled down, closing his eyes. His mother's face floated through his brain, her pretty brown hair that always smelled like peaches, her warm brown eyes, and her encouraging smile. It was a long time since he'd seen her image in a picture or in his head. Now he couldn't seem to shake her loose. The floodgates had opened. He remembered other bits and pieces from his early years: running out for hamburgers when his father worked late, snuggling up in bed with his mother and a book, going to the island in the summer, building sand castles and playing in the waves until August turned into September and school started. Those were the good times, he realized, times when it had been just his mother, Jake, and himself.

Sighing, he tried to stop thinking altogether. What he needed now was a clear mind and a good night's sleep. Hopefully when he woke up in the morning, everything would be all right. Erica would turn up. The charges against him would be dropped, and his life would go back to normal.

Yeah, and he still believed in Santa Claus.

She probably should have stayed on the city streets, but she'd thought the tall trees and the thick bushes of the park would offer her protection, a place to hide. Now she realized how desolate the area was at night. There were no phone booths, no people, no businesses to run into. She was completely on her own.

She gasped and stopped abruptly as a shadowy figure came out of the undergrowth. Her heart thudded against her chest. The man walked toward her, one hand outstretched. His clothes were old and torn, and his face was covered with a heavy beard. He wore a baseball cap, and carried a backpack slung over one shoulder. He was probably one of the homeless people who set up camp in the park at night. Or maybe not . . .

"Hey, baby, give me a kiss," he said in a drunken slur.

"Leave me alone." She put up a hand to ward him off, but he kept moving forward.

"I'm just being friendly. Come on now, sweetheart."

Turning, she ran as fast as she could in the other direction, hearing him call after her. She didn't know if he was following her or not, and she was too terrified to look, so she left the sidewalk and moved deeper into the park, looking for a little corner in which to hide. Her side was cramping and her feet were soaked. She desperately needed to find some sanctuary. Branches scraped her bare arms and face, but she kept going. It was so dark in the heavy brush that she could barely see a foot in front of her. Tall trees and fog had completely obliterated the moonlight.

Fortunately she had her hand out in front of her when she ran into a cement wall that rose several stories in the air. She must have hit the side of one of the park buildings. Pausing, she caught her breath and listened. She could hear nothing but her own ragged breathing. Maybe she was safe, at least for the moment.

Leaning back against the cold cement, she pondered her next move, but she didn't know what to do, how to escape. She was out of options.

How had she come to this? Running for her life and all alone? This was not how it was supposed to go. This was Dy-lan's fault. He'd put her in this situation, and dammit, where the hell was he?

But she couldn't count on him to rescue her. She had to find a way out on her own. She couldn't let things end like this. She'd fought for her life before, and she'd won. She would do it again.

Her heart stopped as a nearby branch snapped in two. A confident male whistle pierced the silent night. Whoever was coming didn't care if she heard him or not. The bushes in front of her slowly parted. Terror ran through her body. There was nowhere left to run.

She screamed and screamed and screamed . . .

Catherine awoke with sweat drenching her body. She sat up straight in bed, disoriented, the terror-filled cries still echoing through her head. She was in Dylan's grandmother's house, she realized. Her gaze moved to the clock. It was two thirty-seven. Something was off.

The door flew open and she put up her hands in defense, letting out a breath when she realized it was Dylan.

"What the hell happened?" he demanded, his eyes wild and worried. "You were yelling your head off."

"A nightmare." She tucked a strand of sweat-dampened hair behind her ear and drew in a shaky breath. As always a restless, relentless energy filled her body, a desperate need to release the fear and darkness inside her. She swung her legs off the bed and stood up. She didn't have her paints set up, but she had to find a way to release her emotions.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

She moved over to her portfolio and pulled out her sketch pad and colored pencils. Sitting cross-legged on the bed she began to draw, her hand flying across the page, constructing lines and angles that came out of her subconscious. She didn't stop until her hand cramped and the pencil fell to the mattress. She set the pad down on the bed and blew out a breath. As she did so she realized Dylan was watching her, and that he'd been standing at the foot of the bed the entire time she'd been drawing.

He leaned over and picked up the pad. "This isn't like your other pictures. It's more distinct, more specific. What is this place?"

Catherine didn't need to look to remember what lines she'd drawn. Dylan was right: She'd remembered more details than she usually did, thick trees and bushes, a shadow of a figure crouched in front of a wall, hiding, fearful. Her heart began to beat faster as reality set in. "I think Erica is in trouble. I heard her screaming."

"Are you sure it was her? You said before that you've had nightmares off and on for most of your life and that you always hear screaming."

"This one was different. Usually I wake up at four forty-four."

"Why?"

"It's just when it usually happens," she said, not willing to tell him exactly what the hour meant to her. It had nothing to do with him, so he didn't need to know.

Dylan glanced at the clock. "That's not for another two hours. What else do you remember from your dream?"

"Someone was chasing me. I ran into a wall. He kept coming. I could taste the fear in my mouth." She gazed into Dylan's eyes. "Erica is the figure in the drawing. She's trapped."

"In a park, right now, as we speak?" he asked.

"I can't say for sure if it's now, but it was dark in my dream. And the park was spooking her. She realized how isolated she was."

"There are a dozen parks in the city."

"It was big. She was running for a while. She went off the path. The trees were tall and the bushes scratched her arms. She thought she could hide."

Dylan dragged a hand through his hair. "I've got to go to the park."

"You just said you don't know which one."

"The biggest one is Golden Gate Park. It's in the heart of the city, and there are several buildings there."

Catherine didn't want him to leave. She didn't want him to run into the danger that surrounded Erica, but she knew she couldn't stop him. Dylan was a man of action, and even though Erica had wrecked his life, he would still risk his to save her.

"Tell me if there were any other identifying features in your dream, like tennis courts, a lake, paddleboats, a rose garden.... Damn, what else is in that park?"

She thought for a moment, but the images were gone from her mind. "Dylan, I think it's too late."

He met her gaze head-on. "Don't say that. Don't tell me Erica is dead. I'm going to look for her." He jogged out of the room. In a few minutes he would be on his way. She had to go with him.

Jumping out of bed, she threw a long sweater over her camisole top and pajama bottoms and slipped her feet into her tennis shoes, then hurried down the stairs. Dylan had put on a sweatshirt and was digging through a desk in the hall.

"What are you looking for?"

He answered by holding up a flashlight. He tested it, and the beam danced off the floor. "Still works. You're coming with me?"

"We're partners. We have to stick together."

"Then let's go."

As they approached his grandmother's car, Catherine took a wary look around. It was the middle of the night and very, very quiet. There was no movement anywhere on the block, no sign of someone sitting in a car watching them. It didn't appear that anyone knew where they were, at least, not yet anyway.

Once inside she quickly locked the doors as Dylan started the engine. She hoped they'd be in time to help Erica. Maybe her vision was of the future, not of the past. That was certainly possible. She tried to hang on to the positive thought, admiring the way Dylan didn't let anything keep him from his goal. He was determined to succeed. Failure was not an option.

She'd grown used to failure, accustomed to disappointment. She hadn't realized until now how low her expectations for herself and others had sunk. But Dylan was setting the bar a little higher, and she was eager to keep up with him.

It was past three thirty in the morning now, and there was little traffic on the city streets. Her nightmare had happened almost an hour ago. Had the dream come in real time? She hoped not.

They entered the park off the Pacific Coast Highway, turning in past an old windmill. As Dylan drove through the twisting streets, Catherine was struck by how enormous Golden Gate Park was. It ran for several miles and encompassed hundreds of acres. There was a stadium, two lakes, a Japanese tea garden, a museum, tennis courts, and a carousel-how on earth could they find Erica? She could be anywhere.

The trees, the shrubs, the plants-they all felt so familiar, but Catherine couldn't bring herself to pinpoint one area over another. They drove for fifteen minutes without speaking a word, each scanning the grounds on their side of the car. They passed several homeless people, some sleeping under the trees, others wandering along the road.

"I don't think I'd want to be here on my own," Catherine murmured.

"Maybe that's why you felt Erica's fear. She could have been afraid of her surroundings, not whoever is trying to get to her."

"That could have been it." Catherine certainly felt uncomfortable now, and she was in a car with the doors locked and Dylan by her side. "This place is creepy. It's dark and deserted. Why would she come here?"

"Hell if I know. If she thought someone was trying to kill her, she should have gone to the police."

Dylan slowed down as a man stumbled across the road in front of him. He wore a baseball cap, and a backpack hung from one shoulder. Catherine flashed back on her dream.

"I saw him," she said. "He scared her. She ran from him."

"This guy?" Dylan asked. "Are you sure?"

He stopped the car as they watched the man sit down on the side of the road and take a swig out of a bottle. A moment later he lay down on his back. Catherine didn't know if he'd passed out or was just resting. Certainly the man seemed oblivious to the fact that they were watching him.

"What should we do?" she asked, her nerves tingling. She didn't know why she felt so scared, but she really wanted to get out of the park. "Let's go back to the house."

"We haven't found Erica yet. If you saw this guy in your dream, then maybe she's nearby."

"What do you want to do? She was in the bushes. We might not be able to see her from the road."

"You said she was up against a building."

"There are lots of buildings."

Dylan shot her a puzzled look. "Why are you trying to get me out of here?"

"I'm scared," she admitted.

"I won't let anything happen to you. Don't worry. I'll keep you safe."

She wanted to have faith in him, but the need to leave bubbled up inside her. She tried to breathe through her panic as Dylan continued down the road. A moment later the dome of the Conservatory of Flowers came into view. It reminded her of the other dome at the Palace of Fine Arts. Why had Erica chosen to hide herself in these tourist locations? Surely she would have known that the areas would be deserted at night. She must not have had a choice. She couldn't go home. Whoever was after her knew where she lived. She'd already been to Dylan's place and the person had found her there. Whoever was tracking her was very, very good.

Catherine shivered as goose bumps ran down her arms. A second later they saw two police cars, strobe lights turning, and an ambulance. A man pushing a shopping cart stood by the side of the road, watching the activity in the bushes.

Catherine felt suddenly short of breath. In the distance she saw the wall of the museum. She'd been here before-in her dream.

Dylan stopped the car.

"What are you doing?" she asked, grabbing his arm.

"Getting some information." He rolled down his window. "Hey, buddy," he called to the man. He pulled a twenty-dollar bill out of his pocket and waved it at the guy. "I've got a question."

The man ambled over to the car, pushing his cart. His clothes were ragged and worn, and he appeared to have a bunch of recyclable bottles in his cart.

"What do you want?" The man stopped a few feet from the car, giving them a suspicious look.

"What's happening?" Dylan waved his twenty in the air.