With the Material Witness in the Safehouse

“Several reasons. First of all, we never got the specific shooter who killed our agent. Although you insisted you saw him perfectly, he wasn’t among the men we rounded up. Those men you testified against were all tried on a variety of charges, but the man we most wanted escaped. Because you saw that shooter we’ve always known that there was a possibility of you being our star witness in a new trial. The second reason is revenge, pure and simple. These are real bad guys and reputation is everything. If you testify against them and they let you get away with it, then that diminishes their reputation.”

She noticed there was no trace of his lazy Texas drawl at the moment. He stood and plucked at his wet T-shirt. “I’m going to change into some dry clothes. There’s no point in me going back out until this rain passes.”

He dug around in his suitcase, sitting open in one corner of the room, then pulled out a clean T-shirt and a pair of jeans. “You okay?”

“I guess. I’ve spent most of the time you’ve been gone today trying to figure out what happens to me when we leave here.”

“We get you relocated someplace else and you build a new life,” he replied, making it sound as easy as packing a bag.

“But no matter where I go, these people, these gang members will be looking for me.” Even though she tried to suppress it, her fear was rife in her voice.

He dropped his clean clothes on a nearby chair, then once again sat next to her on the sofa. He reached out and took her hand in his. As his long, warm fingers curled around hers, confusion filled her head.

He’d told her their past relationship had been a strictly professional one and yet she was struck with the feeling that this wasn’t the first time he’d held her hand.

“I promise when we leave here, I’ll get you settled someplace where you’ll be safe,” he said. “You’ll have a new name, a new occupation and we’ll get you far away from Boston. This gang isn’t everywhere. They’re a local gang and their power isn’t all reaching.” A frown raced across his forehead. “I don’t know why they kept you in the New England area to begin with, you should have been sent someplace farther away than here.”

She stared down at their hands. She wasn’t sure why, but his touch evoked contradicting emotions inside her. On the one hand, it felt comforting and familiar with an edge of excitement. On the other hand, his nearness to her, his fingers entwined with hers, made her feel vaguely threatened.

He jerked his hand away from hers and abruptly stood. “I hope you figured out what’s for dinner. I’m used to eating around five o’clock.” He grabbed his clothes from the chair and disappeared into the bathroom.

She stared after him, irritation replacing her fear. He had to be right. Their previous relationship had to have been strictly professional, for surely there was no way she’d have any other kind of a relationship with a man who was as irritating, as chauvinistic as Ryan Burton seemed to be.

RYAN STOOD beneath a lukewarm shower, trying to ignore his weakness where Britta was concerned. He’d always considered himself a strong man. He’d had to be strong to survive the childhood he’d been handed. As if surviving the battlefield of his parents’ marriage hadn’t been enough, years of military training followed by his FBI work should have increased his strength, not just physically but emotionally.

And yet Britta made him weak. She made him forget that he had vowed a long time ago to hold himself detached from any woman who might blow into his life. Short-term affairs were fine, but he had no desire to let anyone in on a permanent basis and he didn’t intend to change his mind for one beautiful Norwegian blonde.

The second he’d taken her hand in his he knew he’d made a mistake, but she’d looked so scared, so lost, and all he’d wanted to do was ease some of that fear. But the moment he’d taken her hand in his he’d wanted to go further, he’d wanted to draw her into his arms, feel the warmth of her silky smooth skin against his.

He got out of the shower, dried off, then pulled on a clean pair of jeans and a T-shirt. By the time he left the bathroom he felt better able to cope with Britta.

She was in the kitchen, seated at the table, a notebook and pen in front of her. “What are you doing?” he asked as he rummaged in the cabinets looking for a can of coffee.

“I’ve been trying to decide where I want my new life to begin when this is all over.” She leaned back in the chair and frowned thoughtfully. “What do you think about Seattle?”

“Too rainy,” he replied.

“What about Arizona?”

“Too dry.”

She grinned at him. “I can see you’re going to be no help.” Her smile fell and she looked at him curiously. “Why did I come here to Raven’s Cliff? I mean, who decided it?”

Ryan found the coffee container and began to make a pot. “It was FBI Agent Michael Kelly who set up this location and the job working at the inn. He came late onto your case. The agent before him was Bill Rankin, who set you up with your new identity.”

“All these people, it would be nice if I could just remember one of them.”

“You wouldn’t remember Kelly, you never met him in person.” As the coffee dripped into the glass carafe, Ryan leaned against the cabinet to wait for it to finish. “Kelly told me he picked this village after seeing an ad in a tourist magazine for a housekeeper at an inn. He figured it would be a good fit for you. Coffee?”

She nodded and stared at the paper in front of her where he noticed nothing had been written. He poured them each a cup of coffee, then placed a sugar bowl on the table, knowing she liked her coffee sweetened.

“Doesn’t look as if you’ve made much headway in picking a place to start a new life.” He sat in the chair opposite her.

She smiled ruefully. “It’s more difficult than I thought, trying to decide on a place to start again. Boston was always my home. I don’t know anything else.” Her smile faded. “One thing is certain, you have to buy me some different clothes. I appreciate what you got for me, but they’re all too big and too hot.”

He’d intentionally bought the clothes big, figuring if she looked like a bag lady it would make things easier on him. “It isn’t as if you’re going to be modeling in a fashion show,” he replied. “As long as they are serviceable.”

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