Dangerous Waters (4 page)

But he remembered her from the first instant, when he had thought she was a mermaid he had somehow conjured from his dreams. Dark hair floating about her in the water, unfathomable eyes, arms that had held him as tightly as a mother afraid of losing her child. He had been dying, losing himself in a kaleidoscope of memories and regret that had begun to fade into darkness. And then she'd appeared, demanding his trust. That bond was not easily shaken now.

But already the part of him that had learned early not to trust was doubting. His memory had more than once kept him alive when other men would have died. And that memory told him he'd seen her face before.

Not that she was beautiful. Her face was too strong, her eyes too cool. The dark slash of brows was balanced by a stubborn chin. In between she had a small, straight nose, a scattering of freckles, and an unexpectedly soft, generous mouth. Her hair was the color of dark Belgian chocolate, glossy and thick. Today she had worn it in a fat braid down her back. Slim, she had the narrow hips, long legs, and wide shoulders of an athlete. He hadn't been thinking about her sexuality—or his—but he'd noticed her body, all right. It was her eyes, though, that made her unforgettable.

He could swear he had never met her. But, damn it, he had seen her. He knew he had. It tugged at the edge of his mind, he could almost remember. A long time ago, he thought, and something was different about her. The woman—no, girl—he saw was younger, more vulnerable. But definitely her. And that made him nervous. Who the hell was she? Someone's sister, someone's daughter? Or was he being paranoid? Maybe he'd only seen her picture in a magazine, passed her in the mall one day!

He wanted it to be chance that he knew her. He wanted that so badly, it made him wary.

He'd been a fool already to take the two strangers at face value, even though the chances of Saldivar finding him here had seemed slim. One minute he'd been enjoying the boat ride, the next, his head had seemed to explode. If the cold water hadn't slapped him awake, he would be dead now. He'd come damned close, anyway. At best he could tread water, maybe dog paddle the length of a swimming pool. His childhood hadn't been the nice suburban kind that included Red Cross swim lessons. If it hadn't been for Megan Lovell, he wouldn't have had a chance.

He let his eyes close momentarily as he gave in to the hammering that should have split his skull. He would have liked to call the nurse for a shot of something, get rid of the pain. But that same shot would put him to sleep. And he had to think.

He had to decide what to do now. Was it conceivable that Saldivar had found him? But he couldn't have done so without help. When Mac tried to imagine any of the four or five people who might know where he was betraying him, he failed.

Which still left the indisputable fact that somebody had tried to kill him.

Who? Damn it, who? Had some other ugly part of his past caught up with him? Lord knew there were enough people out there with cause to hold a grudge against him. It was sheer bad luck if he'd stumbled across one of them, but sometimes it happened. Maybe he'd been a fool to go to ground in a place where he'd vacationed in the past, in a region where he'd once worked for the Bureau. Even though it had been years ago, it wasn't inconceivable that among the summer crowd of fishermen and boaters was one man who hated him.

Or, ludicrous though it might seem, he had to consider the possibility that in the last month he had happened on something he hadn't recognized, something that made him a threat. If so, they had made a big mistake trying to take him out. If a particularly nasty secret lurked behind the rural peace in these parts, he'd find it.

In the meantime, he would make damned sure Megan Lovell didn't suffer for her reckless generosity. He wouldn't be able to stop a high-powered rifle; but he doubted that one would be used. No, Megan would be far more likely to suffer a convenient accident, or be killed by a "burglar" she had panicked.

To be safe, he'd call his partner and have him make a few phone calls. If Saldivar's organization had found him, the odds were that the word would be out on the street. Saldivar would want to broadcast his success, to let everyone know that the price for making a fool of him was high.

If Mac lived through another attempt on his life, he might still have to run. But he had an obligation to the brave woman who'd pulled him out of the lake. And maybe more than that, Mac wanted to know for sure what he was running from. Curiosity always had been his weakness.

But when he finally closed his eyes and punched the call button, he wasn't thinking about the puzzle of who wanted him dead. Instead, he saw again Megan's hauntingly familiar face, with the blue eyes that looked clear to his soul.

*****

"Hey, I hear you almost bit the big one."

Megan groaned, pausing on the sidewalk beside her Honda. "Don't listen to rumors."

Her big brother grinned as he tossed a duffel bag of what looked suspiciously like dirty laundry onto the roof of his low-slung sports car that he had parked just behind hers. "How can I help it? I think ten people called me."

"Starting with Mom, I'll bet."

"Dad, actually."

She groaned again. "What would I ever do without parents?"

John slammed the door of his Corvette and circled it. "Lose a few pounds?"

"Probably," she admitted ruefully. "I'm working today. After one of Mom's breakfasts, I'll just have to hope nobody tries to drown. I'd sink like a lead buoy."

The brother who had alternately tormented her and encouraged her through all of their childhood years now slung an arm across her shoulder while effortlessly hefting the duffel bag with his free hand. It still didn't seem natural that he had grown a good six inches taller than she. Nor that his cherubic, freckled looks had somehow become leaner, harder, so that now he was the kind of man who turned women's heads. Sometimes she caught herself watching him, looking for her gangly brother in the man he'd become. Maybe he had the same trouble with her. She had left home when she was thirteen to pursue her dream of Olympic gold, training in southern California while living with the family of another swimmer. Then she had stayed away for college. Those missing years had left holes that could never be filled.

He waited for her to open the front door of the rambling old house in which they had both grown up before following her in.

"Don't you ever take a day off?"

She shrugged. "Somebody's sick."

"Yeah, probably went to a kegger last night." He raised his voice. "We're here!"

"Us and your dirty clothes," Megan murmured. "Why don't you grow up, big brother?"

He looked surprised. "What do you mean?"

"I can't believe you expect Mom to do your laundry! Or am I imagining the eau de dirty sock?

"Uh..."

"Haven't you ever heard of the laundromat?"

"I don't have time."

"Yeah, right." She punched him lightly on the upper arm. "Mom ought to dump 'em over your head."

"She doesn't mind."

"Sure. Hi, Mom."

Her mother, a slim, strong woman with dark hair and eyes as blue as Megan's, turned from the stove in the big, shabby country kitchen. "John." She frowned. "Megan, you're limping!"

Megan leaned over to kiss her mother on the cheek and inhale the aroma of cooking bacon and fresh-baked bread. "Just cut my foot on a rock. Don't fuss."

The minute the words were out of her mouth she felt a jolt. She'd said the same thing to him. Suddenly she saw him sitting in the hospital bed, his lean face tired, his brow furrowed. Had she been rude? So determined not to let him feel an obligation that she had been ungracious?

"Sit down," her mother said firmly. "John, put your laundry in the utility room and then set the table."

Megan and John docilely obeyed their mother's order.

"Who else is coming?" Megan asked.

"Linda's bringing the girls. Bill's off on a trip."

Megan's younger brother, Bill, drove long-haul trucks for a living, taking advantage of the stretches off to be as wild as ever. Megan had loved him the most of all her siblings, and had the least in common with him. Sometimes she wondered if she wasn't to blame for his wildness. If the whole family hadn't sacrificed too much to make her dreams come true.

But choices made couldn't be taken back, so she didn't think about the past again in the next two hours. Instead, she ate until her stomach whimpered, then cuddled her sister's six-month-old baby and got soundly trounced at the game of Memory by her six-year-old niece.

"Better watch it or I won't play with you again," she threatened, but the little girl with the dark curls only smiled impudently.

"You just don't pay enough attention."

"Beat Uncle John," Megan suggested. She grinned at her brother. "It'd be good for his character."

When she made her excuses a few minutes later, her father insisted on walking her out to the car. He was a tall, slow-moving man who liked to think before he acted. In his typical fashion, he was silent until they stopped on the cracked sidewalk.

"Megan, you'd be welcome to move home for a while."

She smiled. "Thanks, Dad. But I don't think there's anything to worry about."

The toothpick protruding from his mouth bobbed as he chewed slowly. There wasn't any special urgency in his voice. "The man you pulled out. What'd he say about it?"

"You mean you haven't heard on the grapevine?" she asked wryly. When her father didn't answer she sighed. "He claims not to know anything. He's been working for Jim Kellerman this summer. I guess he's a carpenter."

Mr. Lovell looked thoughtful. "I'll give Jim a call. Hear what he thinks about the fellow."

"Does it matter?"

He met her eyes squarely. "I don't like the idea of you mixed up in something dirty. Don't be too proud, Meg."

Something curled in her chest and she impulsively hugged him. "I won't be, Dad. I promise. But I really didn't see anything."

His expression was troubled. "Sometimes I think you're too independent."

She had been thinking the same, wondering how she would have reacted today if she hadn't learned too thoroughly how to be on her own. Would she have gone running home? Linda would have. Even Bill all too often wanted to be bailed out of trouble. And John took his dirty laundry to Mom. It was an irony that she had come back to her hometown because she needed her family, but she couldn't let herself take too much from them.

Fortunately, business proved to be slow at the beach that day. In the late afternoon, dark clouds massed over the ridge and the mountains beyond. The lake still lay calm, but the air had an indefinable tension.

"I'll bet we're in for a thunderstorm," Megan said.

Rick, the oldest of the teenage lifeguards who worked for her, nodded. "Yeah. Shall we get everybody out?"

Megan studied the clouds. "Let people stay in the water for now. But keep an eye out. Don't wait for my order if you feel nervous."

Nods answered her. Megan turned to limp back to the boathouse. One large, noisy group of teenagers played volleyball on the grass court while a few families lingered at the picnic tables. The first crack of thunder and she'd send them all home, Megan thought.

Because there were so few people at the beach, she noticed him right away. One shoulder propped comfortably against the clapboard side of the boat-house, he was idly watching children shrieking on the merry-go-round. He wore faded jeans and an old green sweatshirt with the sleeves pushed up. He looked completely relaxed, unaware of Megan's approach, but she hadn't made a sound when he turned his head and their eyes met.

Wary, she stopped a few feet from him. "I thought you'd still be in the hospital."

"They gave me some pain pills and sent me home."

"I'm glad." She hesitated. "Is there something I can do for you?"

For a moment he didn't answer. Instead, his gaze moved down her body, and she was suddenly and embarrassingly conscious of how little she wore. The sleek, one-piece red Speedo racing suit bared far more than it covered. She knew that he could see her nipples tightening in an involuntary response to his casual, male assessment. That made her angry.

"Well?" she said sharply.

He was frowning when he looked back at her face. She had a feeling he was disconcerted by something; perhaps because of that, his voice was rough.

"I want you to accept my protection. Just for a few weeks."

"Protection?" It was her turn to be disconcerted. "You're not serious."

"I'm serious." She hadn't even noticed that he had a rolled newspaper under his arm, but now he held it out. "Take a look," he said brusquely.

Careful not to touch his hand, she accepted the newspaper, glancing down at the front page. It was the local weekly, the Devil's Lake Caller. Her gaze dropped below the banner to the grainy picture. Her own face, younger and happier, stared back at her. She recognized the photograph; it was one that had appeared in newspapers across the country. The reporter had pulled it out of the files. Beside it was a headline: Olympic Champion Saves Drowning Man.

Megan wasn't surprised that somebody at the hospital hadn't been able to resist passing the story on. In a small town, secrets were hard to keep. Looking back at him, she said, "So? It'll be a nine-day wonder. And they don't have your picture."

He made a choppy, impatient gesture. "Don't be a fool. The whole damn world is going to read about it. Megan Lovell pulled Ross McKenzie back from the dead."

"Hardly the whole world," she corrected. "Devil's Lake only has about a thousand permanent residents. That doesn't exactly qualify."

"Surely you're not that naive." His tone was cutting, his lean face forbidding. "Every major newspaper in the country'll pick this one up. You were their darling. Now you're a heroine."

"Oh." She felt stupid. "I guess... But I still don't see..."

"Even if they left town, they'll read this."

"They" didn't need to be identified for her. She stared at him, a prickle of uneasiness sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. Bending her head, she read the article.