Mish stared at the bodies, stared at what he'd done.
He'd killed them. God help him, he'd pointed the weapon, and taken the lives of three human beings. He may have sent them straight to hell, but what had he done to his own soul?
And he turned, because over on the other side of the room, the dead man in the robe was pushing himself up and off of the floor. The half of his face that was left was frowning, and he raised his hand, pointing accusingly at Mish. "Thou shalt not kill," he intoned. "Thou shalt not kill."
He took a step toward Mish, and then another step. And Mish realized with a jolt of shock that the man wore a liturgical collar, streaked bright red with blood.
And what was left of the dead man's face might as well have been his own.
Mish sat up in bed, his heart pounding, gasping for air.
Someone stirred in the bed beside him. Becca. It was Becca. She sat up, too, hesitantly touching his back. "Mish, are you all right?"
The hotel room came into focus, dimly lit by the first light of dawn that streaked in through the tops of the heavy window curtains.
Mish fought to control his ragged breathing, fought to bring his pulse back down to normal. "Nightmare," he managed to say.
"A bad one, huh? Want to talk about it?"
He pushed his sweat-soaked hair back from his face with hands that were still shaking. "No," he said. "Thanks."
She put her arms around him and lightly kissed his shoulder, and he turned toward her, grabbing her and holding her far more tightly than he had a right to, kissing her far more proprietarily than he should have. But he desperately needed grounding, desperately needed her.
"Mmm." She smiled up at him in the slowly growing light as she ran her fingers through his hair. She didn't seem to mind the dampness. "I'm sorry you had a nightmare, but I'm not sorry you woke me up, especially when you kiss me like that."
She was naked. They both were. And as Mish gazed into her eyes, detailed memories of the power and passion of last night came crashing back, full force.
He had made love to this woman, and she to him, in a way that had been beyond description, beyond comparison.
And she deserved to know the truth about who he was—or who he wasn't.
He'd stared at the ceiling for a good portion of the night, struggling with wanting to tell her of his missing past, and this overpowering sense of knowing—this absolute conviction—that he would not be allowed to tell her anything about himself, even if he knew.
She kissed him, pulling him back with her against the pillows, intertwining their legs. "I've got a few days off coming to me," she murmured. "What do you say we order a steady supply of room service, tell them to hold all my calls, and just stay here until Tuesday morning?"
Mish wanted to do it. He wanted to hold the world at bay for two days straight. And why couldn't he? As far as he was aware, he was the only one searching for himself.
And who could know? Maybe he'd find himself here in the safety and warmth of Becca's eyes.
And if not, maybe he'd have figured out a way by then to tell her who he feared he was.
"'Til Tuesday sounds great," he whispered between kisses. In truth, it sounded about a lifetime too short, but that wasn't something he'd ever dare admit, either to her or to himself.
He kissed her longer, deeper, willing himself to stop thinking, to just be.
With Becca's eager help, that wasn't hard to do.
The call from Joe Cat came in just after dawn. Lucky had only been asleep for about twenty minutes, but he snapped instantly awake—especially after he heard the Captain's familiar New Yawk accent.
"More of Shaw's funny money turned up," Joe Cat said without ceremony. "This time in a men's clothing store in Albuquerque. Two bills."
Lucky turned on the light next to the motel-room bed. "We'll go check it out, but I'm not going to leave that bag in the bus station locker without a baby-sitter. I got a gut about this one, Cat. Mitch Shaw has had that bag for a long time. If he's alive, he's coming back for it. I've buddied up the surveillance—Bobby and Wes are watching the station right now." He started pulling on his pants. "But I could head north in about five minutes."
"No, stay in Wyatt City," the captain commanded. "Crash and Blue are already on their way to Albuquerque." He gave a disparaging laugh. "I'd be with 'em, but the admiral's allegedly flying in today. I need to be on hand to give him a sit-rep. I just thought it'd be smart for you to know Shaw's still fairly local. In state, at least."
Lucky kicked his pants back off and settled back on the bed, phone tucked under his chin. "Unless he's dead and someone else is spending his money."
"Yeah, I think we've got to consider that possibility," the captain said seriously.
"But what if he's not dead?" Lucky asked. "Is there a chance he's trying to send some kind of message to us by circulating those bills?" Surely Mitch knew which of the bills he carried were fake and which weren't.
"That's what I keep coming back to," Joe Cat said. "What if Mitch Shaw located the...missing material?" Even though it was a secured line, he was careful not to use the word plutonium. "What if he's in deep with the people who have control over that material, and can't check in? Using the money might be his way of flagging us down, getting backup into the area."
"Except we spoke to a guy named Jarell at the homeless shelter," Lucky reported. "He remembers seeing Mitch. He was brought in late at night, barely conscious, apparently falling-down drunk, with the fight kicked out of him. Jarell only saw him that one night, said he left before breakfast, said as far as he could tell, Mitch was alone. He also said Mitch left a jacket behind, but Jarell wouldn't give it to us—he wouldn't even let us look at it."
"Get it," the captain said.
"Yeah," Lucky told him. "I'm working on that. But that church has something going on 24/7. There's always someone there, so we're going to have to get creative. But don't get your hopes up, Skipper. Even after we do get it, chances are that jacket's not going to tell us jack."
Joe Cat sighed. "I don't know this guy Shaw at all. Is he a heavy drinker? Is he into drugs at all? Is it possible he's gone on some kind of binge?"
"I've never seen him have more than a single beer," Lucky said.
"Which could fit into the pattern of a problem drinker," the captain pointed out. "He keeps it under control, until suddenly he can't anymore. And then it's not one beer, it's a dozen, and he's off and running."
"Jarell said he was so skunked, he couldn't even remember his own name." Lucky shook his head. That was hard to imagine. Quiet Mitchell Shaw completely out of control.
"There's a question I haven't been able to stop thinking, Luke. Do you think he might've turned—you know, embraced the dark side of the force?"
Lucky closed his eyes. "I don't know, Obi-Wan," he said. 'The admiral's not going to like this, but I don't think we can rule out that possibility at this point."
The phone rang.
Becca opened her eyes and found that she'd fallen asleep draped half on top of Mish. It should have been uncomfortable to sleep like that, her leg thrown across his thighs, her head resting on his shoulder, but it wasn't. She fit against him perfectly.
His eyes were open, and he gave her the sexiest, sleepiest good-morning smile as she reached across him for the telephone.
She couldn't resist and she stopped to kiss him, hoping that whoever was calling would just give up and go away. But they were persistent and the phone kept ringing.
"I knew I should have told the desk to hold my calls," she complained with an exaggerated sigh as she picked up the phone. '"Lo?" she said into the receiver, pulling the cord back with her, settling into the warmth of Mish's arms.
She could feel his arousal, heavy against her thigh, feel his fingers trailing lightly, deliciously down her back from her shoulder to her rear end and back again.
4'Becca? This is Hazel. I'm sorry, did I wake you?"
Becca sighed, but even the thought that her assistant wouldn't hav
e called unless there was a real problem at the Lazy Eight wasn't enough to detract from the pleasure of Mish's touch.
"It's nearly eight, and I thought you'd be up," Hazel continued apologetically. "I'd offer to call back later, but this really can't wait."
"What's the problem?" Becca had to work to keep her voice even and controlled as Mish lowered his head to her breast. He kissed her lightly at first, then slowly drew her nipple into his mouth. She bit back an exclamation, and he lifted his head, smiling at her like the devil incarnate.
Like an outrageously handsome devil incarnate. "We seem to have something of a mystery on our hands," Hazel told her.
Mish lowered his head and kissed his way down her stomach, stopping to explore her belly button with his tongue.
'Oh, God," Becca said. "Hazel, are you sure I can't call you back in just a few minutes—an hour tops—I promise?" Mish kissed the inside of her thigh, and she closed her eyes. "Please?"
"Becca, it's about that Casey Parker. That Mish character. Did you know that he's gone? He cleared out of cabin 12 the day before yesterday, and I've seen neither hide nor hair of him since."
Becca laughed. Hazel's big mystery was no mystery. Becca knew exactly where Casey Parker was—and exactly what he was doing.
And, oh, she liked what he was doing, but she pulled back from him, shaking her head, widening her eyes. No way could she talk on the phone while he did that.
He grinned at her and her laughter bubbled over again. “Hazel, I'm sorry. I thought I mentioned it to you. Mish had some business to take care of in Albuquerque. He should be back at the ranch on Tuesday."
"Well, it's going to be interesting when he returns," Hazel said, ' 'especially if the man who was just here at the office decides to come back, too. Because then we'll have two Casey Parkers on our hands."
Becca could see the promise of paradise in Mish's eyes. He was behaving himself, lying down at the end of the bed, lightly stroking her foot. But despite his distance, he was obviously distracting her, because Hazel's words just didn't make any damn sense. "I'm sorry. What did you say?"
"Two," Hazel repeated. "Casey Parkers. Pretty bizarre mystery, huh? A second Casey Parker just showed up at the Lazy Eight, claiming you'd hired him on as a ranch hand. He was looking for a package that was supposedly waiting for him here at the office. He was pretty bent out of shape when I told him we'd filled our quota of Casey Parkers for the month and I'd given that package to the first one. I even had to call Rafe McKinnon down to the office to flex his muscles."
Becca sat up, her full attention on Hazel's words. "Is he still there?" she asked. "Call the sheriff and—"
"He's gone. He drove off in a wild hurry after he found out there'd been a Casey Parker here before him. I don't know what's going on."
"He's an imposter." Even as she said the words, Becca knew they made no sense. Why would someone show up at the ranch pretending to be Casey Parker?
"Someone's an imposter," Hazel said. "And that's why this phone call couldn't wait. Becca, I know there was something brewing between you and this Mish. Promise me you'll be careful if you see him again today?"
"Hazel—"
"Because Casey Parker Number Two had picture ID. He had a driver's license," Hazel told her. "He was a big guy with a gray beard and a beer belly, and it was definitely his picture on that license."
And Mish had had no ID at all.
He was sitting on the end of the bed, watching her.
He'd been listening to her end of the conversation. He knew she'd been talking about him and all sense of wicked play had disappeared.
"Are you sure?" Becca whispered. She pulled the sheet up so that it covered her, and Mish looked away tiredly, almost guiltily—as if he somehow knew exactly what Hazel was telling her.
"Honey, I used to work in the sheriffs office over in Chimayo. This license looked legit. It wasn't tampered with in any way that I could see. They have those fancy hologram thingies on 'em, you know, to keep people from messing with 'em." Hazel sighed. "You were planning to see him again, weren't you? That Mish? I am sorry about this."
"Thanks for calling," Becca managed to choke out before she hung up the phone.
Mish didn't look at her. He just sat on the bed, staring down at their clothes, still strewn on the floor where they'd left them last night.
"So. You want to tell me who you really are?" She'd meant to sound tough, but her voice shook slightly and ruined her delivery. "Seeing as how you're not Casey Parker?"
He looked up at her then, his eyes filled with regret and... shame?
Becca let herself get good and mad, fighting the tears that were on the verge of exploding from her eyes. Damn right he should feel shame!
"Maybe I should get dressed," he said, reaching for his clothes.
Becca scrambled out of the bed, pulling the sheet with her, and grabbed his pants away from him. "Oh, no, you don't. You're not going to leave before you at least give me some kind of explanation."
With shaking hands, Mish pulled on his shorts. Had he really thought he could have this woman without giving her anything of himself in return? Had he really thought he could hide here with her, safely cocooned from the real world, from the truth?
But the real world had reached out and somehow she now knew more about him than he did. How and what didn't matter. He should have known it would happen. He should have protected her from this.
And he would have, if only he'd stayed away from her. He should have been strong enough to resist the magnetic attraction he felt for her, that dizzying pull of longing. Instead, he'd given in to what he wanted, what he needed. And he'd hurt her. Badly.
Selfish. He was a selfish son of a bitch.
And in one brief moment, all of the magic of the night was gone, as if it had never existed, never been real. They'd shared something wonderful, something he'd longed to hold on to, something fragile and perfect that now lay crushed and broken at his feet. And he'd done that as surely as if he'd stomped on it with both heels of his boots.
"The real Casey Parker showed up at the ranch," Becca said, her voice thick with betrayal. "You had to have known that was bound to happen."
"I didn't," he said loudly, more forcefully than he'd intended. He stood up, pushing his hair back from his face, feeling as if he might be terribly, violently sick. Lord God, he'd been so selfish.
"You didn't?" Her voice rose, too. "Dammit, I know you're smarter than that. You had to know Casey would show up sooner or later."
He wasn't Casey Parker. He'd suspected that for a while. The name had seemed so unfamiliar. But still, he'd hoped.
God, he'd hoped. But hope wasn't enough. Not anymore.
So now what?
Although his back was to her, he could see her reflection in the big mirror that hung above the dresser. She was gazing at him with such hurt, such accusation in her eyes.
He still couldn't tell her the truth. He wasn't supposed to tell anyone why he was in New Mexico—he couldn't remember why, but he knew that he wasn't supposed to talk about it with a strength that was overpowering. Still, to walk away, leaving her to think that he'd purposely deceived her... He couldn't do that, either. How could he?
He stood there, stomach churning, sick to his soul, head bowed and shaking, unable to stay, unable to leave.
"You know," she said, her voice shaking, too, "if you'd come to the ranch and introduced yourself to me, if you'd been honest about who you were, I would have hired you. I don't understand why you had to lie."
What could he tell her? "Maybe I should just go. I can't tell you what you want to know."
Disbelief colored her voice. "You can't tell me your name?"
He glanced up and saw that she was crying. She tried to hide it by brusquely, almost savagely, wiping her tears away as she still clutched the sheet around her.
"Call me old-fashioned," Becca said sharply, "but I at least like to know the name of the men I've had sex with."
His name. Mish looked up,
and came face-to-face with himself in that mirror.
He was still a stranger to his own eyes. Hard and lean and dangerous, with his morning stubble thick and dark on his angular face, his hair wild, messed from sleep, his eyes bitter, soulless, he looked to be the kind of man who would lie his way into a woman's bed and leave her with little regard for her feelings in the morning.
He stared into those eyes, praying for a glimmer of memory, a whisper of a name. Some small fragment of truth that he could give her...
Mish.
Mission Man.
"Just tell me your name," Becca whispered.
He stared harder, fists tight, teeth clenched, hating himself, hating the stranger staring tauntingly back at him, no longer praying to God but demanding the answers he sought. Who the hell was he?
Mission Man.
An echo of Jarell's voice whispered the nickname, and his anger and frustration erupted.
"I don't know my damn name!" He exploded, spinning and hitting his reflection with his fist.
The mirror cracked, cutting his image in two. He hit it again, harder, and it shattered, the glass slicing his hand.
Becca backed away, shocked by his outburst, staring at this suddenly wild-eyed stranger whose blood dripped from his fingertips onto the carpeting.
"I don't know who the hell I am!" he shouted hoarsely. "I woke up nearly two weeks ago in a homeless shelter with five thousand dollars, a handgun in my boot, directions to the Lazy Eight with your name on it, and no memory of anything important—including my own name! You say I'm not Casey Parker? Well, guess what? This is news to me, too!"
Becca clutched her sheet around her, watching him, ready to run if he suddenly came toward her. Could what he'd just said possibly be true? Did he have some kind of amnesia? It sounded so amazing. And yet...
He was standing there, shaking like a wounded animal, his eyes filled with tears, unable to meet her gaze. ' 'Just give me my pants, and I'll go."
"Where?" she asked quietly, her heart in her throat. She had been furiously angry with him, but if what he was saying was even remotely true...
He looked up at her. He didn't understand.
"Where will you go?"
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