Dangerous Waters

by Janice Kay Johnson

  More cynically, she thought, he's probably tired of this identity. Time to become somebody else.

  She lifted her chin in a challenge he couldn't mistake and said, "Then what are you doing about it?"

  He met her gaze warily. "You know what I'm doing about it."

  "Those two men didn't come from Devil's Lake, did they." It wasn't really a question.

  He carefully buttered a biscuit. "I never thought they were year-round residents. Joe Carlson at the marina would have recognized them. That doesn't mean they weren't weekenders, or even summer renters. Or hired hands for somebody who does live here."

  "People in this town aren't like that."

  He snorted. "For God's sake, Megan, you know better than that."

  "No, I don't," she said stubbornly.

  He pushed his chair back from the table in a sudden burst of frustration she recognized as a match for hers. "All right, damn it! They don't live here. What the hell difference does that make?"

  Her stomach was in knots and her hands were curled into fists underneath the table. "This is your problem. You brought it here. You have to get us out of this."

  His eyes narrowed. "I could do a hell of a lot better job if you weren't complicating it. Right now, I'm a bodyguard. You're tying my hands."

  Now she pushed back from the table and stood up, suddenly angry. "Who is complicating whose life? This is my home! My car, my job, my town! You want me to go sit in a hotel room somewhere staring at the walls for weeks or months, so you don't have to worry about whether I might catch some fallout from your problems. Well, guess what? I have no intention of doing that!"

  "No kidding." Mac's mouth had a sardonic twist. "Somehow I figured that out."

  "Good." Megan shoved the chair in and began gathering dishes, clattering them together. "Are you done eating?" she snapped.

  "I have to admit I've kind of lost my appetite."

  "If you want dessert, there's ice cream in the freezer." What a perfect little hostess, she thought, exasperated.

  "Megan." He rose from his seat with an effortless grace that always tweaked some sexual cord in her makeup. Before she had a chance to argue, Mac took the pile of dishes out of her hands. His jaw was set, but his face was expressionless. "I'll clean the kitchen. You've been waiting on me hand and foot. It's my turn to do some of the dirty work. Why don't you go take a bath. Read a book. Call a friend. Just don't pay attention if you hear things breaking."

  When she didn't move, he smiled, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Don't you have any sense of humor? I won't break anything."

  Did he think she'd melt at one little smile? Knowing she sounded grumpy, still she said, "I used to have a sense of humor."

  He set the dishes on the counter and turned to face her. "Yeah, well, it's hard to find anything funny in somebody trying to kill you, I will admit."

  "Or in somebody trying to save you from nothing," she said, with no softening in her voice.

  His eyes narrowed. "Well, let me tell you something. Right this second, I'm trying to save you from me, so I suggest you take my advice and get the hell out of this kitchen." Just like that, tension was pulled so tight between them one wrong word would snap it.

  Megan's outrage was mixed with something that scared her a little. Did she want to push him a little too far? But this was her house, her kitchen. She couldn't let him order her around like this, all in the name of being chivalrous. "I'll go when I'm good and ready," she said childishly.

  "Fine." Mac's voice was as gravelly as the bottom of Devil's Lake. He strode by her and grabbed dishes from the table, then slapped them on the counter. She heard a crack and started forward.

  "You said you wouldn't break ..."

  He swore under his breath. "God, you make it hard to keep my temper."

  "So lose it!" she snapped, forgetting the dish. "Just once I'd like to see you act like a real human being."

  Without once looking away from her, he picked up a glass from the counter and flung it against the wall. It shattered and fell in glittering shards on the floor.

  Openmouthed, Megan stared at him.

  "You think I'm not frustrated as hell?" he asked. "You think it's easy following you around like a goddamned dog every day? How do you think I like tossing and turning every night, knowing you're right upstairs?"

  Her voice sounded a little squeaky when she said, "What's that have to do with anything?"

  His gray eyes burned hers. "Everything," he said. "And you know it."

  "No." Was this why she had pushed? she wondered wildly. So that he would tell her how badly he wanted her? Was her ego so starved? "I'm...not exactly irresistible," she whispered.

  He made a despairing sound in the back of his throat and then pulled her into his arms. She recognized, just before his mouth claimed hers, that this was what she had wanted, not the words.

  And then he was kissing her with intent, white-hot desire that seared her. She couldn't think, or even respond, only leaned against him and accepted his savage need. His teeth hurt her lips, but the pain sent heat shooting through her veins. Somehow her arms had wound themselves around his neck and she was so close to him that the ridge of his arousal pressed against her stomach. Megan whimpered and her head fell back.

  The next instant, he pushed her away. She wobbled, and he said hoarsely, "Unless you want to clean up this kitchen by yourself, you'd better get out of here."

  "But ..."

  Except in his eyes, which glittered, she could see no trace of the lover. His expression was grim, his face hard. "Now," he said implacably.

  Without a word, she turned and fled. Just as she reached the doorway, his rough voice stopped her. "I will get out of your life one of these days."

  She nodded, hiding the sting in her eyes, and left him in the kitchen. Safely in her bedroom, Megan sagged into a rocker. Dear Lord. After everything that had come before, he had meant to reassure her with his words. Why, oh, why couldn't she find some comfort in the thought of his departure? she wondered desperately.

  Was it because she didn't believe he ever would leave?

  Or because she didn't really want him out of her life?

  *****

  Megan had told her parents about Mac the day after the attempted break-in. She'd made the announcement with some trepidation. Mac was the target of cold-blooded killers, not exactly an ideal roommate from a parent's point of view.

  Actually, it had been her mother she had spoken to on the telephone. Megan's announcement that a strange man was now living with her—strictly for her safety, of course—was followed by a moment of silence during which Megan winced.

  Then her mother said, on what was clearly a rush of relief, "Oh, thank goodness! We've been so worried."

  Of course, Megan thought on the way to her parents' house that next evening, they hadn't met him yet. She had a feeling their relief at having her guarded day and night might dissolve once they saw what Mac looked like. Presumably they prized her safety above her virtue, but what mother in her right mind wanted a killer whale in the bay with her minnow?

  Mac had let her drive, which always made her nervously conscious of her impulsive style. One of the world's great drivers she was not. Mac never talked much when they were on the road, and his silence usually quelled her own chatter. She guessed he didn't want to be distracted from his watchfulness. She would see his gaze flick from the side-mounted rearview mirror to the road ahead and then back, never pausing for long. Maybe his presence should have made her feel secure, but it had the opposite effect. All she could think about was what he expected to happen. A car bomb? A rifle shot through the windshield? A fiery crash?

  Worse yet, since last night they had scarcely exchanged a word. What was there to say? Yet the silence had become thick, charged with a quality as dangerous as any car bomb.

  "Thank God," she muttered, once she'd parked the Civic in her parents' driveway.

  Mac raised a brow.

  "Nothing," Megan said. "Come on."
>
  "Wait here for a minute."

  She rolled her eyes but obliged. He climbed out of the car, his hand just inside the faded jean jacket that looked so casual but presumably hid a shoulder holster. His restless gaze scanned the block while she waited. At last he nodded. "Okay."

  "Thank you," she said sweetly, her sarcasm provoking a twitch of that hard, sexy mouth.

  "Never say I don't do anything for you," he commented, surprising her.

  Some demon drove her to respond in kind. "Would I say that? After all, you washed the dishes last night."

  "Your priorities never cease to amaze me."

  "Ditto," she retorted, then opened the front door and raised her voice. "Hi, Mom, Dad."

  "Oh, Megan." With suspicious alacrity, her mother appeared in the kitchen doorway. "How nice. You must be Mr. McClain."

  "Mac," he said, holding out a hand. "Nice to meet you."

  Megan's mother smiled and took his hand. "I'm Anne. And my husband..." She glanced over her shoulder. "Oh, there you are, dear. Mac, this is Megan's dad, George."

  "George." Another handshake as the two men appraised each other. Megan waited with a certain amount of apprehension for the result. Not that she would be able to tell what Mac was thinking, or her dad, for that matter.

  Eventually they moved on into the big country kitchen, where Mrs. Lovell was working on dinner. "Chicken with artichoke hearts," she announced. "One of Megan's favorites," she told Mac. "She does so little cooking on her own, I worry about her. Those TV dinners don't have enough nutritional value to keep a mouse alive! She'd never eat a decent home-cooked meal if she didn't come here."

  Mac's amused gaze met Megan's, and she cursed herself for blushing. Thank you, Mom, she thought.

  "Actually," Mac said judiciously, "she might surprise you. She's been feeding me decently."

  Obviously startled, her mother turned to look at her. "Really?"

  Megan mumbled, "Well, it never seems worth the effort when it's just me. But Mac has an appetite like a horse. I have to feed him, don't I?"

  "You could starve me out," he suggested.

  "What an idea!" Mrs. Lovell sounded shocked. "I'm sure Megan appreciates what you're doing for her."

  Megan crossed her arms. "No, I don't! This whole thing is ridiculous. Why do I have to keep saying that? This is Devil's Lake, for crying out loud! You all sound like you think we live in New York or something! I mean, when's the last time we had a murder here?"

  "If it weren't for you," her father put in quietly, "we'd have had one last week."

  "Yes, but—"

  "No ‘but’," her mother interrupted. "If someone wanted to kill Mac once, there's no reason to think they won't try again."

  "Which is all the more reason for him to go away," Megan said defiantly. She wasn't altogether sure who she was arguing with. Was it her parents, Mac—or herself? And what was the point? She had resigned herself to Mac's presence. Hadn't she?

  She was dismayed to see her father—her calm, even phlegmatic father—shake his head. "You saw them, Meg. If they were willing to kill once, why not twice? Only makes sense, from their side of the whole thing."

  Defeated, Megan said, "Okay, okay. I'm just being hysterical. Ignore me. Hey, Mac does, anyway."

  "I wouldn't say that." In a moment of stillness weighted by unacknowledged emotions, Mac and Megan looked at each other.

  Megan tore her gaze away, only to catch an odd expression on her father's face as he watched Mac. Sadness?

  "Megan," Mrs. Lovell said briskly, "why don't you set the table. George, do you suppose Mac would like a glass of wine or a beer?"

  "I wouldn't mind a beer," Mac agreed, smiling at Mrs. Lovell. With resignation Megan observed her mother's blush. On the receiving end of that devastating, sexy, yet somehow sweet smile, what woman wouldn't blush?

  By tacit agreement, the whole subject of Mac's reason for staying in Devil's Lake was dropped over dinner. They ate on the back porch, coolly shadowed in the early evening, with a magnificent view over the lake. Megan was unpleasantly reminded of the night she had stopped beside the road after work; of the purple shadows and shimmering glow, the stark backdrop of mountains and the gathering quiet. So impulsive, so unimportant that decision had been— and how frightening the consequences.

  The conversation rambled from national politics to fishing. "I don't hunt," Mac said. "I see too many ugly examples of what guns can do. Shooting one is cold necessity, not fun."

  "I'm not a hunter myself," Megan's father agreed. "Most of the folks around here are. I just don't like killing anything that doesn't have scales."

  "You don't even like killing the things that do," her mother teased. "Half the time you make me knock them on the head."

  "Have to admit," Mac said laconically, "I throw 'em back most of the time."

  Megan groaned inwardly. Soul mates. Wouldn't you know? Her peaceful, amiable, slow-talking father and the man sitting across the table from her who had cold eyes and the instinct to run toward danger, not away. On the other hand, her dad had fought in the Vietnam War, which she had never been able to picture. Maybe that was where he had learned to hate killing. Maybe the two men had more in common than was immediately obvious.

  "Where are Linda and John tonight?" Megan asked.

  Her mother sipped from a mug of herb tea. The dinner plates had been replaced with peach pie and tea. She said vaguely, "Oh, up to their usual, I suppose. I didn't want to overwhelm Mac, so I didn't invite either of them."

  "And I suppose Bill's off again."

  Her mother only nodded.

  "I've met Bill," Mac said.

  "So we heard," Mr. Lovell agreed. "Scared the pants off him."

  "Yeah, well, he scared the pants off Megan." Mac sounded unapologetic.

  Megan opened her mouth to argue, then shut it. What was the point in opening that discussion again?

  "We'd better be getting home," she said instead. "I want to stop by the school tomorrow for a few minutes before work. They've changed my room, I'm down in the old wing now, so I'd like to take a peek. I might not have as much bulletin-board space."

  Her mother gave a quick look at Mac, who had frowned. Tentatively she said, "Do you really think you'll be able to teach in September?"

  Megan straightened. "Why wouldn't I?"

  "Well, if this is still unresolved ..."

  "If nobody has taken a pot shot at me by then, I think we can forget the whole thing, don't you?" She stood up. "Mac, are you ready?"

  He set down his half-empty cup of coffee. "Sure. Always ready to serve. That's me."

  Megan's mother chuckled and Megan rolled her eyes. Damn it, was she always bad-tempered, or did Mac just bring it out in her? " 'Night, Dad." On sudden impulse, she bent to kiss her father on the cheek, though she was normally undemonstrative. "'Night, Mom," she said, turning.

  Apparently moved by the same impulse, her mother gave her a quick hug and whispered, "Be careful."

  Megan carried the words and the feel of her mother's embrace home with her. Her father's cheek had felt softer than it used to, she thought a little sadly; she had noticed new lines on it tonight.

  Had they all shared the same chill that had made her want to reach blindly for her mommy and daddy? Had they all wondered, just for that fleeting second, whether they would see each other again?

  Ridiculous, she told herself for the second time that evening, stealing a glance at the shadowed face of the man who sat watchfully beside her in the small car. If somebody wanted to kill her, he would have tried again, not let days pass. Mac's profession encouraged paranoia, hers hope. She would not let herself be infected.

  CHAPTER 6

  It began to rain the next afternoon, a soft drizzle that steadily hardened. By five o'clock the downpour left the beach empty. Megan and the lifeguards had retreated to the boathouse. She stood in the open doorway and watched the driving rain turn the lake to a battered sheet of iron. She listened to the drumming and smelled the damp.


  Where had Mac gone? she wondered. Had he even been here near the end?

  On the sunny days, with the beach crowded, she was impatient with his presence. Now, conscious of the nearly deserted parking lot, she began to feel uneasy.

  "Well," she said, "I suppose we might as well hang it up."

  "You mean, we get a night off?" one of the guards exclaimed with mock incredulity. "Wow, we can have a beach party."

  Megan smiled. "Right. Just not here."

  They separated to finish bringing the equipment in and hang the No Lifeguard on Duty sign. She overheard two of the boys talking about a kegger and some girl with big boobs. Great. What did she have to look forward to? A cup of hot chocolate? Carefully not thinking about Mac, she stuck out her tongue at the boy's back, the immature gesture curing her of a momentary worry that she might have gray hairs to go with her less than well-endowed chest.

  Megan took care to be ready to leave at the same time as her employees. The parking lot was as gray as the lake. Like the others, she ran to her car, but she was still drenched when she got there. Just as she reached it, the driver's-side door swung open, offering refuge.

  "Come on, get in," Mac said. His deep voice should have startled her but didn't.

  She bumped her elbow on the steering wheel before she managed to squeeze herself and her duffel bag in and slam the door. She gave a shiver and shook drops off her hair. "Lovely weather."

  "Look at it this way," Mac suggested. He had the seat pushed back to give him leg room and looked enviably dry and comfortable. "You get to go home and take a hot shower, have dinner, read a good book..."

  "Are you trying to send me to bed at eight o'clock again?" Megan asked tartly. "What if I feel like partying?"

  "Do you?"

  She made a face. "What do you think?"

  "I think we should buy a pizza on our way home. Maybe a six-pack."

  "Now you're trying to get me drunk."

  That mouth quirked into an irresistible grin that deepened the crease in one cheek. "Now you're being difficult."

  Conscious of a reckless stirring inside, Megan retorted, "Comes naturally."