Rafe Sinclair's Revenge. Gayle Wilson

office where Elizabeth worked was on this street. The same street from where that ominous pillar of smoke was rising.

      As he rounded the corner, he made a quick visual assessment. Despite the widespread effects of the blast, there was no doubt in his mind that the structure on fire was the law office of Connell and Anderson.

      And with a renewed sense of panic he realized he had no idea what time it was. No idea what time Elizabeth normally arrived at work.

      Then his searching eyes found her. She was standing, talking to a fireman or paramedic. There was no blood on her clothing, but even from here he could tell her face was completely without color, the scattering of freckles stark against the milk-white skin.

      Still, she was standing. Talking. Not bleeding. Apparently unharmed. His knees almost gave way with the force of his relief.

      He closed his eyes in an unspoken prayer of thanks. It was a mistake, but by the time he was aware of that, it was too late to do anything about it. Images began to unwind, like the flickering frames of an old newsreel, against the blackness behind his lids.

      They weren’t from any newsreel, of course. And they were all in color. The vivid, shocking brightness of freshly spilled blood. The grotesque black of skin that has been charred, peeling off the arm of a woman whose mouth was open, silently imploring him to help her.

      At that moment someone running down the street careened into him. The force of collision was enough to turn him, causing him to stumble against the side of a building.

      The impact of his fall or the roughness of the brick as his cheek scraped against it was enough to tear him out of the flashback. He opened his eyes, seeing in front of him the scene he had been watching before it began.

      Elizabeth was still in the center of his vision. Mouth moving, she was pointing toward the line of cars parked in front of the burning building. They were close enough to the fire that the paint on their hoods was starting to blister. Just like—

      He jerked his mind from that comparison, concentrating instead on Elizabeth. Not the woman in the embassy, he told himself doggedly. This was not the same situation. Nothing about it was the same.

      He started to run again, feeling as if he were moving through quicksand. The distance between them seemed vast and immeasurable, but he never took his eyes off his goal. Never allowed himself to think about anything other than reaching it. Reaching her.

      He knew the exact second when she became aware of him. She had been talking to another of the firemen, but when her eyes locked with his, her mouth stopped moving, remaining open as if frozen in midsentence.

      At her sudden silence the two men standing beside her turned to stare at him as well. One of them moved between him and Elizabeth, the gesture obviously protective.

      Rafe’s response was nothing short of murderous. Get the hell out of my way, you son of a bitch. He didn’t say that. He had no breath, and his mouth was too dry to form the words.

      Elizabeth moved from behind the fireman, quickly taking the last few steps that would close the distance between them. There could have been nothing more natural than to take her in his arms. He had wanted to do that last night, despite everything he understood about how unwise it would be for both of them. That wasn’t what stopped him now.

      There was less than two feet between them when their forward motion ground to a halt. She was again looking up at him, her head slightly raised because of the difference in their heights.

      A cone of silence descended around him, blocking out the noises of the sirens, the pressure hoses, the shouts from the firemen fighting the blaze. All he could hear was his own breathing, harsh and panting from the exertion of his run.

      Terrifyingly, the smell of the fire was all around him. The heat of it.

      Elizabeth didn’t say a word, widened eyes searching his face. He couldn’t imagine what he looked like. Deranged, perhaps. Maybe even dangerous. Enough like a lunatic to cause the fireman to edge closer again.

      She lifted her hand. For an instant he thought she intended to touch his face, but instead she pressed the tips of her fingers, trembling as they had been last night, against the center of his heaving chest.

      “Rafe?”

      God, he wanted to touch her. Just to take her hand as he had last night.

      He didn’t, of course, because he was afraid that if he gripped her arm, her skin would slip off muscle and bone to lie in his hand as it had before.

      That wasn’t here. Not Elizabeth. Not now.

      “What the hell happened?” he managed to rasp.

      She shook her head, her eyes never leaving his face. “I don’t know. It just…blew up. They think maybe there was a gas leak.”

      He laughed, the sound a breath, devoid of amusement. “They’d be wrong.”

      Her eyes changed, understanding of what he meant invading them as he watched.

      “You think…” The sentence trailed. Once more she shook her head, the gesture small, denying. Her mouth worked and then she tried again. “You can’t possibly believe—”

      “Come on,” he ordered.

      He didn’t touch her, although by now the few words they’d exchanged had reoriented him. He knew where he was. And there was no doubt in his mind who she was.

      Still, he didn’t dare put his hands on her. Not yet. No matter how much he wanted to.

      “Come where?”

      “Away from here.”

      “I have to talk to the chief. There are questions that have to be—”

      “Screw the questions. They’ll figure it out. They don’t need you to do that.”

      “Rafe,” she protested.

      She’d been out of this business too long. Her instincts were to respond to something like this in a rational way. Despite the time that had passed, his were not. His were all of the get-the-hell-out-of-Dodge variety.

      The authorities could sort through cause-and-effect to their bureaucratic heart’s content. Meanwhile, he’d have her safe somewhere a thousand miles from here. Somewhere this time where that frigging terrorist bastard could never find her.

      “Ms. Anderson?”

      Elizabeth turned, removing her fingers from his chest. It was as if his connection to the present had been unplugged. He felt the familiar disconnect start and fought it, concentrating fiercely on maintaining contact with her and what was happening.

      Her mouth was moving, but for a few seconds he couldn’t make sense of the words. He concentrated on doing that, forcing his mind to remain focused on the here and now.

      It was a struggle, given the stimuli provided by the sights and sounds around them. He couldn’t afford to think about those. Not about the heat of the fire or the smells of it or the sounds of the sirens.

      He forced himself to think only about Elizabeth’s mouth until eventually the words she was saying to the man he’d identified as Magnolia Grove’s fire chief began to form a pattern. To make sense.

      “…a friend of mine from out of town. He was naturally concerned for me.”

      Because I’m the only one who knows what the hell is going on here.

      “We just need to ask you a few more questions, ma’am. Then Tommy thinks you ought to ride on in to the hospital and get checked out. You could have a concussion.”

      “I’m fine.”

      “You can’t be too careful with a head injury.”

      Head injury. She had a head injury?

      Cautiously, Rafe allowed his gaze to leave Elizabeth’s mouth, focusing on her head. Her hair was full of ash, but