That Summer In Maine. Muriel Jensen

      Even as the horror of the moment chilled her through, her brain was working on what was out of place here.

      Then she realized what it was. The man she’d tried to fight off had called her Maggie in perfect, unaccented English. She also realized that the shot intended for her had caught him. God. Had she gotten one of their rescuers killed?

      No. An instant later the body of the man who’d fallen across her was dragged off and she was turned onto her face as more gunfire rattled overhead. The man’s weight held her down, and she heard the deafening sound of his weapon and the thump of another body not too far away.

      Then everything grew quiet.

      “Monsieur March?” a voice with a rolling French accent whispered in the stillness. “You are well?”

      “We’re fine,” he replied. “You?”

      “Oui. But you were hit, no?”

      “Yes. It’s just a scrape. Is the woman all right?”

      “She has fainted.”

      The man holding Maggie down said wryly, “If only I’d been that lucky.”

      Maggie tried to turn, but the hand continued to hold her down. “Lie still,” the man commanded, “until we get the all-clear.”

      “I’m sorry.” Maggie spoke into the grass. “But when a man tackles a woman to the ground she presumes she’s not going to like whatever he has planned.”

      “My plans were to prevent you from getting shot,” he countered, then added on a note of amusement, “Unfortunately, you didn’t have the same plans for me.”

      She sighed and dropped her forehead to the grass. “Again, I’m sorry. It was dark. You were running after me…”

      “It’s all right. I’m fine.”

      A shout came from the main part of the camp, and the man got to his feet, pulling her with him. “All clear, Maggie. Pretty soon you’ll be home.”

      There was her name again, spoken in that familiar way. She stopped as he began to lead her to the main part of the camp, now well lit with flashlights and emergency flares. He had hold of her arm and stopped with her, a dark eyebrow raised in question.

      She looked into dark-brown eyes, their expression curiously satisfied and relaxed considering what he’d just been through. His nose was strong and straight, his mouth half smiling, his chin a square line in an angular face. Short, dark-brown hair was ruffled by the night wind.

      She shuddered as the cool air rippled through her light jacket. She had the oddest sense of familiarity without recognizing his features. “Do I know you?” she asked.

      DUFFY COULDN’T BELIEVE how beautiful she still was. The teenager with whom he’d been infatuated was still visible in the smooth curve of her cheek, the youthful tilt of her nose, and the natural color of the long, straight hair he’d been able to pick out from a distance. But pain had worn away the sparkle he remembered in her dark-blue eyes. The ever-ready smile wasn’t there, either.

      Of course, she’d just been through a great trial, but he had a feeling that wasn’t the problem. There was a certain flatness in her glance that had probably been there for a while, a disturbingly even rhythm to her speech and movements that seemed to indicate a lack of interest. Though, when she’d thought he represented death just a few moments ago, she’d fought him like a tiger. He wondered if the lack of interest was something she’d simply decided upon rather than something she sincerely felt.

      He ripped off the black sweater he wore and pushed it on over her head, pulling it down over her thin jacket.

      She looked surprised and seemed about to protest when the warmth of it apparently penetrated and she rubbed her arms to help it along.

      “You once knew me very well,” he replied, drawing her with him toward the group. Eduard’s men had been handcuffed and were already being sent down the mountain with the Gendarmes. “You stayed the night with me many times.”

      Now she raised an eyebrow. “I did?”

      “You did. We sat up until all hours talking.”

      She was staring at him in complete confusion, her pale lips temptingly parted. He had to look away from them.

      “You made caramel corn and brownies,” he went on, “and we watched Dallas together.”

      He saw realization light up her eyes. Then she gasped and pushed him with both hands. “Duffy March!” she exclaimed, smiling, and shoved him again. Then she wrapped her arms around him and held him tightly.

      Her embrace was intense. He was smart enough to know it had nothing to do with him but with the fact that he was a tie to the happy life she’d lived before fame and tragedy had taken so much from her.

      “Oh, Duffy,” she whispered, clutching him even tighter.

      He winced, a burning pinch on the outside of his upper arm.

      “You’ve been shot!” she exclaimed, ripping a scarf from around her neck and holding it to his blood-soaked sleeve.

      “Just nicked me,” he said, drawing her back into his arms.

      He kissed the top of her head and held her close. “Hi, Maggie,” he said.

      Chapter Two

      “But what are you doing here?” she demanded, still smiling.

      “Your father sent me,” he replied. She’d stopped in her tracks again and he coaxed her forward. “It’s kind of a long story and should probably be saved for the ride home. Right now the police will want to talk to you.”

      It was several hours before the police were finished with Maggie and her party, and a doctor took care of Duffy’s shoulder. Duffy called home to tell her father that she was safe.

      “Thank God!” he exclaimed prayerfully, then added, “I owe you, son.”

      “I was happy to help.”

      “Will you ask her to call me when you finally get her home? It doesn’t matter what time.”

      “She’s insisting on flying home tonight, so it’ll probably be early morning.”

      “I’ll wait for your call.”

      Her friends were all going back to the count’s place to recover from the ordeal, but Maggie declined his invitation.

      “You’re going to fly to London tonight?” the man she’d introduced as her agent asked. “That’ll be exhausting.”

      “I’m already exhausted,” she replied, giving him a hug. “And my friend, here, has gotten us a flight.” Then she hugged the rest of the group in turn.

      He blessed her father’s CIA connections as he happily accepted her praise and gratitude.

      They caught up on the way home—what she’d been doing, what he’d been doing.

      She skipped over the loss of her husband and children with a falsely philosophical “And every life has its ups and downs, my downs were just more abysmal than most people’s.” Then she gave him a phony smile. “But my career’s ongoing, I work all the time, and I like that. When did you go into security?”

      “After the Army. I was young and strong and felt invincible.” He reached overhead to adjust the air in her direction. “I guess there just wasn’t enough threat to my life, so I went looking for it in other people’s by going to work as a bodyguard. Went off on my own after a year. Our headquarters are in New York, but we work all over the world.”

      “I love New York. It’s like a slightly less dignified London.”

      They compared lives in the big city, she told him she did needlework