Liam's Witness Protection. Amelia Autin

Liam glanced away from the road for a second toward Cate sitting so still and quiet, looking even younger in repose...until one looked in her eyes.

      No, Cate was alive now because the men who’d tried to kill her were dead. The only thing he regretted was that he and Alec hadn’t somehow prevented the entire incident from occurring. So that no one had died. So that no one had been wounded. Impossible, of course. But otherwise he didn’t have any regrets.

      Except the way Cate had shied away from him. From his touch. That still bothered him. And while you’re at it, might as well admit something else is bothering you, his inner voice nudged into his consciousness.

      He so didn’t want to go there. Didn’t want to examine his reaction too closely, but... It is what it is, he admitted to himself. He’d never been jealous of Alec—not since the day he turned eighteen and joined the Marine Corps anyway, which Alec had done the year before him. From that point on their friendship had been untainted by anything as destructive as jealousy on either side. Each was the other’s cheerleader, and the accomplishments of one were a source of pride to the other. Liam had even followed his brother into the DSS. Not because he was jealous of what Alec was doing, but because he believed wholeheartedly the DSS was his true calling, same as it was for Alec.

      But that’s exactly what he was feeling right now. Jealousy. Hot, harsh, unreasoning. He didn’t like it one bit, but he couldn’t refuse to acknowledge it. He was jealous—of the admiring way Cate spoke Alec’s name. As if...

      “At the end of the road, turn right,” said the GPS. And when Liam had dutifully done so, the GPS said, “You have reached your destination.”

      * * *

      Twilight covered the earth, and there was a delicious smell of roast chicken wafting through the house. The agents who ran the safe house—a husband and wife team in their fifties, but who continued to instill confidence in their abilities—had told them dinner would be ready in thirty minutes. Lunch had been so delicious Cate was looking forward to dinner with an appetite she hadn’t had since Alec had found her. Since he’d convinced her to testify against Vishenko.

      In addition to feeding them, the agents had made sure Cate and Liam had everything they needed—from clothes, to toiletries, to bedrooms, to information. What little information they had, anyway, which wasn’t much. Cate remembered how the first question Liam had asked was the status of the marshals who’d been wounded in the attack on her, and the other prosecutor, too. As if he really cared about men he didn’t know. As if it mattered to him.

      She’d wanted to know, too, of course. She hadn’t had a lot to do with the prosecutors other than prepping for trial, but the two marshals were part of a team guarding her for the past month since she’d returned to the US from Zakhar, and she’d gotten to know them. Both men were married. One had two young boys already and his wife was expecting their third child in a couple of months. The other had just become a father for the first time six months ago. If Cate still believed in a just and merciful God, she would have prayed for the men, prayed they would recover completely and their families would get through this terrible time in their lives without too much grief.

      But Cate didn’t believe. Not anymore. Vishenko had killed her faith in God as surely as he’d killed her faith in the goodness of mankind. So she no longer prayed. Not for herself. Not for others.

      Angelina still believes. And Alec, she told herself wistfully as she sat on the bed in the bedroom assigned to her—a delightfully feminine room she would have loved when she was sixteen. Now it did nothing for her. Cate had spent more than six of the past seven years running. Hiding. Living off the grid. Taking temporary jobs where they’d pay her in cash. Living hand-to-mouth at times, barely able to scrape up enough money to rent a room in a halfway decent boardinghouse. Skipping meals on occasion, when her money wouldn’t stretch to cover a roof over her head and food. Always looking over her shoulder. Always terrified. Always moving on to somewhere new after a few months, somewhere Vishenko’s men couldn’t find her.

      No friends. She couldn’t afford friends, and not just because they might accidentally betray her. She couldn’t take the chance—if Vishenko’s men finally ran her to ground—that one of her friends would get caught in the cross fire. She knew Vishenko’s men wouldn’t care who else was killed so long as she was. She was almost more terrified of causing someone else’s death than she was of dying.

      Like the prosecutor today. Dead because of her. One minute he’d been alive and she’d been arguing with him, the next minute he was dead at her feet and her bodyguards were plastered over her, taking those bullets meant for her. Vishenko’s revenge for her daring to oppose him. For daring to escape. For daring to testify. The prosecutor wasn’t a friend, but she’d still caused his death. And if anyone else who was shot this morning died, that was her fault, too.

      Don’t think that way, the rational part of her brain told her. It’s not your fault, it’s Vishenko’s. But her conscience didn’t want to listen. If she’d stayed in Zakhar all those years ago, if she’d listened to Angelina...none of this would have happened. You would probably be married by now, she thought, to a strong man of good character. A man who would treat her with respect. A man with high moral standards—like the ones she’d had herself when she was sixteen. A man like...

      She shied away from that thought, the same way she’d shied away when he’d tried to touch her hair. Liam. He hadn’t meant anything by it. Hadn’t intended to give her cause for alarm. And he certainly hadn’t been going to strike her. Abuse her. Terrify her. She knew that. Her brain knew that. But her body had reacted without thinking. Would it always?

      She would never marry. Not now. What respectable man would want her? And even if—miracle of miracles—she found one who did, could she ever bear to be touched...that way? If she couldn’t even let an obviously decent man like Liam brush her hair out of her eyes—an innocent gesture—how was she ever going to let a man touch her in more intimate ways?

      She sighed, suddenly so worn-out she could barely sit up. She laid down on top of the bedspread and pulled a corner of it over her. Fifteen minutes, she promised herself as she closed her eyes. Just fifteen minutes. She shivered a little in the air-conditioned room and clutched the bedspread closer, huddling beneath it. She wasn’t used to air-conditioning. And she was too thin.

      Does Liam think you’re too thin? The question came at her out of nowhere, and it surprised her. Even more surprising was the answer. No, he doesn’t. Remember the way he looked at you? The way his eyes said he found you attractive?

      Such a good man, despite the fact he’d already judged her. She didn’t fault him for that—his opinion of her was no worse than her opinion of herself. It made no difference in the way he treated her, though, and that touched a secret place inside her. Even thinking the worst, Liam was so protective, like Alec. But Alec was Angelina’s, heart and soul.

      Hovering between waking and sleeping, Cate’s thoughts winged back to Angelina. Sometimes it seemed as if her memories of long ago, her memories of her cousin were the only things that still belonged to her. Angelina, who’d treated Cate like a little sister...spoiling her a bit, making much of her. Calling her dernya, which meant little treasure in Zakharan. Never making her feel unwanted the way her parents had made her feel unwanted because she wasn’t a boy.

      Cate smiled sadly, remembering happier times with her cousin...when they were both determined to succeed in their own way. When they both believed in the power of prayer the way they believed in hard work. Back when she’d idolized Angelina and wanted to be exactly like her—even though she’d known she couldn’t be. She’d known she’d never excel academically, the way her cousin did. She’d been twelve to Angelina’s seventeen, but she’d known even then that if she excelled it would have to be in a different arena.

      When had she decided to become a model? Was it when she’d shot up four inches between seventh and eighth grades, adding another three inches in ninth? When the other girls in her school had gazed enviously at Cate’s luxurious golden hair, her face, her slender figure,