âLovers. Say weâve been seeing each other for six months. Things have gotten cozy. Itâd seem natural for me to be here. Keithâs in the hospital, your kidâs been snatched. Iâd hang around, stick close, give you moral support. All itâll take is a little playacting.â
âHow
much
playacting?â
âEnough to be convincing.â He caught her shocked expression and rolled his eyes. âNot
that
much, for heavenâs sake.â
âItâs not that. Itâs just that Iâm afraid I canât do it.â
He pressed his fist against her chin jokingly. âHey, itâll be easy. Just donât call me Mac Phearson. He might recognize the name. Mac or Hey-You, but not Mac Phearson. Iâll do the rest.â
The front door swung open beneath his hand with a loud creak. He preceded her into the entry, the soles of his sneakers grabbing the tile.
For some reason, the thought that there might be monitors in her house was the final blow to her self-control. She began to shake and couldnât stop. All evening, she had fought off tears and hysteria, telling herself there would be time for that later. Now she realized there wasnât going to be. Her only sanctuary had been invaded.
Mac must have seen her trembling. He paused and curled his arm around her to draw her against him. Being closer to him helped somehow. The tremors running through her body subsided. She pressed her face into the hollow of his shoulder. Soap, cologne, leather and the faint aroma of hot dogsâa nice smell, ordinary and comforting. The steady beat of his heart lulled her fears. His arms were hard and warm. He ran a hand over her hair and she felt his callous palm catch on the strands. He was wonderfully sturdy when nothing else was, and she dreaded the moment when he would move away from her.
âYou okay?â
She found the strength to nod. He gave her back a pat and left her again, disappearing into the shadows. Sudden light blinded her. She blinked and tried to focus. With detached curiosity, she watched him move about the hall, running his hands along the door frames. When she realized he was searching for hidden microphones, she began to help, sliding her fingertips under the edge of the table, behind the painting of the Puget Sound, through the dried flowers. They found nothing, but that still didnât mean there werenât bugs in a nearby room.
âI really appreciate your staying over,â she said, praying she didnât sound too stiff and formal. âGood friends make times like this bearable. Are you sure itâs not too much trouble?â
She saw a gleam of approval flicker in his eyes. âI wouldnât have it any other way, sweetheart.â
They walked the length of the entry into the kitchen, which adjoined a breakfast nook to the left, a formal dining room to the right. Mac hit the light switch as they passed through the doorway. Mallory turned to stare at the rose-and-cream tiles on the counters, at the oak cupboards and trim. Day before yesterday, she had made breakfast in here. Em had stood chattering at her elbow. Now it seemed like a lifetime ago.
Mac motioned toward a chair in the breakfast nook. Then, shrugging out of his jacket, he draped it across the bar. He took quick stock of his surroundings and began to check the kitchen for hidden listening devices. Taking her cue from him, Mallory ignored his signal to sit down and searched the two adjoining rooms. This
was
her house, after all. She would notice if anything was out of place when he might not.
When she returned to the kitchen, Mac was just stepping through the hall doorway. She guessed that he had been checking the remainder of the first floor. It had been a long while since either of them had spoken. Afraid that the silence might strike an eavesdropper as odd, she said, âItâs amazing how much better I feel knowing youâre staying over for the