Gwen hadn’t countered because the distinction was unarguable. However, she had interceded on Jordie’s behalf and gotten Joe Wiley’s permission to let one of Extravaganza’s employees deliver to the hotel mail and paperwork that was time sensitive, such as work orders that required Jordie’s approval before projects could move forward.

It was a small victory, though. Because, once delivered, Gwen had opened each envelope and package, inspecting the contents before handing it over to Jordie.

She suffered no illusions. She was under guard. True, Joe Wiley didn’t wish any harm to come to her, but he was also mistrustful of her, as well he should be. She should have told him about that trip to Costa Rica.

She hadn’t wanted to go, but Panella had given her no other choice. She’d hated every minute spent in his company, had willed away the memory of those three days, and had almost succeeded in pretending that she’d never allowed herself to compromise as she had.

But by telling Joe Wiley about the trip, Josh had resurrected it and all its residual ugliness, and merely lamenting it wasn’t going to wash with the authorities. In the context of their case against Panella, the consequences of her being in Central America with him could be much more severe.

The sun shone in warmly through the window glass, but she hugged her elbows as though chilled at the prospect of testifying in court about that trip. Ruefully she thought back on ordinary days when catastrophes had amounted to a late floral delivery, a shortage of tablecloths, a misprint on a program, a grease fire in a hotel kitchen. Put into perspective, those had been mild mishaps. She wished now for problems that easily solvable.

The ones confronting her now seemed insurmountable. Not the least of them was Shaw Kinnard, more specifically the emotional tumult his very name engendered.

When she saw him not bloodied and dying but alive, learned that he wasn’t a notorious murderer but an FBI agent, her relief had been profound. But it was instantly squelched. When she grasped the scope of his duplicity and its impact on her, she’d barely restrained herself from lunging at him, clawing at his eyes, hurting him.

In addition to being infuriated, she’d also been sick with humiliation over her gullibility. She would never forgive herself for being taken in, for thrilling to his sexual innuendos, even a little. She’d actually begun to believe that they were more than light teases meant to provoke her. She’d begun to think that the feelings underlying them were deeper and more meaningful, to think…

Things that now seemed incredibly naïve.

Suddenly the sunlight was too bright. It was making her eyes water. She jerked the drapes closed and said to Gwen, “I’m going to lie down for a while.”

“A nap will do you good. Let me know if you need anything.”

“I will.”

“Jordie?”

She turned.

“What happened between you and Kinnard while you were in that garage?”

“You know what happened.”

Speaking more softly, the marshal said, “Off the record. Woman to woman.”

“Nothing,” she said huskily. “Nothing happened.”

Gwen knew she was lying and looked at her with something akin to pity. “He was only doing his job.”

“I know.” She went into the room and shut the door, leaning back against it and whispering, “And he’s very good at it.” Tears that had threatened earlier now spilled over her lower lids.

Angrily, she wiped them away. She would not cry over him.

Pushing herself away from the door, she headed for the bathroom only to be brought up short by a familiar sound—the distinctive buzz of a vibrating cell phone.

A cell phone? Hers was still in the FBI’s possession. Hickam had last used it to call Shaw’s burner when he staged his big reveal.

The sound persisted. She followed it over to the bureau where she’d stacked the items her office personnel had sent. Swiftly she checked the contents of padded envelopes and pushed lids off boxes until she found a box of printed invitations. She noticed now that the shipping label bore a company name she didn’t recognize. She dumped out shrink-wrapped parcels of invitations, envelopes, and reply cards.

The box continued to vibrate.

She dug into a corner of it and lifted out the false bottom. There lay the phone, shimmying against the white pasteboard. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to get this phone to her.

Instinctually, she snatched it up and answered. “Hello?”

“Jordie?”

Her heart clutched.

They already had Linda Meeker seated in a chair in the hallway outside the interrogation room when Morrow stalked through the door of his office, pushing Shaw along in front of him.

The young woman was hunched over, crying softly, her shoulders shaking, but she looked up, startled, when Morrow shoved Shaw into a chair diagonally across from the one in which she sat. He produced a pair of metal handcuffs and clicked one around Shaw’s right wrist and the other around the leg of the chair, rattling them menacingly against the chrome to make certain they were secure.

“Your lawyer had better show up soon or I’m putting you in lock-up. And get that stupid hood off your head.” He pushed back the hood of Shaw’s sweatshirt, then turned away and headed toward his office, pausing when he drew even with the girl. In a much gentler voice, he asked, “Anything I can get you, miss?”

She shook her head.

“Your folks should be here soon.” He started to move away, then glanced back at Shaw. “You. Don’t bother her.”

Shaw flipped him off with his free hand and pulled the hood back up to cover his head. Morrow scowled but said nothing else before returning to his office and pushing the door closed.

Shaw muttered several cuss words, then let his gaze drift from Morrow’s office door to the girl, who was regarding him warily. He stared back for several moments, then said in a low voice, “Lighten up, kid. No matter what they brought you in for, you’ll probably get off doing community service. Maybe some time in juvie, and it ain’t that bad.”

She immediately looked down.

Shaw rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes, but left them slitted so he could watch her.

She continued to stare into her lap where her hands were clasped but restless. She’d picked at a loose cuticle on her thumb until it had bled. One minute passed, then another thirty seconds or so. Shaw was beginning to think that his plan wasn’t going to work, when she shyly looked across at him again.

“Are you sick?”

He kept his head against the wall but rolled it to the side and tipped down the sunglasses to peer at her over the frames. “Not exactly. They pulled me outta the hospital on an assault warrant.”

“You were in the hospital?”

“Till about an hour ago.”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“Got stabbed.” With his free hand he raised his shirttail to show her the bandage.

Her swollen red eyes rounded slightly. “Who stabbed you?”

He coughed a laugh. “Last time I’ll piss her off.”

“A woman?”

“Girlfriend. Former girlfriend. She got me with a broken, rusty outboard propeller.”

“Mercy.”

He laughed again. “I said a little stronger word than mercy.”