Claire Barlow barreled her way through the privet hedge separating her house from the old Martin place and crossed the new neighbor's yard, plastic measuring cup swinging recklessly in her hand. She wasn't usually such a coward. So why, she wondered, did she act like one now? Going next door to borrow a cup of sugar was only another delaying tactic, wasn't it? A way to avoid the teary scene she must eventually deal with when she told her sister the bad news.

Fired. Vernon Carter's authority had been unquestionable, but grossly abused in this instance. How would Claire support her sister and three-year-old niece now? After a knuckle-gripping flight back to Orlando, Claire had called from the airport thinking it would be easier to tell Maggie over the phone what had happened at the Los Angeles clothing convention. It wasn't, and she hadn't.

Instead, she'd mentally noted the list of grocery items Maggie asked her to pick up on her way home and breathed a sigh of relief for garnering more time to come up with a sound plan. Her sister and niece needed stability in their life right now, and it was up to Claire to see that they got it. At the moment, she hadn't the slightest clue how she would perform such a monumental task.

Flinging one hand out in frustration, she snagged her index finger on the overgrown rose bush hanging next to the narrow walkway.

"S," she swore and paused below the neighbor's warped steps long enough to pluck the biting thorn from her finger. She could credit her niece for the new habit of using letters in place of expletives. When a three-year-old moved into the household, one had to make adjustments. Claire hadn't minded that, but the added responsibility of caring for her niece and Maggie was a burden that she didn't need now. But she had promised...

Claire stared at the tiny, red puncture. It seemed like an exclamation mark on a very lousy day and she fought the urge to cry. Perhaps it was that moment of clouded vision that made the man seem to appear out of nowhere at the side of the house. He seemed almost as startled by her presence as she was by his. She assumed he was Morgan, the new neighbor. Shortly before seeing the snazzy red sports car slide into the driveway a few minutes ago, Claire had glimpsed the same man circling and checking out the side windows of his rundown house. The place needed new windows as well as many more repairs. No wonder he had such a sour look on his face.

"Mr. Morgan." She smiled. "I'm Claire Barlow."

When he didn't answer, nor venture forward to shake her hand, she pointed at her house on the left and added, "Your neighbor."

He must have realized how rude he'd been, for the corners of his lips began to twitch, and he broke into a half-friendly looking smile. He then did a point-and-shoot gesture and said, "Catch you later."

Strange man, she thought, as he went jogging off down the street. Even stranger, he wore no running shoes.

She shrugged. Well, the wife, or, girlfriend-you never knew these days-was still home. While staring out her kitchen window, Claire had seen the statuesque redhead slide out of the sports car. Being distracted by the fact someone had moved into the Martin place had kept her from dwelling on her current dilemma. She hadn't expected anyone to close on the house so quickly; the for sale sign had only been taken down the week before she left. She and Maggie discussed it briefly, but it hadn't taken long for Maggie to get back to her rant about Claire's forgetfulness to buy sugar. Her sister needed to make cookies for Jenny's Sunday school class the next day, so she'd had a legitimate complaint.

Since the couple had moved in while Claire had been away, she hadn't met either of the new occupants. Would she seem rude, asking to borrow something before she'd even met the people? Maggie seemed to think not. Praising Morgan's handsome looks-what a laugh-she'd shoved the measuring cup at Claire and ordered her to run next door to fill it.

With a diabetic old lady on the other side of them, a health nut across the street and the rest of the neighborhood-who must all be out doing their own grocery shopping this Saturday afternoon, for no one else seemed to be home-what choice did Claire have ... other than returning to the busy grocery store. She thought about the amber-eyed man who'd kept casting glaring glances over his shoulder as she trailed him up and down the narrow aisles and cringed at the thought of going back there.

Claire sucked on her sore finger and tiredly stepped onto the uneven plank porch. After tapping on the screen door, she stepped back to wait for the woman to answer.

She thought now of the surly Morgan, the lecherous Vernon, and the amber-eyed hunk who'd regarded her as if she were a bottom feeder on polluted Lake Apopka, and decided the world was overrun with quirky men.

Thankfully, Morgan had left. She didn't particularly relish coming anywhere near the male species again today. After waiting over a minute, she wondered why no one answered the door. She tapped again, rattling the screen door. More seconds ticked by and she glanced at the red car. Was the woman deliberately ignoring her? Maybe she just didn't hear her knock.

Impatiently, Claire pulled open the screen and noticed the front door stood partially open. She rapped against the solid wood and the hinges squeaked as the door swung inward. Peeking around the frame, she called out, "Anybody home?"

She thought she heard someone answer, so she pushed the door wider, and said louder, "Hello!"

A low, keening voice raised the hair at the back of her neck. She inched her way into the narrow foyer and heard the sound again, sort of a pain-filled cry for help.

Claire hesitated only a moment before, familiar with the layout of the house, she hurried along the hallway toward the area from where she thought the sound came. Although the voice had stopped calling out for help, instinct made her push open the swinging door into the kitchen and enter.

The hollow bong of the measuring cup hitting the linoleum floor echoed like a thunderclap when Claire dropped it. The swinging door bumped her backside, but she paid it no heed. Instead, she stood momentarily frozen, hypnotized by the bright puddle on the floor surrounding the woman's head like a crimson halo.

Claire's eyes flickered toward the plastic cup as it came to a bouncing, rocking stop next to a weapon with a big barrel on the end. The gun lay only a few feet away from the body. Suicide? What a wasteful, inconsiderate act, Claire silently condemned.

Murder-suicide was even worse.

She self-consciously glanced around for another body, but remembered that Morgan had left. The two must have argued. That would probably explain the sinister expression and the reason he'd been so unsociable. She vividly recalled how often her father's handsome features had changed into something unnaturally ugly when her parents had argued.

A rush of nausea and disturbing memories engulfed Claire. Common sense outweighed her urge to turn and run.

The large chest wound didn't leave much hope for the woman's survival, but Claire dropped to her knees and felt for a pulse. She picked up a faint, erratic beat. Call 911, her rational side told her. She tried to stand, but the woman, suddenly opened her eyes wide and grabbed Claire's arm. As soon as her heart slowed a little, she realized the woman was trying to speak. Her mouth moved and Claire leaned closer to hear.

"Riiiiice," the woman rasped so weakly Claire could barely make out the word. She'd never heard of anyone at death's door asking for rice, but maybe the woman was delirious. She tried to pull away for the second time, but the woman held tight to her sleeve and moaned for rice again.

Claire knew shock could do strange things to people. Reassure the woman, keep her calm, she thought. Brushing back a lock of auburn hair from the dying woman's forehead, she said, "Let me call 911. They'll get you to the hospital and then you can have all the rice you want."

"Parteeeehrr..." Pain raked the woman's features, but she seemed determined to talk. "Si-silence night."

Definitely delirious. The poor soul had gone from asking for rice to talking about parties and Christmas carols. Considering it was mid-April, such talk seemed even more bizarre.

"Take care, ohhhh, night ... Promise, promise."

For a moment Claire became eight years old again, and her mother held her thin arm in a death grip making a last request. Promise you'll take care of your little sister. "Promise," the woman on the floor pulled at Claire's sleeve, snapping her from her stupor.

"I-I promise." Claire had no more clue to what she promised now than she did twenty years ago.

The woman gasped her last breath and her hand fell loosely to the floor. Claire slowly stood and backed away. Old fears and images returned and the figure on the floor undulated, blurred, and turned into a twenty-year-old memory of her father and mother laying side by side in the spreading, bloody pool. She opened her mouth to scream, but something large and rough clamped around her lips, became the dreaded tentacles from a child's nightmare. A muffled, guttural sound vibrated against the callused hand as she fought frantically for release from the imagined monster. The room swirled and then the gruff voice jarred her back to the present.

"Is she dead?"

Claire stilled and nodded. Fighting her captor seemed useless. His strong chin pushed her head into his shoulder and the muscular arm extending from the hand clamped around her mouth, pressed against her breast, binding her to him. It hadn't occurred to her until then that the woman's death had been anything other than a suicide. Obviously she'd been wrong. Would he kill her too?

Something pointy gouged her in the ribs, making her believe he would. He prodded her side a second time and demanded harshly, "Who sent you?"

She didn't know how he expected her to answer with his hand covering her mouth, even if she could figure out what he was talking about. Before she could offer a garbled reply, he changed his mind. "Shut up!"

Claire wasn't given the choice to obey, his fingers spread to cover her nose, effectively shutting off her oxygen supply.

The only thing that penetrated the quiet was a subtle tick-tick-ticking sound. Claire, too preoccupied with the victim on the floor, hadn't noticed the sound before. She shifted her eyes to the stovetop. Between the burners lay an old fashioned timer with wires running from the back of it to a round bundle of sticks.

She had the ridiculous thought that it seemed strange anyone would set a cooking timer when the oven and all the burners were in the off position. Claire wondered why she even noticed such mundane details when the poor woman lying on the floor stared blankly at the ceiling. Dead.

Before she had time to contemplate the lethalness of the ticking device, the man's hand dropped away from her face and she sucked in precious air. She was relieved to see it had only been his finger pressed against her rib cage. She turned to run, but his big hand shot out and wrapped around her arm like steel forceps. He stopped her in her tracks and yanked her back against his hard chest.

"Don't you dare scream."

She didn't have to ask what he would do if she disobeyed. The lifeless woman at their feet was proof enough of the deadly result.

With his other hand, he spread open a multicolored tote bag lying on the counter and fished out a set of keys and a small revolver. Suddenly, the threat to her life increased, and the tick, tick, tick continued, with less than one minute left on the timer. The man glanced at the device and swore. "I don't have time to get the body out."

Claire didn't know why he sounded so regretful about that, but realized the urgency of the situation when he shoved the colorful bag into her hands and pulled her out the kitchen side door. In the driveway, he forced her into the driver's seat of the little red sports car and tossed the keys onto her lap.

"Start the engine. I'll blow your head off if you try to drive away without me." Then he quickly rounded the car to the other side.

Too disoriented and frightened not to follow orders, she had the car running by the time he climbed into the passenger seat and slammed the door.

"Back out of the drive as if you're making a trip to the grocery store. We don't want to attract attention."

Claire didn't know how she managed to release the clutch so smoothly when her knees were jerking like a jackhammer. She did okay until a loud boom caused her to punch the gas petal. The front windows of the Martin house flew across the yard in bits and pieces. Small fragments bounced off the hood as the car shot down the driveway. The man's strong hand clamped over hers, managing to turn the steering wheel in time to avoid slamming into the rusted out Buick parked across the street. Their heads bumped when she made another reflexive move and jammed her foot against the brake pedal, eliciting a string of curses from her kidnapper.

People poured out of houses along the street. They didn't seem to notice the pair behind the dark tinted windows of the sports car, the burning building capturing their full attention.

The man took a slow, deep breath. "Okay. Just take it nice and easy. Drive as if we're just passing by."

She couldn't believe how calm she sounded when she asked, "Where to?"

"Just drive!"

She carefully guided the car forward. Then she saw her sister race across their front lawn looking wild and frantic as she pummeled her way through the hedge. Claire's foot slipped off the clutch and the car sputtered and died. Thankfully, Carl Tillerman, the owner of the Buick, tackled Maggie before she could run inside the burning structure.

Claire expected to be yelled at again, but the dark headed man pushed the gear lever into neutral, and turned the ignition. "Haven't you ever driven a stick shift before?"

"A-A long time ago."

"Then don't make that mistake again."

Grinding the gears on her first attempt, she finally managed to work the shifter into first. She had only to give her captor a cursory glance to see the downward curve of displeasure on his lips. When he didn't chastise her for the jumpy start, she ventured to ask once more, "Where do you want to go?"

"Just keep driving until I tell you to stop."

She did as he said, relearning the feel of a clutch as she shifted gears. She turned out of her neighborhood onto the main highway, picked up speed and shifted into high gear. The direction she chose took them through the growing suburbs of Orlando.

They'd been traveling for about half an hour when the stranger clicked open the glove compartment and withdrew a map. Written on the front fold was "Orlando and Surrounding Municipalities." It occurred to her then that he didn't know the local streets. If she'd thought of that sooner, maybe she could have worked it to her advantage. She nearly groaned aloud at her stupidity, since she wouldn't likely get a chance to make an unobtrusive wrong turn into a police station annex now. She glanced nervously at the gun he laid on his seat beside the console, needing both hands to unfold the map.

"Don't get any ideas," he growled.

She looked up into his amber eyes. Familiar amber eyes. It was the first time she'd taken a really good look at him. "You! You were at the grocery store earlier."

"Yeah, I spotted you following me."

"Following you?" His statement puzzled her.

He snorted. "You weren't very good at it. Every time I turned around, you were staring at me."

"Me?" she sputtered. "I wasn't sta--" She stopped abruptly. Actually, she had been staring, but due to her despondent mood at the time, it had been unintentional. From the look on his face, she doubted he'd believe that excuse, though, so she finished lamely, "I wasn't following you."

"Oh, no?" He lowered the map and straightened. "I guess next you'll be telling me that you didn't kill my handler."

"Oh ... my ... God!" The man really is a nut case, Claire thought. When he settled back in the seat, her grip on the steering wheel loosened. She balanced the wheel with her palms and flexed her fingers, trying to relieve some of the growing nervous tension.

He watched her every move. His distrust seemed evident when he moved the gun to the floorboard between his feet. He couldn't know how much better she felt with the gun moved further away from her. It struck her that she may be making him a little nervous, too, which gave her some satisfaction, but her moment of triumph quickly faded when she turned and witnessed the dark look of menace in his features.

His eyebrows were beetled thickly across his forehead, and he said, "Swenson sure sent a loser this time. He must be slipping if he thought I'd be taken in by those innocent blue eyes of yours, pretty as they are."

She ignored the backhanded compliment and tried to make sense of his accusation. "I don't know what this is all about, but I assure you no one sent me. Well, that isn't exactly true, my sister Maggie--"

"Marge Swenson." He said the name as if he'd just bit into a lemon. "I might have known she had something to do with this. I didn't even know she had a sister."

Good Lord! Talking to this man was like having a conversation with her niece, Jenny. No, actually the three-year-old made more sense. Perhaps he was a little slow-witted. "Look, I'm going to try and explain." She started out speaking slowly, but seeing an animated flash of skepticism in his eyes-the first time they'd lost their saber-edged appearance--she realized he wasn't slow-witted at all, just obstinate and single-minded. She finished rather irritably, "I don't know what the H you're talking about."

"H?" His brows drew together as if baffled by the expression, but his gaze held a hint of amusement. "Is that supposed to be a curse word or something?"

"Forget it," she snapped.

"Forgotten," he said, and went back to studying the map.

Claire's grip on the wheel tightened, wishing she had her hands around the man's neck instead. He irritated the heck out of her and she guessed it was just as well. It kept her from being so frightened. It also distracted her from making plans for an escape, which is what she should be doing instead of sparring with her abductor. She pressed down on the accelerator.

"Hey! Back off. What the hell do you think you're doing?"

She backed off the car's bumper ahead when he picked up the gun off the floor and pointed it at her. So much for option number one. Claire glanced at the barrel directed at her mid-section and shivered. She'd often been accused of being hardheaded, but she knew better than to argue with a loaded gun.