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  “Dammit, let go!”

  She didn’t know if the command shouted just above her ear was directed at her or the dog, and didn’t particularly care. Pure, undiluted adrenaline pumped through her veins. She had no idea who this man was or what had happened to Mrs. Gunderson, but obviously something had. Something Button didn’t like. Sheryl’s only thought was to get away, find a phone, call the police.

  Her attacker gave his upraised leg another shake, and Sheryl gouged her nails deeper into his skin. When that earned her a smothered curse and a painful jerk on her arm, she took a cue from the shih tzu and bent to bite the hand that held her.

  “Hey!”

  Still half-bent, Sheryl felt herself spun sideways. Her captor released his grip, but before she could bolt, his arm whipped around her waist. A half second later, she thudded back into the solid wall of blue oxford.

  Her breath slammed out of her lungs. The band around her middle cut off any possibility of pulling in a replacement supply. As frantic now as the dog, she kicked back. One sneakered heel connected with the man’s shin.

  “Oh, for...!” Lifting her off her feet, her attacker grunted in her ear. “Calm down! I won’t hurt you.”

  “Prove...it.” she panted. “Let...me...go!”

  “I will, I will. Just calm down.”

  Sheryl calmed, for the simple reason that she couldn’t do anything else. Her ribs felt as though they’d threaded right through one another and squeezed out everything in between. Red spots danced before her eyes.

  Thankfully, the excruciating pressure on her waist eased. She drew great gulps of air into her starved lungs. The sounds of another snarl and another curse battered at her ears. They were followed by a wheezy whine. When the spots in front of her eyes cleared, she turned to face a belligerent male, holding an equally belligerent shih tzu by the scruff of its neck.

  For the first time, she saw the man’s face. It was as hard as the rest of his long, lean body, Sheryl decided shakily. The sun had weathered his skin to dark oak. White lines fanned the corners of his eyes. They showed whiskey gold behind lashes the same dark brown as his short, straight hair and luxuriant mustache.

  His mustache!

  Sheryl whipped her gaze down his rangy form. Beneath the blue cotton shirt and tan jacket, his jeans molded trim hips and tight, corded thighs. She made the connection with a rush of relief.

  The hunky nephew!

  She’d have to tell Elise that Mrs. Gunderson wasn’t all that far-off in her description. Although Sheryl wouldn’t quite rate this rugged, whipcord-lean man as 112 on the gorgeous scale, he definitely scored at least an 88 or 90. Well, maybe a 99.

  Wedging the yapping shih tzu under his arm like a hairy football, he gave Sheryl a narrow-eyed once-over. “Sorry about the little dance we just did. Are you all right?”

  “More or less.”

  “Be quiet!”

  She jumped at the sharp command, but realized immediately that it was aimed at Button. Thankfully, the shih tzu recognized the voice of authority. His annoying, high-pitched yelps subsided to muttered growls.

  Swinging his attention back to Sheryl, Button’s handler studied her with an intentness that raised little goose bumps on her arms. She couldn’t remember the last time a man had looked at her like this, as though he wanted not just to see her, but into her. In fact, she couldn’t remember the last time any man had ever looked at her like this. Brian certainly didn’t. He was too considerate, too polite to make someone feel all prickly by such scrutiny.

  “What can I do for you, Miss...?”

  “Hancock. Sheryl Hancock. I know your aunt,” she offered by way of explanation. “I just came by to check on her.”

  Those golden brown eyes lasered into her. “You know my aunt?”

  “Yes. You’re Paul Gunderson, aren’t you?”

  He was silent for a moment, then countered with a question of his own. “What makes you think so?”

  “The mustache,” she said with a tentative smile. And the thigh-hugging jeans, she added silently. “Your aunt talks about you all the time.”

  “Does she?”

  “Yes. She’s really proud of how well you’re doing in the import-export business.” Belatedly, Sheryl recalled the purpose of her visit. “Is she okay? I was worried when I didn’t see her for a day or two.”

  “Inga’s fine,” he replied after a small pause. “She’s upstairs. Resting.”

  Sheryl didn’t see how anyone could rest through Button’s shrill yapping, but then, Mrs. Gunderson was used to it.

  “Oh, good.” She started for the porch steps. “Would you tell her I came by, and that I’ll talk to her tomorrow or whenever?”

  Paul moved to one side. It was only a half step, a casual movement, but Sheryl couldn’t edge past him without crowding against the wrought-iron rail.

  “Why don’t you come inside for a few minutes?” he suggested. “You can give me the real lowdown on what my aunt has to say about me, and we can both get out of the heat for a few minutes.”

  “I wish I could, but I’m running late for an appointment.”

  “There’s some iced tea in the fridge. And a platter of freshly baked cookies on the kitchen table.”

  “Well...”

  The cookies decided it. And Button’s pitiable little whine. Obviously unhappy at being wedged into Paul’s armpit, the dog snuffled noisily through its pug nose. The rhinestone-studded, bow-shaped barrette that kept his facial fur out of his eyes had slipped to one side. His bulging black orbs beseeched Sheryl to end his indignity.

  She felt sorry for him but didn’t make the mistake of reaching for the little stinker. The one time she’d tried to pet him at the post office, he’d nipped her fingers. As he now tried to nip Paul’s. His sharp little teeth just missed the hand that brushed a tad too close to him. With a muttered oath, Paul jerked his hand away.

  “How anyone could keep a noisy, bad-tempered fur ball like this as a pet is beyond me.”

  Somehow, the fact that Inga Gunderson’s nephew disliked his aunt’s obnoxious little Button made Sheryl feel as though they were allies of sorts. Smiling, she accepted his invitation and preceded him into the house.

  Cool air wrapped around her like a sponge. The rooftop swamp cooler, so necessary to combat Albuquerque’s dry, high-desert air, was obviously working overtime. As Sheryl’s eyes made the adjustment from blazing outside light to the shadowed interior, she looked about in some surprise. The house certainly didn’t fit Mrs. Gunderson’s personality. No pictures decorated the walls. No knick-knacks crowded the tables. The furniture was a sort of pseudo-Southwest, a mix of bleached wood and brown Naugahyde, and not particularly comfortable looking.

  Turning, she caught a glint of sunlight on Paul’s dark hair as he bent down to deposit Button on the floor. To her consternation, she also caught a glimpse of what looked very much like a shoulder holster under the tan sport coat. She must have made some startled sound, because Paul glanced up and saw the direction of her wide-eyed stare. He released the dog and straightened, rolling his shoulders so that his jacket fell in place. The leather harness disappeared from view.

  Sheryl had seen it, though.

  And he knew she had.

  His face went tight and altogether too hard for her peace of mind. Then Button gave a shrill, piercing bark and raced across the room. With another earsplitting yip, he disappeared up the stairs. He left behind a tense silence, broken only by the whoosh of chilled air being forced through the vents by the swamp cooler.

  Sheryl swallowed a sudden lump in her throat. “Is that a gun under your jacket?”

  “It is.”

  “I, uh, didn’t know the import-export business was so risky.”

  “It can be.”

  She took a discreet step toward the door. Guns made her nervous. Very nervous. Even when carried by handsome strangers. Especially when carried by handsome strangers.

  “I think I’ll pass on the cookies. It’s been a long day, and I’m late
for an appointment. Tell your aunt that I’ll see her tomorrow. Or whenever.”

  “I’d really like you to stay a few minutes, Miss Hancock. I’m anxious to hear what Inga has to say about her nephew.”

  “Some other time, maybe.”

  He stepped sideways, blocking her retreat as effectively as he had on the porch. But this time the movement wasn’t the least casual.

  “I’m afraid I’ll have to insist.”

  Chapter 2

  She knew about Inga Gunderson’s nephew!

  As he stared down into the blonde’s wide, distinctly nervous green eyes, Deputy U.S. Marshal Harry MacMillan’s pulse kicked up to twice its normal speed. He forgot about the ache in his gut, legacy of a roundhouse punch delivered by the seemingly frail, white-haired woman upstairs. He ignored the stinging little dents in his calf, courtesy of her sharptoothed dust mop. His blood hammering, he gave the new entry onto the scene a thoroughly professional once-over.

  Five-six or -seven, he guessed. A local, from her speech pattern and deep tan. As Harry had discovered in the week he’d been in Albuquerque, the sun carried twice the firepower at these mile-high elevations than it did at lower levels. It had certainly added a glow to this woman’s skin. With her long, curly, corn-silk hair, tip-tilted nose and nicely proportioned set of curves, she looked more like the girl next door than the accomplice of an escaped fugitive. But Harry had been a U.S. marshal long enough to know that even the most angelic face could disguise the soul of a killer.

  His jaw clenched at the memory of his friend’s agonizing death. For a second or two, Harry debated whether to identify himself or milk more information from the woman first. He wasn’t about to jeopardize this case, which had become a personal quest, by letting a suspect incriminate herself without Mirandizing her, but this woman wasn’t a suspect. Yet.

  “Tell me how you know Inga Gunderson.”

  Her eyes slid past him to the door. “I, uh, see her almost every day.”

  “Where?”

  “At the branch office where I work.”

  “What branch office?”

  She started to answer, then forced a deep, steadying breath into her lungs. “What’s this all about? Is Mrs. Gunderson really all right?”

  She had guts. Harry would give her that. She was obviously frightened. He could detect a faint tremor in the hands clenched at the seams of her navy shorts. Yet instead of replying to Harry’s abrupt demands for information, she was throwing out a few questions of her own.

  “Are you her nephew or not?”

  He couldn’t withhold his identity in the face of a direct question. Lifting his free hand, he reached into his coat pocket. The woman uttered a yelp every bit as piercing as the damned dog’s, and jumped back.

  “Relax, I’m just getting my ID.”

  He pulled out the worn brown-leather case containing his credentials. Flipping it open one-handed, he displayed the five-pointed gold star and a picture ID.

  “Harry MacMillan, deputy U.S. marshal.”

  Her gaze swung from him to the badge to him and back again. Her nervousness gave way to a flash of indignation.

  “Why didn’t you say so?!”

  “I just did.” Coolly, he returned the case to his pocket. “May I see your identification, please.”

  “Mine? Why? I’ve told you my name.”

  Her response came out clipped and more than a little angry. That was fine with Harry. Until he discovered her exact relationship to the fugitive he’d been tracking for almost a year, he didn’t mind keeping her rattled and off balance.

  “I know who you said you were, Miss Hancock. I’d just like to see some confirmation.”

  “I left my purse in the car.”

  “Oh, that’s smart.”

  The caustic comment made her stiffen, but before she could reply Harry cut back to the matter that had consumed his days and nights for so many months.

  “Tell me again how you know Inga Gunderson.”

  Sheryl had always thought of herself as a dedicated federal employee. She enjoyed her job, and considered the service that she provided important to her community. Nor did she hesitate to volunteer her time and energies for special projects, such as selling T-shirts to aid victims of the devastating floods last year or coordinating the Christmas Wish program that responded to some of the desperate letters to Santa Claus that came into the post office during the holidays. She’d never come close to any kind of dangerous activity or bomb threats, but she certainly would have cooperated with other federal agencies in any ongoing investigation...if asked.

  What nicked the edges of her normally placid temper was that this man didn’t ask. He demanded. Still, he was a federal agent. And he wanted an answer.

  “Mrs. Gunderson stops in almost every day at the station where I work,” she repeated.

  “What station?”

  “The Monzano Street post office.”

  “The Monzano post office.” He shoved a hand through his short, cinnamon-brown hair. “Well, hell!”

  Sheryl bristled at the unbridled disgust in his voice. Although her friendly personality and ready smile acted as a preventive against the verbal abuse many postal employees experienced, she’d endured her share of sneers and jokes about the post office. The slurs, even said in fun, always hurt. She took pride in her work, as did most of her co-workers. What’s more, she’d chosen a demanding occupation. She’d like to see anyone, this lean, tough deputy marshal included, sling the amount of mail she did each day and still come up smiling.

  “Do you have a problem with the post office?” she asked with a touch of belligerence.

  “What?” The question seemed to jerk him from his private and not very pleasant thoughts. “No. Have a seat, Miss Hancock. I’ll call my contacts and verify your identity.”

  “Why?” she asked again.

  His hawk’s eyes sliced into her. “You’ve just walked into the middle of an ongoing investigation. You’re not walking out until I ascertain that you’re who you say you are...and until I understand your exact relationship with the woman who calls herself ‘Mrs. Gunderson.’”

  “Calls herself ‘Inga Gunderson’?”

  “Among other aliases. Sit down.”

  Feeling a little like Alice sliding down through the rabbit hole, Sheryl perched on the edge of the uncomfortable, sand-colored sofa. Good grief! What in the world had she stumbled into?

  She found out a few moments later. Deputy U.S. Marshal MacMillan dropped the phone onto its cradle and ran a quick, assessing eye over her yellow tank top and navy shorts.

  “Well, you check out. The FBI’s computers have your weight at 121, but the rest of the details from your background information file substantiate your identity.”

  Sheryl wasn’t sure which flustered her more, the fact that this man had instant access to her background file or that he’d accurately noted the few extra pounds she’d put on recently. Okay, more than a few pounds.

  MacMillan’s gaze swept over her once more, then settled on her face. “According to the file, you’re clean. Not even a speeding ticket in the past ten years.”

  From his dry tone, he didn’t consider a spotless driving record a particularly meritorious achievement.

  “Thank you. I think. Now will you tell me what’s going on here? Is Mrs. Gunderson...or whoever she is...really all right? Why in the world is a deputy U.S. marshal checking up on that sweet, fragile lady?”

  “Because we suspect that sweet, fragile lady of being involved in the illegal importation of depleted uranium.”

  “Mrs. Gunderson?”

  The marshal, Sheryl decided, had been sniffing something a lot more potent than the glue on the back of stamps!

  “Let me get this straight. You think Inga Gunderson is smuggling uranium?”

  “Depleted uranium,” he corrected, as though she should know the difference.

  She didn’t.

  “It’s the same heavy metal that’s used in the manufacture of armor-piercing ar
tillery shells,” he explained in answer to her blank look. Almost imperceptibly, his voice roughened. “Recently, it’s also been used to produce new cop-killer bullets.”

  Sheryl stared at him, stunned. For the life of her, she couldn’t connect the tiny, chirpy woman who brought her and her co-workers mouthwatering spice cakes with a smuggling ring. A uranium smuggling ring, for heaven’s sake! Of all the thoughts whirling around in her confused, chaotic mind, only one surfaced.

  “I thought the Customs Service tracked down smugglers.”

  “They do.” The planes of MacMillan’s face became merciless. “We’re working with Customs on this, as well as with the Nuclear Regulatory Commission, the FBI, the CIA and a whole alphabet of other agencies on this case. But the U.S. Marshals Service has a special interest in the outcome of this case. One of our deputies took a uranium-tipped bullet in the chest when he was escorting Inga Gunderson’s supposed nephew to prison.”

  “Paul?” Sheryl gasped.

  The hazy image she’d formed of a handsome, mustached jet-setter lazing on the beach at Ipanema among the bikinied Brazilians surfaced for a moment, then shattered forever.

  She shook her head in dismay. She should have known better than to let herself become intrigued, even slightly, by a globe-trotting wanderer! Her father hadn’t stayed in one place long enough for anyone, her mother included, to get to know him or his many varied business concerns. For all Sheryl knew, he could have been a smuggler, too. But not, she prayed, a murderer.

  At the memory of her father’s roving ways, she gave silent, heartfelt thanks for her steady, reliable, soon-to-be-fiancé. Sure, Brian occasionally fell asleep on the couch beside her. And once or twice he’d displayed more excitement over the prospect of closing a real estate deal than he did over their plans for the future. But Sheryl knew he would always be there for her.

  As he was probably there for her right now, she realized with a start. No doubt he was waiting in the heat at the house he wanted to show her, flicking impatient little glances at his watch. She’d promised to be there by three-thirty. She snuck a quick look at her watch. It was well past that now, she saw.