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  "Sure." Ben folded the check and slipped it into his pocket. "I really appreciate this. To tell the truth, I was wondering how we were going to pay the lease next week. This should take care of that worry for quite a while."

  Devlin shrugged, ignoring the curiosity in the other man's eyes. "Like I said, I've been up against it a time or two myself."

  He shut the door behind Ben, leaving his hand on the knob as he listened to the sound of Ben's rickety old sedan disappearing down the long driveway toward the road. From the condition of the doctor's car, he thought that perhaps he should have given him a donation toward a vehicle fund.

  He hoped he hadn't misjudged Ben's discretion. He hadn't told his younger sister much of what he'd done since leaving home ten years before, turning her ques-

  tions aside with vague answers about traveling a lot and offering thin excuses for why he hadn't written.

  She'd finally stopped asking, glad enough to have him back in her life that she was willing to accept him without question. Devlin didn't need anyone to tell him that her husband didn't feel quite the same. Dan had never said anything, but it was obvious that he hadn't bought Devlin's vague explanations.

  As far as Dan was concerned, there was no excuse for the way Devlin had simply disappeared from his sister's life, ignoring the letters, leaving her to deal with their mother's death and their father's abuse.

  Looking at it from Dan's point of view, Devlin couldn't blame him for feeling the way he did. The fact that he hadn't known Seth Russell was abusing Kelly didn't excuse him, even in his own eyes. He should have known. He should have been able to read be-tweoi the lines of Kelly's letters and see what was happening.

  He shrugged, as if the physical gesture could ease the invisible burden of his thoughts. He couldn't have done anything to help Kelly even if he had known, but it didn't change the guilt he felt that he hadn't been there for her.

  But the past was the past and he had other, more urgent concerns at the moment. Like an unconscious woman with possible suicidal tendencies. And the fact that he hadn't eaten since lunch, which was nearly eight hours ago.

  If the former was a problem with no immediate solution, the latter was at least easily dealt with. Getting

  some leftover stew out of the refrigerator, he placed it on the stove and turned the burner to a low heat before going to check on his guest.

  She didn't stir when Devlin stopped beside the bed. If it hadn't been for the barely perceptible rise and fall of her breathing, he would have been convinced that she was dead.

  His hands in his pockets, Devlin looked down at her. There was nothing to be read from her features, nothing to tell him whether her fall into the river had been deUberate or accidental. Not that he'd expected a visible sign.

  Annalise St. John. It was a pretty name—unusual. If he hadn't been there to pull her out of the river, would anyone have known what name to put on the body? Or would she simply have been buried in some graveyard, records of her death filed under the name Jane Doe? And would anyone have cared, one way or another, including her?

  She was too thin. Her pale skin was stretched taut over cheekbones that were too sharp. One arm lay on top of the blanket, and the bones in her wrist were clearly visible. He pulled one hand out of his pocket and reached down to circle her wrist, frowning when he saw how much his finger overlapped his thumb.

  How long had it been since she'd eaten a decent meal? She'd had nothing with her but the clothes on her back—no purse, no jewelry, no identification. Maybe she was one of the growing number of homeless, unable to find work, slipping through the cracks in the welfare system.

  Her skin was cool to the touch. Only the faint but steady beat of her pulse under his finger reminded him that he was touching a living, breathing woman and not a pale statue.

  How had she gotten out here, so far from town? It didn't seem likely that she'd walked this far. Unless she'd caught a ride from someone. Or maybe his original speculation had been right. She'd left a car somewhere across the river. Tomorrow he'd go look for it, tow it back here if necessary.

  He released her arm, straightening slowly, his eyes still on her face. She was fine boned. Even with the added pounds she should be carrying, he suspected she'd have a fragile look about her. Was she attractive? He tilted his head, trying to picture her with a little more flesh on her bones, a touch of color in her cheeks.

  But the image wouldn't quite come into focus. He kept seeing those blue-green eyes, completely empty of expression.

  He'd seen a lot of misery during his time in prison. His first cell mate had hung himself a year after Devlin arrived. But he couldn't remember seeing quite that same emptiness in Sal's eyes before he killed himself.

  He shrugged the memories off and turned away from the bed. Whatever had happened to bring the woman to this low, it wasn't his problem. He'd fished her out of the river, given her a place to spend the night.

  In the morning, he'd feed her breakfast and take her to the hospital or any other place she wanted to go.

  He'd provide her with money for a fresh start if that was what she needed. Money was the one thing he had plenty of these days. But that was as deep as his involvement was going to go.

  Devlin ate the reheated stew, listening to the light patter of the rain on the roof. The weather report on the radio was promising dear skies by morning, which meant he could start on the redwood shingles that would cover the exterior of the house. And if the rain continued, there were plenty of things that needed domg inside. That was the thing about building a house, there was always work to do.

  By the time he'd finished rinsing off his plate, the rain had stopped. Looking out the window over the sink, he could get an occasional glimpse of stars through the tattered cloud cover. That meant he'd be able to work outside tomorrow.

  After he'd gotten the St. John woman settled, he reminded himself. He felt a mild twinge of annoyance. One thing he'd done his best to avoid, in the year since he'd left prison, was involvements of any sort.

  He hadn't sought out friendships, hadn't gone looking for female companionship to ease an occasional endless night. Bitter experience had taught him that such ties, no matter how fleeting they were, could extract a higher price than he wanted to pay. Bedding Laura Sampson had cost him eight years of his life.

  Not that he expected every such experience to end in a prison sentence. But it lingered in the back of his

  mind that he'd paid a high price for indulging a fleeting sexual urge.

  It wasn't just sexual involvement he'd avoided. He'd even kept a certain distance from Kelly. She didn't know where he'd been or what he'd done in the years since he left home, and Devlin preferred to keep it that way. It was enough that he was back in her life.

  Reed Hall was as close to a friend as he had. The lawyer had believed in him during the trial and had visited him despite Devlin's lack of encouragement. Reed had helped him get his bearings when he was released. But he couldn't let his guard drop completely, even with Reed.

  The reserve that had been a part of him even before the trial, the wariness that was a partial legacy of his childhood, had hardened into a thick wall during his years in prison. Sometimes Devlin wondered if it was even possible to get through that wall. Cynically he doubted it was worth trying.

  But apparently, you couldn't lock the world out completely, no matter how hard you tried. The world, in the form of one Annalise St. John, had arrived more or less on his doorstep.

  He sighed, reaching up one hand to rub the back of his neck. By this time tomorrow, she'd be gone. He'd get her settled somewhere else first thing in the morning. Soon she'd be nothing more than a quickly fading memory. An anecdote he'd probably never tell anyone.

  But at the moment she was occupying his bed, the only bed in the half-finished house. Which meant that he was going to have to find somewhere else to sleep.

  An hour later, Devlin crawled into the sleeping bag he'd unrolled on the living room floor. With an air mattress unde
r it, it made an adequate if not luxurious bed. Before he got the bed his unexpected guest was now occupying, he'd spent several weeks sleq)ing just like this, unrolling the sleeping bag in whichever room was least cluttered with construction debris.

  Stretching out on his back, he linked his hands beneath his head and stared up at the open beams above him. He was tired. A full day's work followed by rescuing a woman from the river had left his body more than ready for a solid night's sleep. But his mind wasn't in the mood to cooperate.

  His thoughts kept drifting to the woman in the next room. Who was she? He knew her name, but he didn't know anything else about her. How old was she? Somewhere in her twenties, maybe. Certainly not more than thirty. Just what had happened to drive all the life from her eyes?

  It was none of his business, he reminded himself firmly. She was simply passing through his life. A week from now, he wouldn't even be able to remember her name. But he wondered how long it would take to forget those eyes. They followed him into sleep, their very emptiness asking for something he could never give.

  * * *

  Devlin had no idea what time it was when he woke. One thing his years in prison had taught him was the ability to go from sleep to fully awake in the blink of an eye. Sometimes your life could depend on how quickly you woke up.

  His eyes snapped open, one hand groping for the crude knife that had rarely been far from his side during his years of incarceration. His fingers found nothing but the soft flannd of the sleeping bag. He blinked and drew in a quick breath. The clean sceat of damp wood and open space banished the rranem-bered mustiness of a prison cell.

  His fingers relaxed and he breathed in again, slower and deq)er this time. Whatever had awakened him, it wasn't immediately life threatening. He sat up, pushing the top layer of the sleeping bag away, listening to ±e night sounds.

  There was nothing out of the ordinary. Crickets scratched out a mating call. Close by, an owl hooted, a lonely sound.

  And somewhere, the sound of someone crying softiy.

  I>evlin pushed the sleeping bag aside and stood up. The soles of his feet sent up an annoyed protest at being put to use again, but he ignored the discomfort. He'd left his jeans on when he went to bed but removed his shirt, and the air was cool against his bare chest. The crying had stopped by the time he reached the bedroom and he hesitated in the doorway.

  She was still in bed. There was just enough light to make out the shape of her under the covers. As far as he could tell, she hadn't moved since the last time he'd looked in on her.

  Maybe he should just go back to bed. It wasn't likely she'd want some stranger intruding on her. Devlin's fingers tightened over the edge of the doorway as the soft sobbing started again.

  Go back to bed. It's not your problem. Mind your own business.

  But he couldn't turn away. There was something so completely hopeless in the sound of her tears. It tugged at emotions he'd thought beaten out of him a long time ago.

  She was nothing to him. A stranger. Tomorrow she'd be gone, and the day after, forgotten. Whatever her sorrows, they were nothing to do with him.

  His knuckles turned white with strain as he stood in the doorway. The sound of her crying brought back all the empty, frightened nights he'd spent in his life. Starting when he was a boy, lying in bed, smarting from the bite of his father's belt and gritting his teeth against the tears he was too stubborn to shed.

  He knew what it was to be alone, to feel hopeless. He'd felt the despair he could hear in her tears. And he couldn't just walk away and leave her alone.

  His movements stiff, Devlin crossed the room to the bed. She seemed unaware that she was no longer alone. The quiet crying continued. He half expected her to tell him to go away. The sort of grief expressed in her tears was not the sort that invited company.

  But she said nothing when he stopped beside the bed, made no acknowledgment of his presence. In the moonlight that filtered through the dissipating cloud cover, Devlin understood why.

  She was still asleep. Her face was twisted with anguish, her fingers knotted on the light blanket, but her eyes were closed and it was obvious that she was not awake.

  Devlin reached out to wake her but drew his hand back without touching her. Somehow, knowing that she was asleep made her tears seem more poignant. Her pain must run very deep to follow her past the boundaries of sleep.

  Hardly knowing why he did it, Devlin found himself bending to gather her slight figure up off the bed. Blanket and all, he lifted her into his arms. The sobbing stopped on a caught breath. He waited for her to wake, perhaps frightened or angry at finding herself held by a strange man.

  But she didn't wake. After a moment's stillness, she turned her face into his collarbone, her thin body relaxing in his hold. One hand came up to rest against his bare chest, her fingers cool on his skin. There was so much trust in the small movement that Devlin felt a quick catch in his heartbeat. His arms tightened protectively around her.

  "Fool," he whispered. She didn't know whose arms were around her. She didn't know him at all. Perhaps she sensed that she was no longer alone, but it didn't matter whether it was Devlin Russell who held her or Joe Smith.

  Cursing the soft streak that should have been smothered years ago, Devlm eased down onto the bed with her still in his arms. She didn't wake as he bunched the pillows up behind his back. In fact, she simply relaxed more fully, her breathing deeper now, though still shaken by an occasional half sob.

  Devlin leaned his head back against the wall and stared into the darkness. Twenty-four hours ago, he'd never heard of Annalise St. John. Twenty-four hours from now, she'd be out of his life forever and forgotten soon after that. But for now, he was willing to stand between her and whatever darkness was threatening her.

  Chapters

  Annalise woke slowly, aware of the soft comfort of clean sheets, the warmth of sunshine spilling across the bed. It had been weeks since she'd slept in a real bed. She felt a vague curiosity about her surroundings, but it faded before it could really take hold.

  Her eyes still closed, she tried to retreat back into the comfort of sleep, but her body wouldn't cooperate. She was awake, whether she liked it or not. Not that it made an enormous difference. Awake or asleq), the world felt more or less the same.

  She opened her eyes and stared up at the open beams above her. Open as in unfinished ceilings, she noted, her gaze skimming over the unfinished plywood and two-by-fours. The walls were in the same condition. Wherever she was, the building, or at least this room, was still under construction.

  Vaguely she was aware that she should feel some curiosity about where she was and how she'd come to be there. With very httle interest, she cast her thoughts back to the last thing she remembered. It wasn't much. Her car had died on a country road.

  She'd left it and started walking. Like everything else lately, it hadn't seemed to matter whether or not her car ran. She hadn't been going to or coming from anywhere.

  There'd been a storm. She could remember the rain soaking her clothes. Then she'd been inside—in this bed, perhaps?—and there'd been a man—or was it two?

  Her tentative interest faded and she let the faint memories go. What difference did it make anyway? Yesterday paled into the same gray mist that had filled most of her days since—

  No. She wasn't going to think about that. The hurt still lay under that soothing gray curtain, waiting to jump out at her. It would swallow her whole if it could. She wouldn't think about it. Better if she thought of nothing at all. That was safest.

  Annalise sat up and swung her legs off the bed. Hot head swam momentarily and she closed her eyes until the sensation abated. She frowned. She didn't like it when she felt things. Not even physical things, like dizziness. It was best not to thmk, not to feel.

  Opening her eyes, she stared at the room without much interest. That it was a bedroom could be assumed from the presence of the bed she sat on. Beyond that, it was mainly bare walls and huge windows. There was an archway that led
to a hall on one side of

  the room. On the other was a door, the only one in sight. She assumed that led to a bathroom.

  She was wearing a man's sweatshirt beneath the sheets, her clothes nowhere in sight. She didn't wonder how she'd come to be that way. Whoever had put her in the big bed had obviously done her no harm. There was a white terry bathrobe draped across the foot of the bed and Annalise reached for it.

  She'd just as soon stay where she was, but she doubted she'd be left alone for long. Experience told her that someone always came along, poking and prodding, asking her how she felt, wanting to know what she was thinking. She'd learned to avoid the county shelters for just that reason. It was easier to sleep in her car than to have to deal with all the questions and concerned looks.

  The robe was large enough to go twice around her thin body. The hem dragged on the floor around her feet. It had been a long time since she'd concerned herself with how she looked. She cinched the belt tightly about her waist, pulling her thick hair out of the collar to let it straggle down her back.

  Once the robe was secured, she hesitated over what to do next. What would she be expected to do? She puzzled over that for a moment. It was important to act like other people. If you acted different, it drew attention. And it was best not to draw attention.

  She could smell coffee. She followed the scent toward the archway, her step reduced to an awkward shuffle by the hem of the robe.

  * * *

  A sixth sense had told Devlin his guest was awake even before she appeared across the breakfast bar from where he was sitting. Though it was barely eight o'clock, he'd been up since five. He'd had three hours to convince himself that the woman sleeping in his bed—who'd spent a good portion of the night in his arms—was nothing more than a minor inconvenience in his life. As soon as she woke, he'd find out where she'd come from or where she'd been going and see her on her way. End of story.

  Which didn't explain the odd tightness he felt in his chest when he heard her stirring in the bedroom. He scowled at the book he'd been reading over breakfast. He'd found the biography of Catherine the Great quite enough to absorb his attention until now. Suddenly, a long-dead empress couldn't keep his attention from drifting to the waif he'd fished out of the river the night before.