PROLOGUE

Chicago, Illinois

The young man walked through the glass doors of the bus depot. He stopped for a moment, looked around, and then proceeded, head down, shoulders hunched, to the line of people waiting for the cashier. It was late morning and the Chicago bus station bustled with activity. Anonymous humanity.

He stood quietly, waiting his turn at the counter. Around him, conversations echoed throughout the high-ceiling room. People coming and going, saying goodbye-hello, weeping and smiling. Sleeping. Waiting.

His turn came. Again, he looked around. Satisfied, several quick steps brought him to the window.

"Yes? Where to?" The cashier did not look up, her words tired, bored.

The young man placed a crumpled pile of bills onto the ledge.

"How far will this take me?"

The cashier first looked at the money, then at him, her eyes piercing, assessing. He felt her thoughts. Was he a run away? Had he committed a crime? She pursed her lips, took the money from the ledge, and began to count.

"Which way you wanna go, kid?" she asked in a bored voice.

"What?" Her question confused him.

Her sigh was loud. She enunciated her question slowly. "Which direction do you want to go?"

"Oh." He hadn't really thought about it. Did it matter? Not really. He had come from the west, he had been south, couldn't go much further north without hitting Canada.

"East. Someplace east."

The cashier nodded her head. She turned and checked the schedules and the costs. The ticket printed. She placed it in front of him on the ledge.

"Here you go, kid. Hope you find what you're lookin' for."

The young man nodded. The problem was, he wasn't going to something. He certainly wasn't looking for anything. Someone was looking for him. He picked up the ticket without looking at it.

"Thank you." He repositioned the backpack, picked up the satchel from the floor, turned and walked away.

He found a vacant seat and sat, legs outstretched. Finally, he looked down at the ticket. Shadow Lake, New York. He had no idea where that was. He didn't really care. His bus left at 1:00 p.m. Two hours from now. Time was his enemy. Two hours, a lifetime.

"Hey, good lookin'." He stiffened. Now what? He turned his head, slowly.

Sixteen. No older, for sure, he thought. He nodded a greeting, then looked away. He hoped she got the hint.

"Where are you headed?" She wasn't going away. He sighed, then looked at her again. Her smile was supposed to be seductive. It wasn't. Not to him.

He didn't answer.

She didn't take the hint.

"What's your name?" Blackboard fingernails voice. He winced.

"Violet! Watcha doin'?" Her shoulders visibly stiffened.

As he watched, the shape of Violet's mouth changed to a mutinous pout. A young surly-looking boy strode to where they were seated.

"I was bored, Chuckie," she whined. "I was just talkin'."

Chuckie grabbed Violet by the arm and pulled her to her feet.

"I've told you before not to flirt with other guys." His words were enunciated between clenched teeth.

"It's why we're here, if you remember. Because of you and your flirting." Chuckie's head was bent low to Violet, an edgy whisper in her ear.

Violet looked down at the ground. "I'm sorry, Chuckie. I won't do it again." She leaned down and picked up her flourescent pink backpack. Smiling apologetically, with quick steps she followed Chuckie as he strode to the other side of the room.

The young man watched them walk away, relieved. It wouldn't have been a good thing if there had been a confrontation. Flirting! Lord, what next! His eyes slowly circuited the room again. Habit. Satisfied, he leaned back and closed his eyes. Two hours was an eternity.

Time passed. The young man opened his eyes and squinted at the watch on his arm. 12:15 p.m. He rose from the chair, picked up his bags, and headed to the payphone.

He stood before the phone. It was dangerous. Should he or shouldn't he? He had to. Pulling some change from his pocket, he picked up the handset.

He waited to hear her voice.

"Hello?" Hesitant, soft. A wistful smile crossed his face.

"Hello. Mom? It's me..."

He heard her soft exclamation. He could sense her relief across the lines. Across the country.

* * *

Ten minutes after the Greyhound bus pulled out heading east, another man entered the bus depot. He strode across the terminal intent on reach the cashier.

Frustration. Anger. He had known she was getting ready to run. It was, after all, their special game. He had watched her enter the diner with her bags, but she hadn't come out. A wrong move on his part. He had underestimated her.

The cashier shook her head when he had shown her the picture.

His blood burned hot. His quarry had eluded him. This time. He looked forward to the chase. He burned brighter for it. She was a worthy opponent. But then, he had always known that.

CHAPTER ONE

Shadow Lake, New York

3 Months Later

"Rebecca..."

She recognized the raspy faceless whisper on the phone.

"You should not have run, Rebecca. You know I will find you. I always find you." The voice laughed. It echoed over and over.

Rebecca's eyes flew open! Her heart pumped painfully in rhythm with her fast, shallow breaths. Another nightmare. Would she ever be free?

Rebecca Alexander, costume designer, was gone; maybe forever. Last seen, a year ago, in Los Angeles, living a full, rewarding life.

Ellie Baker, waitress, was born three months ago. Ellie. The shell of a woman, who survived in a haunting vacuum that passed for living.

For the last three months, there had been no whispered calls, no vile letters, no venomous gifts. She could only hope he had tired of the chase. She knew he hadn't.

Sighing, it was Rebecca who threw the blanket back and got up. But it was Ellie who stood before the chipped porcelain sink in the bathroom, quickly putting in the hated contact lenses.

Her friends would not have recognized the person reflected in the small rectangular mirror. She wore her shoulder-length brown hair tied back in a ponytail. Her eyes, dark with worry, were too large for the thin face staring back at her. No make-up covered the light path of freckles that lay across the bridge of her nose.

Shadow Lake. Home for now...where the Greyhound bus had dropped her, headed to nowhere in particular. It was a small town nestled at the north end of a large lake in upstate New York, hidden in the shadow of the Adirondacks.

Upon stepping off the bus, the first thing she had done was use the bathroom at the bus stop to change her male persona back to female. A necessary disguise, but one she had been uncomfortable assuming, and wanted to shed as quickly as possible.

Finding something to eat was next. Then a job. She got two for one. At the small diner next to the bus stop, prominently displayed in the window was a sun-faded "help wanted" sign. Fortuitous.

She tried to disappear in larger cities. Denver. Minneapolis. Chicago. He had found her again and again. Shadow Lake was a small, sleepy town. No stranger would pass unnoticed here. At least this time there might be some warning when he showed up.

The dark circles beneath her eyes attested to the fact that trying to stay ahead of him was taking its toll on her. Eventually, she would fumble, make a mistake. She knew the consequences. The only real certainty in her life was that he would find her...it was just a question of when.

Ellie sighed and turned away from the mirror. In the bedroom, she pulled on shapeless baggy brown pants and a tan oversized sweater, socks and sneakers. She grimaced. For added insurance, she wore a pair of gold wire-rimmed glasses. Ordinary, everyday articles to act as a disguise. The greasepaints and wigs of the theater would have been cumbersome, time-consuming and costly. God. How she missed the smell of the theater.

No. Meek, quiet Ellie Baker, the waitress, was not the woman he would be looking for.

Leaving the bedroom, her eyes swept the small rent-by-the-month cottage that was home. One bedroom, a tiny living room and an even tinier kitchen were the boundaries of her world. The walls were painted a uniform antiseptic white in an attempt to make the rooms appear larger. The furniture, shabby from years of use, was comfortable enough. At least it was clean.

Ellie walked into the kitchen, and poured some milk into a small saucepan. She placed it on the front burner of the old, yet serviceable, gas stove. From the cupboard she pulled down the can of Nestle's cocoa. She stirred several teaspoons of powder into the milk. A hot cup of chocolate always brightened her day, chased away the shadows. Cupping the chipped stoneware mug with both hands, she stepped out onto the porch and inhaled the morning.

The shadow of the mountains fell over the lake this early in the day. Autumn. She loved its vivid colors.

Ellie remembered nostalgically another life. A cacophony of sound, horns honking, radios blaring, the sound of people coming and going. A spacious apartment high above the city, the design room with the ceiling to floor windows offering a panoramic view of the huge metropolis of Los Angeles. It had been a sea of colors, textures, and faces.

Absently, Ellie took a sip of soothing chocolate. She gazed out at the glittering lake. Turning she walked back inside. She shut the door to her memories on what once had been.

She might as well get started. Errands needed to be run before she went to work. A quick trip into town was called for.

Ellie picked up the backpack from the couch. The handgun and cell phone contained in the backpack were her only contact to a world she was now totally isolated from. She knew how to use the gun. The backpack was never far from her side.

* * *

It was Friday night. The diner was packed.

Ellie was aware of him when he first walked through the door. He wasn't someone you could miss. But he wasn't one of the "usuals" that frequented Mick's diner.

There was a part of her that recognized him. It took her by suprise. Ellie thought at first, he was the one. He was the stalker. She studied him for a long time, fear running through her veins. Then her pulse steadied.

Although she didn't know the stalker's identity, she remembered vague impressions, like his height and body build. She had been close enough to know that. And the man at the door to the diner wasn't him.

This was someone from another world. From the tip of his black leather boots to his wavy raven hair, he demanded notice. Long muscular legs encased in black jeans, a black tee-shirt that molded a solid chest; black leather jacket that stopped just at the curve of narrow, lean hips. His clothes screamed "biker," but the way he moved in long slow strides to a vacant table, said power, control and sophistication. Even at Mick's Diner, he owned the room.

The heat of his electricity arced across the length of the room to shock her into a sensual awareness she had thought long suppressed. He hadn't even looked at her, his presence alone sent her heart racing and her breathing hitched. Her brain screamed escape.

 "Who's that?" she whispered to Bertie, the other waitress on duty with her tonight. Bertie Flanagan had been here for years. She was a spry woman in her 50's, with short bobbed black hair, and an air of urgency whenever she moved. Bertie knew everyone. She quickly looked up from pouring coffee, snapping a piece of gum. "Oh, that's Jace Monroe. He's staying up at the cabin at the other end of the lake from where you are. He bought it from his parents a couple years back. I hear he's recovering from some kind of accident. Quite a looker, don't you think?"

Ellie saw that gleam in Bertie's eyes. Ever the matchmaker, our Bertie. Ellie smiled and shook her head.

"Looks like you're going to get to find out all about him firsthand, honey." Ellie looked in the direction that Bertie nodded.

Oh, great! She inwardly groaned.

The subject of their conversation had just sat down at one of Ellie's tables.

* * *

It was late, but Jace Monroe was like a caged panther that needed to run. He was not a person who liked having time on his hands, and nights like this left him edgy,restless. His month of enforced rest was taking its toll. The injury to his leg was healing nicely and he was ready for action.

Giving up the cigarettes at the same time had not been a particularly bright idea either. But once the decision to give up smoking had been made, it was not one he would back down from. Monroe was not a man who backed away from anything.

He needed company, a hard thing to find at Shadow Lake. What he really needed was female company, but that wasn't going to happen. No female he was acquainted with would be caught dead in Shadow Lake.

One came to the Lake for peace and solitude, not for socializing. And definitely not for women. But he was a desperate man, so he went to the only place where people congregated. He went to the Lake Edge Diner, fondly referred to as "Mick's Place." Mick's Place had been there for as long as Jace could remember.

Slowly Jace unfolded his tall frame from the Jaguar. It was the first trip into town he'd made since arriving at the cabin. He stretched his left leg out, giving it time to assimilate after the drive.

The assignment in Mozambique and Jeremy's death had shaken him. That's really why he had come to the cabin. To get his head on straight. But he was finding that too much of his own company wasn't good either. Hence, the trip to Mick's.

It had been a long time since he had seen Mick and someone else's cooking wouldn't taste too bad right now. His own cooking expertise was limited to hot dogs and hamburgers and an odd grilled steak now and then. Food at Mick's was always good.

Jace opened the weather-worn door to the diner and walked into the bustling atmosphere. There were scarred wooden tables covered with red and white checked plastic tablecloths scattered about the room, no booths. There wasn't a counter as one might expect, just a small cozy dining room, with two waitresses flitting about. It was dinner time, 6:00 p.m., and business was brisk.

No standing on ceremony here, he just grabbed a seat at the first empty table, sat down, and scanned through the dog-eared menu. Simple food and friendly folk, just what he needed, just what he remembered.

He'd forgotten the cozy camaradarie of the diner. His current fast-paced lifestyle didn't allow for simple pleasures such as this. He leaned back in the hard wooden chair and closed his eyes. He stretched his long legs out before him. The steady murmur of muted conversations and the clinking of plates and saucers hummed around him. The smell of fresh coffee and home-cooked food had his stomach growling.

The fresh scent of pine and sweet berries struck him. Although appearing relaxed from the outside, the moment she stepped near his table, he was aware of her.

"What can I get you?" a honey-rich, sexy voice asked. Slowly he opened his eyes and turned his head to look up at her. He straightened in his chair.

One of the two waitresses he had spotted when he first walked in, stood next to his table holding a small pad and pencil ready to take down his order. She was looking down at the pad, not at him, waiting.

He noticed her long, shapely legs first. He'd always been a leg man, and hers were enough to have him salivating. Satin and perfectly sculptured, they were clad in well-worn blue jean shorts. His male genes fired. His fingers itched. Slowly his eyes moved up in appreciation.

She wore a loose fitting short-sleeved navy blue tee-shirt that read "Lake Edge Diner," in gold letters blazed across the front. Loose, yes, but not enough to conceal the feminine curve of hips and soft outline of perfect breasts. Her wavy brown hair was drawn back in a casual ponytail, a few flyaway wisps softly curling about her heart-shaped face. He couldn't tell the color of her eyes behind the tinted glasses she wore.

He didn't recognize her as being one of the locals. He would have remembered her. And he most certainly would have wanted to know her better. Not his usual type, that was for sure, but she sure was fine.

He could tell he was making her uncomfortable with his appreciative stare. She shifted from one foot to the other. Then she did a quick look over her shoulder, her ponytail doing a little dance about her shoulders.

"Any specials today?" he asked.

"The special is meatloaf with mashed potatoes and...ah...mixed vegetables." She seemed nervous to him, fidgeting while she waited for him to make up his mind.

"That sounds good," he said after a minute of consideration. "I'll have that. Mick usually makes a pretty good meatloaf." He handed her the menu.

Their fingers brushed as the old menu passed from his long tapered fingers to hers. He wondered if she had felt the same electrical shock he had, because she pulled her hand back quickly and the menu dropped to the floor between them. They both moved to retrieve it. She was quicker. When she straightened back up, her face was slightly flushed, but the menu was tucked safely beneath her arm.

Her eyes were brown, he was sure of it. Large brown eyes that filled her face. It was still a little hard to be certain with those tinted glasses she wore. They might have been grey, but no, he was pretty sure they were brown. And he had been close enough to see a sprinkling of light brown freckles across the bridge of her small nose.

A pretty little wren. Now where did that come from? For some reason she reminded him of a tiny fragile bird, ready to fly away at any moment. Now, why would he think that?

"Anything to drink?" she asked, scribbling on her notepad. She fidgeted. Why did she seem so nervous?

"Milk" he replied, grinning. "Chocolate milk, if you have it."

"Sure," she continued writing. She looked up quickly with a hint of a smile. "Have it for you shortly."

He had thought she was pretty, but that smile changed his mind. She was beautiful. He couldn't stop staring as he watched her hurry across the room, her ponytail swaying. A growl almost made it past his lips as he thought of what all that hair would look like spread across the pillow on his bed.

She came back to his table carrying a clear plastic pitcher of water, ice swishing, and filled his glass, with a sure yet unexpectedly elegant motion. He noticed her hands, long fingers, which clasped the plastic handle of the pitcher. Out of place. A pianist's hands.

She leaned closer to him as she set the glass of water before him. The mingled fragrance of evergreen and woman hit him. He was startled by his reaction. His body hardened at her fragile, feminine closeness. It was an effort not to reach out for her.

"I forgot to ask. What kind of dressing do you want on your salad?" she asked as she straightened.

His first thought was. "How about you?" And was shocked by that thought. He had to keep reminding himself that she wasn't his type.

He blinked and looked up. "What kind do you have?"

"French, Italian, Russian, or oil and vinegar."

"Italian will be fine."

She wrote that down and walked back towards the kitchen.

He watched her progress wondering to himself what had gotten into him. For some reason he was attracted to this little wren. His type was usually the flamboyant socialite, more peacock variety, all strutting and fluffing flamboyant feathers. The high maintenance variety.

He shook his head. Obviously, he had been up here by himself way too long. It was time for him to get back to his life.

Although he had constant contact through his laptop and cell phone, Alain, his partner, was after him to get back to the office. But then Alain never did think much of country living. Jace knew he was ready, but something kept him here, something he couldn't put a name to.

"I asked you a question, missy!"

The loud quarrelsome voice dragged Jace away from his thoughts. He turned his head toward the voice, several table away, where a large, husky man had just grabbed his waitress by the wrist.

She was in trouble, that much he could see.

"Mister, what is it you need?" he heard her ask in a quiet, low voice. Smart girl. She was obviously trying to calm the guy down, the only way she had available.

But Jace could also see the cruel grasp the guy had on her wrist. Should he step in?

"Where's my food!" he growled at her. "I've been waitin' too long. I got things to do other than sittin' and waitin' here."

"If you'll let me go, I'll see what I can find out for you. Why don't you just calm down and have a seat." She was trying to reason with him. Jace saw her winced as she again tried to pull he wrist free.

"You wouldn't be bad lookin' if you got rid of them glasses. How ‘bout you and me goin' out for a drink when you get off?" It was obvious he was drunk and not in a frame of mind to be reasoned with.

Okay, that's it. Jace got up from his table.

Bertie rushed past him. "Now mister, why don't you let her go. She didn't take your order, but look, I'm gettin' it right now. We just got a little backed up is all." Still, the bastard didn't release her.

Jace shook his head. This jerk was just asking for trouble. He wasn't about to just stand by and let his little wren be mauled by the big braggart.

"Pal, why don't you stop causing a scene and sit back down." Jace's voice was deceptively low.

The man looked at Jace who stood quietly, his stance leaving no doubt that he was a dangerous man to thwart. Jace gave the man a look that was not difficult to understand. It was a look he'd cultivated and nurtured over the years...one that always got results. It was a look that took no prisoners. The man's eyes shifted away from Jace as he released Ellie's wrist.

"I was just tryin' to get some decent service," he muttered as he turned away. He sat back down heavily, hunched over in his chair.

"I'll get your food, mister, and I'm real sorry for the delay." Bertie rushed off to the kitchen wanting to placate the man before there was any more trouble.

Jace watched Ellie as she quickly moved away from the table, rubbing her wrist. She turned back to Jace. He lightly took her wrist in his hands to examine the marks left by the bully's angry hold.

"Did he hurt you?" he asked her quietly.

She shook her head. "No, I'll be fine." A hint of a smile ghosted across her face, a breathy quality was in her voice.

"Thank you. It was very kind of you to help. If you'll sit back down, I'll bring your dinner." He released her wrist and she turned away from him. As she walked away, he knew he scowled. He watched as she rubbed at her wrist.

Jace turned slowly back to his table and sat down. Something about the woman brought out his protective instincts. He just couldn't figure out what it was about her. She wasn't the most beautiful woman he'd known. In fact, it seemed she went to great lengths not to draw attention to herself. So why did he feel so drawn to her? His little wren? Where did that come from?

A few minutes later she came back to his table with his dinner and set it before him.

"I hope everything is okay." He noticed her voice was still a bit breathy. Obviously, she had been shaken by the incident. He admired the way she'd handled the situation.

He saw her run a practiced eye over the table.

"You haven't forgotten anything," he assured her.

She smiled and nodded. "I'll check back with you in a bit to see if you need anything else."

"Wait," he said as she turned to leave.

She stopped. He saw her shoulders stiffen as though braced for something, before she slowly turned back to his table. "Yes?"

"What's your name?"

"My n–name?"

He saw her eyes widen, her pupils dilate behind the smoky lenses of her glasses. The look in her eyes was wary. He felt a solid barrier drop into place. It peaked his curiosity.

"Yes, your name." He tried to put her at ease. "I come down here a lot and I like to know people's names. I know Bertie, and I know Mick. I just like to put a name with a face." He hoped his response settled her. She seemed as skittish as a young colt.

"Oh." She hesitated for a moment, not looking at him. He again noted her nervousness. "My name is Ellie."

"How long have you worked here? I haven't seen you before."

"I have to go." And she quickly turned without answering. She walked away before he could ask anything else.

Ellie intrigued him with her lack of response. Why would she be so nervous about a little conversational chitchat? It was the man who wanted to know more about her. It was the investigator who thought she was hiding something.

Who was she? Why did she evade his simple inquiries? He obviously wasn't going to get his answers right now, he thought, as he watched her rush from table to table serving customers. Every now and then a small hand pushed back an errant strand of hair behind her ear.

Slowly Jace turned back to concentrate on the food before him. He would enjoy Mick's good cooking and worry later about how to get acquainted with his little wren. Not his type, but she certainly had his attention.

* * *

Ellie could feel Jace's hot blue gaze following her as she moved between tables, talking to customers and taking orders. She didn't want his attention. There was no room for anyone in her life right now, maybe never.

Her wrist ached and she couldn't wait for her shift to be over. She'd put some ice on it when she got home.

Ellie thought maybe it was time for her to move on. She didn't have the luxury of making friends. It would be too dangerous not only for her, but them. And she was not willing to bring pain to anyone else she cared about. Never again would she get close enough to someone, to have them used against her, to possibly cause their death. Never again.

Ellie saw Jace pay for his dinner, leaving a generous tip on the table for her. She breathed a sigh of relief as he left the diner, a slight limp noticeable in his long-legged stride. What kind of accident had he been in?

Ellie turned back to finish her shift. She would not think of Jace Monroe again, nor would she acknowledge the flutter that resulted from wanting something she could not have, something as dangerous as she instinctively knew he was.

* * *

He sat hunched forward in front of the illuminated computer screen. Short, flat fingers slowly reached out, tracing lightly the outline of her beautiful face.

Her hair fell in gentle waves well below her delicate shoulders, dark, mahogany fire that caught and held the rays of a golden day. Flashing emerald eyes, flawless skin, he knew was as soft and fragile as the petals of a rose. And when she smiled, the sun was left in darkness.

"Ah, my beauty, my lady," he whispered in a raspy low voice to the vision before him. Oh, yes, his and his alone. No one would take her from him. Soon, very soon they would be together again, this time forever.

"Rebecca, my sweet Rebecca, our time draws near, soon you will know the full measure of my love...our love...that nothing can set aside."

He again caressed the screen before him, the view changing every few seconds, offering him yet another eye-catching vision of his lady.

"Hiding you may be, my lady," he murmured to her smiling likeness, "but catch you I will."

It was a vow he promised himself would soon be fulfilled.