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  He reluctantly took a sip. "What are you doing here? You weren't on the guest list."

  "I've been calling you for the past two weeks, but you haven't returned my calls," she complained.

  "I was busy."

  "You weren't too busy for me when you needed my help."

  He sighed at the sharp tone in her voice. "I appreciate all the help you gave me, Erica, but if you were looking for something more, it's not going to happen." He was surprised that he even had to tell her that. Their one encounter had been mutually satisfying, but certainly not the beginning of a relationship. And Erica had understood that. He would have sworn she'd understood. He never got involved with women who didn't know the score.

  Erica frowned, and her face went from pretty and edgy to hard and brittle. There was a wild gleam in her eyes that made him uneasy. Was she on something?

  "We need to talk," she repeated.

  His gut twisted at the purpose in her words. A quick mental calculation reminded him that when a woman you'd slept with six weeks earlier suddenly wanted to talk, there was a good chance it had something to do with a baby. But they'd used protection. He'd been stupid to sleep with her, but he hadn't been completely careless. Still, his niece, Caitlyn, was a prime example that condoms didn't always work. He gulped down another swallow of his champagne.

  He did not want to have this conversation now. His career was flying. He'd just broken one of the biggest stories of his life. He was on the fast track to success. Everything was going as planned. The last thing he needed was a complication—a baby. His glance drifted down Erica's body. She looked as thin as ever in a short red cocktail dress that was now hitched up to midthigh. Her legs were bare, her skin tan, her feet strapped into a pair of red stilettos. A sheer red scarf was draped around her shoulders. She didn't look pregnant, but if she was, he might as well face it head-on.

  "All right, talk," he ordered, never one to shy away from a problem. Whatever it was, he'd deal with it.

  Erica hesitated, her gaze darting around the room. "Not here. It's too crowded. Take a walk with me."

  He didn't want to go anywhere with her, but he also didn't want to have a private conversation in a public place. Nor did he want to worry his brother or upset the wedding reception by getting into what could be a volatile conversation with Erica. She wasn't exactly the calmest, most reasonable woman he'd ever met. Even now her fingers tapped nervously on the top of the bar, and she kept glancing around as if she were afraid someone was watching her, watching them.

  Maybe he was off base. Maybe this wasn't personal. Erica had a way of getting herself into trouble without really trying. He'd learned that about her when she'd helped him link a state senator to murder. He owed her for that. The least he could do was listen to her now.

  "Does this have to do with Senator Ravino?" he asked, lowering his voice.

  She licked her lips. "Of course not. He's in jail, awaiting trial."

  "I know, and you helped me and the police put him there. Has he tried to contact you? Are you feeling threatened in some way?"

  "The police say I'm in no danger, but I know the senator better than anyone. He has a lot of connections outside prison."

  "What do you need from me?"

  "I need to talk to you," she said, sounding desperate. She slid off her stool. "Are you coming?"

  "All right." He finished the rest of the champagne and stood up.

  "There's a path we can take," Erica said as they walked out of the bar and through the lobby of the lodge. "It winds along the mountain, and there's a spectacular view of the lake."

  "How do you know that?"

  "I got here earlier. I had a chance to explore." She gave him a look he couldn't decipher and then led him out a side door.

  Nestled in the High Sierras and surrounded by tall ponderosa pines, the Woodlake Mountain Lodge was perched on a steep hillside overlooking the glistening waters of Lake Tahoe. Adjoining the main building of the lodge were a dozen small, rustic cabins.

  "That's my cabin over there." Erica pointed to a nearby building. "I didn't want to drive down the mountain after dark, so I got a room. Are you in the main lodge?"

  "Yes. Why did you come here, Erica? You could have contacted me in San Francisco. You know where I live." It didn't make sense to him that she would have come all the way to Tahoe to talk to him.

  "Let's go this way," she said, taking a path to the right. "I knew I would have to surprise you, or you'd find an excuse to avoid me."

  "You should have waited until after my brother's wedding. This is a big day for him."

  "You don't care about weddings, Dylan."

  "When they involve my brother, I do."

  She rolled her eyes. "Right," she said, a cynical note in her voice.

  Dylan stopped abruptly, losing patience. "Look, whatever you have to say, just say it. It's getting dark, and I don't feel like getting lost in the woods with you."

  "Let's walk to the end of the path. There's a bench. We can sit." She proceeded without waiting for him to answer.

  The cement walkway was lined with small lights every ten feet or so, but as the path turned into dirt the lights disappeared and dark shadows surrounded them. He tried to call out to Erica to stop, but she was moving at a good clip, and his tongue felt thick in his head. He must have had more to drink than he'd realized.

  Where the hell was the bench Erica wanted to reach? His legs felt strangely fatigued, and the scenery began to spin in front of his eyes. It took everything he had to put one foot in front of the other. What was wrong? A sick, queasy feeling swept through him. He stumbled and almost fell, but he caught himself at the last minute. He put his hand on the trunk of a nearby tree to steady himself.

  "Erica," he mumbled, forcing the word out.

  She turned to stare back at him, but she made no move to come to his side.

  "Help me." He tried to lift his arm, but it was too heavy.

  "This is your fault, Dylan," she said. "I had no choice. I had nowhere else to turn."

  No choice? What was she talking about?

  "It always comes down to every man for himself. You said so yourself, Dylan. Now it's my turn to look out for me."

  She took a few steps backward. She was getting awfully close to the edge of a very steep cliff. He wanted to warn her to stay back, but he couldn't get the words out. The landscape took another wild spin.

  She'd drugged him, he realized, suddenly remembering the overly sweet taste of the champagne. Why? What the hell did she want? Before he could ask her, his legs gave way and the world went black.

  * * *

  Catherine Hilliard awoke in the middle of the night, her heart racing and sweat dampening her cheeks. The digital clock read four forty-four. Every night for the past two months she'd woken up with terror flooding through her body like a tidal wave threatening to take her under. The screams of the past ran through her head, a maddening refrain that she feared she would never forget and yet never fully remember.

  The events of one night had been lost in her subconscious for twenty-four years. And every few years the nightmares came back, torturing her for weeks at a time and then disappearing as quickly as they'd come. But this time was different. The dreams were getting worse, and the fear was relentlessly increasing with each passing night, as if something were coming for her, something horrific.

  Scrambling out of bed, she did the only thing she could do to take the fear away. She painted.

  On the easel a blank canvas waited. She picked up her brushes and opened her mixed paints, finding comfort in the familiar actions. Dipping her brush into the paint, she paused for a second and then put the brush to the canvas. The nightmare in her mind took shape with bold, dark swaths of color, red, green, black, blue. She barely breathed as the fear seeped out of her with each swipe of the brush. She never knew what would come out of her subconscious. Finally, shaken and drained, she set down her brush and backed away.

  The picture she'd painted would make no se
nse to anyone. It was a mess of lines and shapes, collisions of color, but in the abstract images she thought she could see a face haunted by fear, dark eyes filled with terror, a mouth pleading for help. And deep down she believed she was supposed to help, but she didn't know how.

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, she let out a sigh as she studied her picture from afar. Calmer now, she tried to analyze what she'd done, the way she did every night, but the turmoil in her brain was as confusing as always.

  She'd been six years old when her life had changed forever, when her reality had become a nightmare, when the bad dreams had begun. The police had wanted to know exactly what she'd seen that night, but she couldn't tell them. A therapist had given her paper and crayons and told her to draw, so she'd drawn, but the images hadn't made any sense then, nor did they now. And since that day she hadn't been able to stop drawing. Art had become her refuge, her passion, and her way of making a living. If she couldn't paint, she didn't think she could live.

  During the daylight hours she could draw beautiful pictures, landscapes, flowers, happy people—but at night, after the dreams came, her paintings became monstrosities as she was driven to put brush to canvas in a desperate effort to free herself from the endless nightmares.

  She'd tried changing her environment, but that hadn't worked. As a child she'd lived in eight different foster homes, and the nightmares had always found her. As an adult she'd tried three different cities and rented more than a few apartments before settling into her current beach cottage, but the dreams always returned.

  Of course, there were months when she slept undisturbed. She wished for the relief of those dreamless nights. The longest she'd gone without a nightmare was six years. She'd thought they were over. Then they'd returned, and she'd realized she would never be free until she did something....

  She had the sense that she was meant to act in some way—only then would she be able to escape. But what was she supposed to do? She didn't know. Nor did she recognize the abstract faces of the people she painted. They called out to her, but she couldn't answer, because she didn't know who they were.

  Although tonight she couldn't help wondering if the face in her picture belonged to the woman who'd approached Dylan in the bar. There was a faint resemblance, wasn't there? Maybe she was just imagining it. Or perhaps she'd painted the woman's face because she'd seen her in her head, when she'd had a brief glimpse into Dylan's future—a future that seemed to include her. Not that she wanted to be included. She had a feeling Dylan was heading for trouble, and the last thing she needed was more trouble in her life.

  Getting up, she walked over to the window and drew back the curtain. Her room was located on the top floor of the three-story lodge and had a direct view of the lake several hundred yards below. The water shimmered in the light of a full moon. The tall pine trees that covered the hillside swayed in the breeze like giant monsters. A shiver ran down her spine. She believed in connections, in fate and destiny. Nothing happened by chance. There was always a purpose. A long-ago childhood psychiatrist had told her that sometimes bad things just happened, and she had to stop looking for reasons, but Catherine hadn't believed the doctor then, nor did she buy into that philosophy now. Which was why she couldn't ignore the fact that something was wrong.

  Crossing her arms over her chest, she felt a cold draft through her thin camisole top and silky shorts. She hoped her sense of impending doom didn't have anything to do with Sarah. Her friend deserved to be happy after everything she had been through the past few years. And Jake and Sarah and their daughter were on their way to Hawaii, to the land of swaying palm trees, soft, warm breezes, and blue skies. They were fine. They had to be.

  She drew in a deep breath and then slowly let it out. She repeated the action several more times. Usually painting her nightmares tired her enough so that she could sleep until morning. Tonight she still felt edgy, as if she were waiting for something else to happen. She walked over to the valise set against the wall and pulled out another painting, a portrait this time....

  Dylan stared back at her with his golden brown eyes that were a mix of mystery, pain, amusement, and cynicism. She'd worked hard to capture the complexity of his eyes, the proud strength of his jaw, and the hint of wariness that was usually present in his expression, as well as the cocky smile that could also be kind, but she didn't think she had it quite right yet. They'd spent only a few days together two months earlier, when Dylan had asked for her help in finding Sarah and Jake's daughter, but those few days in his presence had touched her in a way she didn't completely understand. She just knew that they were connected. There was a reason Dylan had come to her.

  He'd say pragmatically that it was because she and Sarah shared a past, and that was the end of it. But she suspected there was more to come. If only she knew how the woman in the bar figured into things, that would be helpful, but her visions were never as complete or as forthcoming as she wanted. She would have to wait for whatever came next.

  Setting the painting aside, she returned to the window. In the light of the moon Dylan's image flashed through her head once again. She saw fear in his eyes, an expression of shock and betrayal. She grabbed the curtains with both hands, swaying with the sudden and certain knowledge that Dylan was in trouble.

  Glancing back at the clock, she realized an hour had passed since she'd first awoken in the grip of her nightmare. It was almost six. She just had to make it until dawn and then she would be fine. Once the sun came up she could relax. She could breathe again. And she could check on Dylan. She wanted to call him now, but she doubted he'd appreciate being wakened so early.

  A red-and-blue strobe light caught her eye. She turned back to the window, stiffening as a police car pulled up in front of the lodge. She pressed her face against the glass, watching two uniformed policemen enter the building.

  Her fear intensified. She was torn between wanting to go downstairs and find out what was happening and wanting to stay safely tucked away in her room.

  This wasn't her problem, she told herself. She didn't need to get involved in a situation that didn't concern her. Keeping away from cops was second nature to her. They hadn't been able to protect her when she was a child, and as she'd grown up she'd learned that the only person she could trust was herself—certainly not uniformed police officers, whose nightly sweeps of the streets had made trying to survive only that much more difficult.

  She moved away from the window and sat down on the bed, staring at the phone. She couldn't shake the desire to call Dylan and find out if he was all right. She hadn't seen him since she'd left him at the bar with that woman. She'd looked for him several times during the reception, especially when Jake and Sarah had wanted to say good-bye to him, but he'd been nowhere in sight. Jake had joked that his brother had probably gotten lucky. And she'd figured he was right. But now she wondered.... Dylan and Jake were so tight, as close as brothers could be. Would Dylan have really taken off with a woman at his brother's wedding? It seemed unlikely.

  Giving in to impulse, she picked up the phone and dialed the hotel operator, asking for his room. The phone rang and rang, finally giving way to voice mail. She hung up, her hand shaking. He might just be a heavy sleeper. Or he could be spending the night with that woman.

  Catherine crawled under the covers and pulled the blankets up to her chin. She stared at the clock, watching each minute tick away. She wanted to sleep, but she knew she couldn't, not until the sun came up and her fears went back into hiding.

  Chapter 2

  Dylan stirred, feeling something sharp stabbing the middle of his back. His head felt thick, a dull pain reverberating from the front of his skull down to his neck and shoulders. His lids were heavy, and it took him a second to get his eyes open, another minute to realize he was lying flat on his back on the ground. He reached under his body and yanked out a pinecone, the source of his discomfort.

  The sun was just beginning to rise over the tall trees that surrounded him, the air still chilled with the
icy cold of dawn. A few wispy clouds hung in the otherwise blue sky. It was morning, he realized, feeling halfwitted. What the hell had happened? Why was he on the ground in the woods? Had he gotten drunk and passed out? He struggled to sit up.

  There was dirt on his pants and on the sleeves of his charcoal gray suit. A cut on the top of his hand had

  swelled up, his skin now puffy and red. A glance at his watch told him it was seven fifteen in the morning. And the last thing he remembered was . . . what?

  He drew in a deep breath and ordered himself to think. The view reminded him that he was in Lake Tahoe and that Jake had just gotten married. Dylan had been at the wedding reception, sitting at the bar. He'd spoken to Catherine, and then Erica had arrived. She'd wanted to talk to him. She'd given him champagne. They'd taken a walk—a long walk.

  His pulse began to race as he jerked to his feet, suddenly feeling vulnerable. He looked around him, but he could see nothing but trees and the downward-sloping hillside that led to the edge of a cliff—a sheer drop to the lake below. Erica had brought him to this spot. She'd said something about having no choice, but the rest of her words were a blur. He remembered feeling sick, too weary to walk, as if he'd been drugged. That had to be what had happened. Erica must have put something in his champagne. But why would she do that?

  He checked his pockets. His wallet was intact, along with a couple hundred dollars. She hadn't taken his money or his watch, and he had nothing else of value on him—unless she'd wanted something from his room. He patted down his pockets again, realizing he didn't have his car keys. Had he left them in the room? And speaking of his room, where was his room key? He'd brought his laptop with him to do some work. Some of his files and notes from the Ravino case were on it. Had Erica wanted some piece of information?

  Was that why she'd drugged him and lured him out to the woods, so she could get into his room?

  A stirring nearby made him turn his head. Was the rustle of leaves and branches the work of squirrels or birds, or was someone watching him? Was it Erica? Was she about to put another part of her plan into action? He needed to return to the lodge, but he was disoriented, so he took a minute to figure out which direction to go. Stumbling on the dirt and rocks, he made his way slowly through the trees, eventually finding a trail.