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him."
    Jordan grinned. "I take it he's not too fond of you," he said
    "We get along fine," Hoyston told him. "Course, I'm not invading his territory, and I'm not what he calls one of those 'blood-sucking reporters' sticking his nose into someone else's business, either".
    "Ouch. Sounds like he's had an unpleasant experience."
    "Or several," Hoyston said. "Now listen, Jordan. I don't know why you've decided to go fishing down there, and I don't want to know. But for a reporter, I know you're a decent man and we're friends. I want to warn you that Bascomb is one tough cookie. He runs a tight ship and can get real mean if he thinks he or any or his people are being threatened. So, if you do happen to run across him, I'd just as soon you forget to mention that you know me. He's real good at adding one plus one, even when they don't equal two. So you be careful."
    Jordan took his friend's advice seriously. He created his fishing vacation as a cover story, took a lease on a cabin in one of the area fishing camps, collected his fishing gear from the St. Louis apartment he rented but rarely occupied, then planned his invasion into what he believed was Sarah Wilson's home territory.
    Remembering Hoyston's warning, he'd avoided Sheriff Bascomb, although he knew the man was probably well informed about his movements and questions. For that reason Jordan had been careful not to hide his search. He found the hunt exciting, if at times frustrating.
    Now the hunt was almost over.
    Maybe.
    He checked his watch again. Five after three. He wasn't going to give up this early. After two futile weeks, he was willing to wait a little longer.

 
     
     
    Chapter 3

     
    Sarah let herself in the back door of the café and silently waved to her cousin behind the counter. Betsy returned her wave with a grin, then continued filling the salt and pepper shakers lined up on the counter in front of her.
    Standing at the end of the counter, Sarah had a clear view of the man waiting in the middle booth—Jordan Mathias.
    He sat facing the front entrance of the café, his eyes intent on the empty doorway. Without the fisherman's hat, his brown hair fell forward in a boyish wave over one side of his forehead. His features were as strong and unyielding as she remembered and, despite his casual air, she sensed the same self-assurance in him that she'd recognized at the lake. This was a determined man who wouldn't give up his search easily.
    She took a deep breath and crossed the space between the counter and the booth, her sandals making little noise on the worn wooden floor. She stood silently at the side of the booth, her body tense, her hands clenched at her sides.
    Even if Aunt Cinda was right, even if his reasons for looking for her were innocent, she was still in danger. She'd been unable to explain to Aunt Cinda that Jordan Mathias disturbed her in a way no other man ever had. She was risking more than exposure. Still, she had promised. She waited for him to acknowledge her presence.
    Jordan was watching the café entrance so intently it took him several seconds to realize someone was standing by the booth. He turned slightly, thinking it was the waitress. A moment later he forgot the front door completely.
    The woman standing beside the booth was small and perfectly proportioned. Her slim, tanned legs looked long and willowy despite her petite height. Her tiny waist above gently flaring hips and her small breasts swelling beneath her crisp sleeveless cotton blouse were definitely feminine.
    Jordan shifted, in his seat, turning his body toward her. Their gazes locked, his unbelieving, hers shifting prisms of blue-green light.
    Unconsciously, he grasped the table, his knuckles turning white as he stared openly at the woman. The world around him faded away and the wooden floor of the café became the mud of the lakeshore. The quiet hum of the overhead fan was the gentle buzzing of June bugs and honeybees, and the woman's eyes were the deep, mysterious