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that was new, she thought hysterically, begging Gray to let her go.
    His shadow loomed between her and the world. She could hear his breathing, strong and steady. She had to get her balance. After four days worrying about Chris and Jordy, she hadn't been prepared to slam hard against Gray's chest.
    "I heard sounds," she said. "You weren't here. I was going to break a window to get inside. I got a piece of—"
    He stepped close and she jerked away.
    "It's not locked," he said, reaching for the knob.
    The door swung open. For a moment neither of them moved.
    How could she have been so stupid? She'd assumed the door would be locked, hadn't even tried the knob. She touched his arm, then yanked her hand back as if from an electric shock.
    He growled, "What the hell are you doing here?"
    "I—I need help."
    "How did you get here?"
    She gestured toward the water. "Seaplane."
    "Hmm." He stepped inside and left the door open behind him. It was the best invitation she was likely to get.
    He turned on a small light that was just enough to show her the way. She walked carefully down a shadowy corridor. On one side, stairs and a wooden banister led upward. On the other, glass doors stood invitingly open to an unlit living room.
    A light came on at the back of the house just as Emma heard a sound that couldn't have been made by Gray. She hurried toward the light. A kitchen. He was doing something to the stove.
    A muscle jerked in his jaw as he locked his gaze with hers.
    "Whatever the hell you want, it will have to wait until I've had a meal and a shower."
    "All right," she agreed, knowing she had no choice. There was no way to search for Chris until morning came, and this wasn't the Gray she remembered.
    He'd been twenty-one the last time she saw him. Now he was a mature man. Bigger, more dangerous, and right now in this kitchen there was just enough light to see he was glaring at her as if none of his memories were good.
    "If you want me to listen sympathetically," he said, "you'll get busy and cook me something to eat."
    He wanted her to react with anger, she realized.
    "Sympathetically?"
    "You said you wanted help. You're in trouble, aren't you? Why else would you come?"
    What had happened to the Gray she remembered, the boy who cared about things so passionately, who cared about her?
    "Go have your shower. I'll cook."
    Surprise flashed in his eyes and she felt a bitter flare of victory. Gray MacKenzie wasn't the only one who had changed. She wasn't the impulsive Emma Jennings he remembered. She'd grown up, learned patience and caution.
    "Did you come to dig up dead memories, Emma?"
    "I came for help." She hadn't realized how difficult it would be, this stiff conversation between two people who'd once cared about each other. "We'll eat first, then I'll tell you about it. What do you want for dinner?"
    "Whatever you find in the fridge."
    She felt a lurch of nausea as she opened the refrigerator door. She heard a door slam and the breath went out of her lungs.
    He'd stepped outside but she could still feel his presence, could still smell the pine and cedar wilderness on his clothes.
    Two days ago she'd looked at that magazine picture and felt a painful shaft of recognition and of trust. She'd been certain Gray would help her, and she'd needed the strength that was so much a part of the Graham MacKenzie she remembered.
    Everything had changed. It was as if he had grown a hard wall of granite around himself, a wall she could never penetrate. His copper hair had always been unruly. It still waved strongly back from his face. But it was in his eyes that Gray showed emotion, and she'd seen only impatience, anger, and cynicism.
    He had been wearing leather and denim the first time she met him—a tough young man, fascinating and sexy, the kind of man any girl's father would want a hundred miles away from his daughter. But back then he'd cared about her.
    He didn't care now.
    She didn't care either, although the memories were unexpectedly