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muscled thighs braced her on either side. They were draped in thin cotton, and she ran her hands over them, feeling their chiseled contour.
    They reminded her of Mark’s legs, of his lean-muscled body, and of the relationship that would never be between them because she’d married John instead. She’d often dreamt of Mark, her college sweetheart, but never like this. Those dreams were soft and aching, filled with what-ifs, where he stood at a distance and reached out for her. But when she realized she could run to him, that she was free of her husband’s charm, he turned his back on her.
    Whoever was behind her eased her back against his chest and she glanced up. It wasn’t Mark, but the man from the bridge. A thin scar sliced through his left eyebrow, and his nose was offset as if it had been broken a long time ago. His eyes were deep brown and filled with such warmth.
    That warmth seeped through her, heating her from within, radiating safety and comfort.
    “What are you doing here?” she asked, even though she felt he belonged there.
    “You’re dreaming.”
    He had said that before. She had believed him then, but she wasn’t so sure about that now, although it certainly felt like a dream with the hammock and the dress and him.
    “Just relax,” he said. “Enjoy this moment, this serenity.”
    “But who are you?” She couldn’t get the sensation out of her mind that something wasn’t right.
    “I’m only a dream.” He wrapped his arms around her, offering the comfort she had longed for since her husband had left.
    If she relaxed, she might be able to believe this was a dream. A soothing, comforting dream. Better than the heartbreaking dreams about Mark. She certainly wanted to let this man hold her and ease everything that ached within her. But the faint buzzing at the edge of her senses wouldn’t let her melt into his embrace.
    “ Anaea .” He whispered her name.
    She closed her eyes, savoring the gentle tone. It had been too long since anyone had said her name with affection.
    A chill swept over her. Something wasn’t right. She could feel it niggling the back of her mind. Something about this man and people shooting at her.
    She pushed away from him, making the hammock rock. Cold panic swept through her. She’d been shot. She was in trouble, hurt, and had to wake up.
    “Relax,” he said, reaching to pull her back into his embrace.
    She scrambled out of the hammock.
    “No. I’m hurt. I need help.” She shook her head. “I have to wake up.”
    “But isn’t this better than reality?”
    “Yes...” She stared at him. His face was full of acceptance and understanding. “No... Someone has to tell the police what happened to you.”
    “ Anaea .”
    She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing all thoughts of him from her mind. Just wake up. It’s just a dream. An amazing, wonderful, dream—
    No. Wake up!
    She could feel consciousness just out of reach. Just a little farther.

CHAPTER 6
     
     
    Anaea woke with a start. She lay on the floor on a thick carpet. From her vantage in the shadowy room, she could see a pair of table legs and beige-on-beige striped wallpaper lit by a stream of weak sunlight.
    Taking a slow breath, she waited and listened. She couldn’t hear anyone nearby so she sat up to get a better look. She was between a simple desk with padded chair and a king-size bed. The heavy drapes across the window were closed tight and pale light slipped between the cracks around the edges. To her right was a door with a floor plan and fire escape routes plaque-mounted above a peephole. To her left, a door leading, presumably, to the bathroom.
    Her body ached, but not as much as she’d expected from getting shot.
    Shot!
    She been shot. She reached for her coat and froze. She wore a black trench coat.
    Where the hell had that come from?
    She couldn’t remember putting it on. Ripping open the coat revealed a lab coat and green hospital scrubs. She ran a hand over the front of her top. It was sticky