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gaze of a predator for his intended victim. She glanced over at her father, whose face was open and readable, and found the strength somewhere within herself to lie. A white lie, Susannah told herself as she forced a smile and nodded.
    Killian ate slowly, allowing his senses to take in the cheerful kitchen and happy family setting. The scents of barbecued meat and thick brown gravy and the tart smell of apples baking in the oven were sweeter than any perfume.
    "I don't know what you did," Pansy told Killian, "but whatever it is, Susannah looks so much better! Doesn't she, Sam?"
    Spooning gravy onto a heaping portion of mashed potatoes, Sam glanced up. "Ma, you know how uncomfortable Susannah gets when we talk as if she's not here."
    Chastened, Pansy smiled. "I'm sorry, dear," she said, giving her daughter a fond look and a pat on the arm in apology.
    Susannah wondered glumly how she could possibly look better with Killian around. Without a doubt, the man made her uncomfortable. She decided it was just that her mother wanted to see her looking better. Aching inwardly, Susannah thought how terribly the past three months had worn down her folks. They had both aged noticeably, and it hurt her to realize that her stupid, failed foray into the "big" world outside Kentucky had cost them, too. If only she hadn't been so naive about the world, it might not have happened, and her parents might not have had to suffer this way. Luckily, her school insurance had covered the massive medical bills; Susannah knew her folks would have sold the farm, if necessary, to help her cover expenses.
    "Let's talk about you, Killian," Pansy said brightly, turning the conversation to him.
    Killian saw Susannah's eyes suddenly narrow upon him, filled with curiosity—and some indefinable emotion that set his pulse to racing. He hesitated, not wanting to sound rude. "Ordinarily, Pansy, I don't open up to anyone."
    "Whatever for?"
    Sam groaned. "Honey, the man's got a right to some privacy, don't he?"
    Pansy laughed. "Now, Pa. . ."
    Clearing his throat, Killian moved the mashed potatoes around on his blue-and-white plate. He realized he wasn't going to be able to get around Pansy's good-natured probing. "I work in the area of high security." The explanation came out gruffly—a warning, he hoped, for her to stop asking questions.
    "Surely," Pansy said, with a gentle laugh, "you can tell me if you're married or not. Or about your family?"
    Tension hung in the air. Killian put down his fork, keeping a tight rein on his reaction to what he knew was a well-intentioned question. Sam shot him an apologetic look that spoke volumes, but Killian also saw Susannah's open interest. She'd stopped eating, and was waiting to hear his answer.
    Killian felt heat creeping up his neck and into his cheeks. Pain at the memory of his family sheared through him. He dropped his gaze to the uneaten food on his plate and felt an avalanche of unexpected grief that seemed to suck the life out of him momentarily. Unwillingly he looked up—and met Susannah's compassionate gaze.
    Killian shoved his chair back, and the scraping sound shattered the tension. "Excuse me," he rasped, "I'm done eating."
    Susannah saw pain in Killian's eyes and heard the roughness of emotion in his voice as he moved abruptly to his feet. The chair nearly tipped over backward, but he caught it in time. Without a sound, Killian stalked from the kitchen.
    "Oh, dear," Pansy whispered, her fingers against her lips. "I didn't mean to upset him. . . ."
    Susannah reached out and gripped her mother's hand. She might not be able to talk, but she could at least offer the reassurance of touch.
    Sam cleared his throat. "Ma, he's a closed kind of man. Didn't you see that?"
    Pansy shrugged weakly and patted her daughter's hand. "Oh, I guess I did, Sam, but you know me— I'm such a busybody. Maybe I should go after him and apologize."
    "Just let him be , Ma, and he'll come around," Sam counseled gently.
    "I don't know,"