On his way back to the cabin, Brent mentally rehearsed what he was going to say to Claire. He wanted her to understand that his aversion to commitment was a self-defense mechanism. Sylvia’s betrayal had cut so deep, he’d relegated his heart to the deep freeze to protect it. Only Claire—with her warm and caring personality—had succeeded in melting away his defenses. Now he was ready to commit unconditionally to their relationship.

His cell phone rang, and he answered it immediately, hoping Claire was on the line.

“Erik Norman here. Sorry it took so long for me to get back to you. I double-checked, and Forrester hasn’t been to evidence storage since February eleventh.”

That was months before Sharratt had contacted Pete, months before Forrester had known his sweet deal was threatened. Why would the guy have risked stealing Totten’s gun back then? It didn’t make sense.

“Any chance he could’ve slipped in unnoticed?” Brent asked.

“It’s a secure area. The only way for an agent to gain admittance is to swipe his card, which automatically produces a computer record of his visit.”

“Could the records have been tampered with?”

“The Bureau has spent a fortune on security software to prevent that from happening,” Norman said.

But if Forrester hadn’t been to evidence storage since February, how had he acquired that weapon? Maybe he really did have a partner—one who had known about Totten’s gun.

“Who else was involved in taking down Hank Totten?” he asked.

The sound of rapid keyboarding was followed by, “Feltz and McKenna.”

McKenna.

The agent who had survived the conflagration at Forrester’s house with only a bump on the head. The same agent who had shown up unexpectedly at the factory, claimed to see Forrester threaten Brent and shot the man dead.

“See if there’s a record of Alec McKenna visiting evidence storage in the past six weeks.”

As he waited for Norman to run the query, Brent became even more convinced that McKenna had been Forrester’s partner in crime. Which one of them was responsible for killing Sanderson and shooting through Claire’s window? Had McKenna passed Totten’s gun on to Forrester or had he used it himself?

“Bingo,” Norman said. “McKenna was here on May thirtieth.”

The day before Sanderson was shot. Too much of a coincidence.

He thanked Norman, disconnected, then called Gene and explained what he’d discovered.

“I’ll bring McKenna in for questioning,” Gene said grimly.

“Can you ask Lisa about a note she passed to McKenna? He bailed on the meeting soon afterward.”

“I’ll check into it,” Gene promised.

Brent had driven another ten miles when Gene called back.

“Lisa says she gave McKenna a phone message for me. She remembers Claire had recommended a woman named Maria Gomez contact me. Why does that name sound familiar?”

“Maria Gomez was one of Forrester’s nurses at Ridsdale.”

“I wonder what she wants.”

“As soon as I reach the cabin, I’ll ask Claire.”

“I had Lisa ring McKenna’s place. He’s not picking up.”

The uneasiness in Brent’s gut escalated. McKenna had claimed he was going home when he left the meeting—so where the hell was he?

“Keep trying,” he said. “And call me when you get in touch with him.”

He increased the Mustang’s speed, a sense of urgency growing inside him. McKenna knew from Lisa’s note that Claire had talked to Forrester’s nurse. Could he have left the meeting early to try to find Claire? He wouldn’t find her. The only people who knew he and Claire were staying at the cabin were Gene and Lisa. Could McKenna have tricked Lisa into revealing the cabin’s location?

He swore as he hit the cabin’s speed dial number on his cell. One ring. Two rings. Three. Four.

No answer.

He tried not to panic, but his palms were slick on the steering wheel and his heart hammered against his ribs. Maybe she’d gone for a swim. Maybe she was sitting outside or had the radio cranked up. Whatever she was doing, she’d likely return to the cabin soon because the weather was turning nasty.

Dark clouds had rolled in, blocking out the sun. Whenever it rained, the dirt road near the cabin became treacherous so he pressed the accelerator to the floor, determined to beat the storm.

The last section of the trip seemed to take an eternity. Finally, he turned off the winding lake road into his laneway. As he caught sight of the cabin, the tension in his shoulders eased. Shutting off the engine, he scooped up the red roses he’d bought for Claire and Gene’s envelope of e-mails and headed for the cabin.

The front door stood ajar. He wanted to believe she was just airing out the place, but his instincts warned him otherwise. He vaulted onto the porch, then headed inside, calling her name as he went. The living area, kitchen, both bedrooms and bathroom were all empty. Was she down at the lake?

After leaving the cabin, he set off down the hill, telling himself to calm down. She was fine. He was just on edge because of McKenna. A minute later, the shoreline came into view. Both Adirondack chairs on the dock were empty. However, the open door of the boathouse suggested she’d been there. When he checked inside, he saw the canoe was missing.

He turned toward the lake and glimpsed something on the water’s surface.

A canoe, holding a lone figure. Although the paddler’s back was to the shore, he could tell it wasn’t Claire.

Oh, God. What had happened to her? His mind reeled at the possibilities.

A cross-current wave rocked the canoe sideways, and he caught sight of an arm trailing over the side. Someone lay face down in the boat, and he suddenly realized where Claire was.

He also got his first look at the paddler’s face.

It was Alec McKenna.

BRENT DUCKED inside the boathouse, a murderous rage swelling inside him. He shook it off. Only clear thinking would help him catch McKenna.

Beside him, a shelving unit was piled high with fishing tackle and assorted swim gear. He grabbed a mask and snorkel, then kicked off his shoes and jammed his feet into a pair of fins. On an impulse, he pocketed a sizable fishhook. Wading into the shallow water, he quickly cleared the open end of the boathouse and struck out in a fast crawl.

His stomach churned, and his heartbeat pounded in his ears. He had to reach Claire, had to find out why she lay so still. She couldn’t be dead. That belief alone allowed him to stay sane. The canoe hadn’t made much headway while he’d been in the boathouse, and he soon discovered why. The lake was choppy because of the approaching storm.

Stroke, breathe.

He tried not to think as he swam, but his mind wouldn’t shut off. The thought of losing Claire was unbearable—like fire consuming his flesh, the pain so intense he couldn’t endure it. He’d discovered so much in the short time they’d had together. He’d learned to laugh and love, and he did love her—he knew that without a doubt now. Just as he knew a future without her would be barren and joyless.

Stroke, breathe. Stroke, breathe.

After several minutes, he checked on his progress.

The gap between him and the canoe had closed to fifty feet. McKenna seemed oblivious to being followed, but he could look behind him at any moment.

Not wanting to lose the element of surprise, Brent shoved the snorkel into his mouth and submerged his body below the lake’s surface. Then legs and arms pumping like pistons, he propelled himself forward.

When he raised his head, he saw massive rock outcroppings jutting out into the water. The canoe soon disappeared around one of the rocky bends.

He kicked his legs harder, ignoring his aching muscles. He didn’t use the snorkel again since the threat of being spotted had ended, and he could make better speed swimming on the surface of the water.

A few minutes passed before he came to the bend. His legs—and brain—stalled at the sight of a sleek, expensive-looking speedboat tethered to a dock less than twenty feet ahead.

What was McKenna up to?

Paddling up to the dock, McKenna carefully stepped onto the wooden platform. Then he tipped the canoe and dumped Claire’s limp body into the lake.

Dragging air into his lungs, Brent dove deep, arms and legs straining toward the lake bottom.

A blur of red appeared below him.

Claire had been wearing red today.

The vibrant color had contrasted boldly with her blond hair, and the fabric of the T-shirt had molded softly to her curves. He wished he’d told her how great she looked in that red T-shirt. Dammit, he wanted another chance to tell her. He thrust his hands in front of him but couldn’t reach her. Panic bubbled up inside him. She was falling too fast. He couldn’t catch her in time. She was going to drown.

No! He could still save her. They could still have the future he wanted for them.

He kicked his legs harder and extended his arms until they felt as if they were pulling free from their socket joints. Come on. Just a few more inches…

His fingertips brushed her shirt. A second later, he was able to latch on it and stop her descent. He felt her hands weakly gripping his forearms. His heart rejoiced that she had regained consciousness, but the relief was fleeting. She had to be perilously close to drowning and so was he. The surface of the water was far above them, and his muscles were flagging from exhaustion.

Lungs bursting from lack of oxygen, he gripped her and with the last of his strength kicked toward the surface. The long shadow of the dock appeared above them.

Three more kicks. Two. One.

Their heads cleared the water in the same instant the speedboat’s twin engines roared to life. The noise drowned out Claire’s choking and coughing as well as his noisy gasps for air. He hooked a leg around one of the dock’s support posts and wrapped his arms around Claire. Although he wanted to savor the moment, he wasn’t about to let McKenna get away.

When he eased back to look at her, Claire’s lips were moving.

The engines stalled, allowing him to hear what she was trying to tell him.

“McKenna…wants to kill…Maria Gomez,” she said.

“I’m going after him.”

She bit her lip. “He has a knife.”

The engines started up again with an eardrum-piercing clamor. He swam around to the dock’s ladder, discarded his fins and quickly climbed it. The craft was drifting toward open water, drawn by the current. As soon as McKenna shifted the boat into gear, there’d be no hope of catching him.

The speedboat surged forward, and Brent launched himself off the dock. By some miracle, he cleared the engines and came crashing down in the aft section of the boat.

McKenna, kneeling on the driver’s seat, jerked his head around at the commotion. His surprised expression changed to one of fury. He yanked the steering wheel hard to the right. Brent tumbled sideways, his right shoulder slamming into the storage compartments. A dark cloud of agony blurred his vision. He must have dislocated his shoulder. He felt light-headed, but if he passed out, McKenna would make sure he never woke up.

Gritting his teeth, Brent lurched upright. The boat swerved violently again. The sudden movement sent a fresh wave of pain surging through his injured shoulder. Even so, he kept his footing by grabbing hold of the railing with his left hand.

Ahead of him, McKenna was groping for something on the floor near the passenger seat. Brent let go of the railing and retrieved the fishhook from his pocket. McKenna gave a triumphant cry and began to straighten.

Squeezing between the rear seats, Brent slipped his good arm around McKenna’s neck and pressed the point of the fishhook against the other man’s jugular vein. “Drop the knife.”

McKenna erupted with a stream of profanity.

His shoulder ached so much he didn’t know how long he could stay conscious—especially with the boat jarring him mercilessly as it plowed through the waves.

He nicked McKenna’s skin next to the vein hard enough to draw blood. “Lose the knife now or I’ll kill you.”

The knife clattered to the floor of the speedboat.

The pain in his shoulder pulsed like a strobe light. He had the upper hand, but the situation could reverse in a heartbeat. He gritted his teeth, willing himself to stay conscious. “Take us back to the dock.”

He kept the fishhook poised at McKenna’s neck as the other man took hold of the wheel, made an 180-degree turn and sped back the way they’d come. Neither he nor McKenna spoke during the trip. He had no inclination to ask questions, partly because he felt so lousy and partly because he wouldn’t trust any answers that McKenna gave him, anyway. But he wondered what thoughts preoccupied the other agent. Did McKenna feel guilt or remorse over anything he’d done? Or did he just regret getting caught?

McKenna would be charged and tried for the crimes he’d committed. But no matter what prison term the agent served, it wouldn’t bring back Pete.

The speedboat pulled alongside the dock where Claire stood with her arms clasped around her shivering body.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Brent called out.

She smiled at him. “No problem. I knew you were busy.”

As she climbed aboard, the speedboat bumped against the dock.

He bit back a curse. His shoulder felt as if it was on fire, and he was afraid he might black out at any moment. “Grab a mooring line…and tie him up.”

She eyed McKenna warily but moved quickly to bind their captive’s wrists and ankles.

Brent shoved the other man into the aft section. When he turned back to Claire, he saw her eyes glistening with moisture.

She’d held up amazingly well considering everything she’d been through. But now a combination of shock and relief had her body trembling and tears sliding down her cheeks. He lifted his good arm around her shoulders and hugged her to his side, trying to impart both comfort and warmth. His own body burned from the pain of his injury. Unable to stop himself, he slumped into the driver’s seat, pulling her down beside him.

“What’s wrong?” Claire asked, her eyes wide with worry.

He tried to reassure her with a smile, but all he could manage was a grimace. “My right shoulder is dislocated.”

He closed his eyes, sucked in a shallow breath.

Claire touched his cheek. “Is there anything I can do?”

He forced his eyes open. “Think you can pop my shoulder back in for me?”

She blanched.

“I guess not.” As an afterthought, he added, “Pete was squeamish, too, until he got the hang of it.”

“I’m sorry he’s not here for you,” she said in a low voice.

They exchanged a look of silent understanding.

“Can you drive the boat?” Brent asked.

“If you give me some pointers.”

“I can do that.”

They should have switched seats, but Claire wouldn’t let him move. Instead she reached across him to the steering wheel, insisting she had to be on her feet to see over the bow properly.

He was in no shape to argue. All his energy was focused on coping with the pain.

“Where to?” Claire prompted.

He checked the compass on the console, then looked out at the lake, trying to get his bearings.

He pointed eastward. “The closest marina is five miles that way.”

She reached over his shoulder and turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened. She frowned and tried again.

“You need to set the choke,” he told her.

She followed his instructions to start the engine, then looked at him.

“The throttle’s over here,” he said.

“Oh, yeah.”

It was obvious she’d never operated a motorboat before, but with some coaching, she maneuvered the craft away from the dock and set off.

“Watch out for the marina’s blue flags,” he said, closing his eyes because keeping them open made him dizzy.

He couldn’t have done this alone. If Claire hadn’t been here to tie up McKenna and drive the boat, this day would be ending very differently. He and Claire made a great team. If only he could convince her to stay with him.

He came to when Claire’s soft voice announced Weir’s marina was ahead. He ground his teeth against the pain and opened his eyes to see the floating docks that formed the marina’s boundary less than two hundred feet ahead.

Claire cut back on the throttle, steered between the orange buoys that marked the entrance and sought out an empty mooring spot.

“Nice driving,” he murmured.

She sank down onto the passenger seat. “How are you feeling now?”

“Like someone’s holding a blowtorch to my shoulder.”

“I’ll get help,” she said, rising quickly.

“Good idea, sweetheart. But first—” he gave her a lopsided grin “—kiss me.”

She tenderly touched her lips to his.

He needed this woman in his life. Each and every day. Forever.

And as soon as he was sure he wouldn’t pass out in midsentence, he would tell her so.