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  “You ordered me to relax, you didn’t ask.”

  Her prim reprimand brought a reluctant smile to his lips. “Now I am asking.”

  Thrown completely off balance by what sounded like gentleness in his voice, Julie took a sip of her wine, stalling for time, steadying her confused senses, while he stood only two feet away, towering over her, his broad shoulders blocking out her view of anything but him. It hit her suddenly that he’d evidently showered, shaved, and changed clothes while she slept . . . and that, in a pair of charcoal trousers and a black sweater, Zachary Benedict was far more handsome than he’d ever looked on screen. He lifted his hand and braced it against the wall beside her shoulder, and when he spoke again, his deep voice had that same strange, compellingly gentle quality. “On the way here, you asked me if I was innocent of the crime I was sent to prison for, and I gave you a flippant answer the first time and a grudging answer the next. Now I’m going to tell you the truth simply and voluntarily . . .”

  Julie tore her gaze from his and stared into the ruby wine in her glass, suddenly afraid that in her state of weak weariness, she might actually believe the lie she sensed he was about to tell her.

  “Look at me, Julie.”

  With a mixture of dread and helpless anticipation, she lifted her eyes and met his steady amber gaze.

  “I didn’t kill or plot to kill my wife or anyone else. I was sent to prison for a crime I didn’t commit. I’d like you to at least believe there’s a possibility I’m telling you the truth.”

  Noncommittally, she stared into his eyes, but in her mind she suddenly saw the scene at the rickety bridge: Instead of insisting she drive across the bridge with him, he had let her get out of the car and then he had given her blankets to keep warm in case the bridge collapsed, in case he drowned when the car plunged into that deep, icy creek. She remembered the harsh desperation in his voice when he kissed her in the snow, pleading with her to go along with the ploy, so the truck driver wouldn’t be hurt. He’d had a gun in his pocket, but he’d not attempted to use it. And then she remembered his kiss—that urgent, hard kiss that had gentled suddenly and then become soft and insistent and sensual. Since dawn that morning, she’d been forcibly trying to forget the memory of that kiss, but now it came back—vibrant and alive and dangerously exciting. Those recollections combined seductively with the rich timbre of his deep voice as he added, “This is the first normal night I’ve had in over five years. If the authorities are close behind on my trail, it will be my last one. I’d like to enjoy it if you’ll cooperate.”

  Julie was suddenly inclined to cooperate: For one thing, despite her nap, she was mentally exhausted and not up to sparring with him; she was also starving and heartily sick of being afraid. But the memory of that kiss had nothing to do with her capitulation. Nothing whatsoever! she told herself. Nor did it have anything to do with the sudden, impossible conviction she had that he was telling her the truth!

  “I’m innocent of that crime,” he repeated more forcefully, his gaze never leaving hers.

  The words hit her with a jolt, yet still she resisted, trying not to let her foolish emotions overrule her intellect.

  “If you can’t actually believe that,” he said with a harsh sigh, “could you at least pretend you believe it and cooperate with me tonight?”

  Stifling the urge to nod, Julie said cautiously, “What sort of ‘cooperation’ do you have in mind?”

  “Conversation,” he said. “Lighthearted conversation with an intelligent woman is a forgotten pleasure to me. So is decent food, a fireplace, moonlight in the windows, good music, doors instead of bars, and the sight of a pretty woman.” A definite note of cajolery lightened his voice as he added, “I’ll do all the cooking if you’ll agree to a truce.”

  Julie hesitated, stunned by his reference to her as a pretty woman, then she decided he’d meant nothing by it except a little empty flattery. A night without tension and fear was being offered to her and her battered nerves cried out for relief. What harm was there in what he asked. Particularly if he were truly innocent. “You’ll do all the cooking?” she bargained.

  He nodded, a lazy grin sweeping over his rugged face as he realized she was about to agree, and the unexpected glamour of that white smile did treacherous things to her heart rate. “Okay,” she agreed, smiling a little despite her desire to remain at least partially aloof, “but only if you’ll do the cleaning up as well as the cooking.”

  He chuckled at that. “You drive a hard bargain, but I accept. Sit down while I finish dinner.”

  Julie obeyed and sat down on one of the stools at the counter that divided the kitchen from the living room.

  “Tell me about yourself,” he said, taking a baked potato out of the oven.

  She took another swallow of the wine for courage. “What do you want to know?”

  “General things, for a start,” Zack said casually. “You said you aren’t married. Are you divorced?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve never been married.”

  “Engaged?”

  “Greg and I are talking about it.”

  “What is there to discuss?”

  Julie choked on her wine. Stifling an embarrassed laugh, she said, “I don’t actually think that question falls in the category of general information.”

  “Probably not,” he agreed with a grin. “So, what’s holding up the engagement?”

  To her disgust, Julie felt herself blush beneath his amused gaze, but she answered with admirable calm. “We want to be certain we’re completely compatible—that our goals and philosophies match.”

  “Sounds like to me you’re stalling. Do you live with this Greg?”

  “Absolutely not,” Julie said in a censorious voice, and he lifted his brows as if he found her quaintly amusing.

  “Any roommates?”

  “I live alone.”

  “No husband and no roommates,” he said, as he poured more wine in her glass. “So no one is looking for you now, wondering where you are?”

  “I’m sure a lot of people are.”

  “Who, for instance?”

  “My parents, for a start. By now they’re undoubtedly frantic and calling people to see if anyone’s heard from me. The first person they’ll call is my brother, Ted. Carl will be looking for me, too. It’s his car I’m driving, and by now my brothers are organizing a manhunt, believe me.”

  “Is Ted the brother who’s a builder?”

  “No,” Julie stated with amused satisfaction. “He’s the brother who’s a Keaton sheriff.”

  His reaction was gratifyingly sharp. “He’s a sheriff!” As if to wash away the unpleasant information, he took a long swallow of his wine and said with heavy irony, “And I suppose your father is a judge?”

  “No. He’s a minister.”

  “My God!”

  “You got it. That’s his employer. God.”

  “Of all the women in Texas,” he said with a grim shake of his head, “I managed to kidnap the sister of a sheriff and the daughter of a minister. The media will have a field day when they get ahold of who you are.”

  The brief feeling of power Julie felt at seeing him alarmed was even headier than the wine she was drinking. Nodding happily, she promised, “Loyal lawmen everywhere will be hunting you down with dogs and guns, and Godfearing Americans will be praying they find you right away.”

  Turning slightly aside, he poured the last of the bottle of wine into his glass and tossed it down. “Great.”

  The mood of conviviality had been such a relief that Julie soon regretted its loss, and she searched for something to say that might restore it. “What are we having for dinner?” she said finally.

  The question shook him from his reverie, and he turned to the stove. “Something simple,” he said, “I’m not much of a cook.” With his body blocking her view of the preparations, she had little to occupy her, and so Julie idly watched the way his sweater stretched across his wide shoulders. He was amazingly muscular, as if he’d been wo