But even so, the instant the door opened, she knew that something was not as it should be. Something was different. Something was missing.

For a moment-just a moment-she even thought she must be in the wrong room. At least that would have explained the flowers.

But she couldn’t possibly be in the wrong room. This was her room, number 722, the very same one she’d left not half an hour ago to go down to the garage with Connie.

And…well, of course! Now she knew exactly what was missing. It was the Washington Monument. She’d been looking at it before, and it was the last thing she’d seen as she’d pulled the door closed behind her. But now the curtains were drawn, the room in darkness. And she’d left the desk light on…

All that realizing took place in the space of time it took her to utter one small exclamation of surprise and alarm. What she did next required even less time and no thought at all, and she couldn’t for the life of her account for the impulse.

She let go of her purse, reached into the plastic bag that held her Roy Rogers six-shooter and pulled it out. It slid smoothly from its holster, nestled nicely in the palm of her hand. And the next thing she knew, she was holding it the way she’d seen policemen do in the movies, with both hands and at arm’s length, and was aiming the toy pistol at the dark wall of draperies right where the Washington Monument was supposed to be.

And what then? Up until that moment, her mind had been operating on autopilot, or like a computer purring smoothly through its set-up program. Now it waited with a blank screen, cursor patiently blinking, for further instructions. And she had none whatsoever to give it! She thought…nothing. No review of the course of action chosen, no consideration of better alternatives. no what-ifs or should-haves. Stranger still, she felt nothing, not even fear.

Perhaps there just wasn’t time. Because that curious blankness could have lasted no more than the span of a heartbeat or two, and just as she was beginning to get a glimmer of an idea that maybe, just maybe, it was a very stupid thing she’d done, the blankness exploded into violence and total confusion.

Something struck her-from the side, she believed, although for some reason she fell forward, suddenly and hard, so that the wind was knocked out of her. As she lay gasping and retching on the scratchy hotel carpet, she felt a tremendous weight come down between her shoulder blades, as if someone had knelt there, on one knee.

She knew a second or two of absolute terror as hands touched her…fingers searched along the side of her neck… There was a ghastly pressure. Panic-stricken, unable to struggle or even draw a single breath, she wanted to scream, to cry out. But no sound came from her mouth. And then darkness drifted down around her, almost gently, as if someone had thrown a blanket over her head…

And then, just as gently lifted it. She found that she could breathe again, and hear all sorts of confusing noises-thumps and scuffles, muffled shouts and running footsteps. She could see, although her range of vision consisted mostly of the underside of a hotel bed. And for some reason, she felt so weak that the notion of lifting her head, even to improve the view, was utterly beyond her.

She would have been content to stay where she was for a while longer, but it seemed only a moment before she felt the vibrations of footsteps scuffing and jarring the carpet nearby. The bed that loomed alongside her jiggled violently, and then urgent hands were gripping her hips, her waist, her shoulders. She felt those hands pulling her back, turning her over.

She heard a man’s voice, raspy with alarm. “Ma’am-are you all right?”

She muttered automatically, “I think so.”

But as the hands pulled and hoisted her to a sitting position, her head began to pound and the darkness to descend once more. Quite by accident, she found that if she hastened the darkness by closing her eyes and then wrapped herself inside it like a nice, safe cocoon, she could concentrate all her willpower on fighting the nausea. She felt quite clever to have made that discovery, and would have preferred to stay indefinitely in that safe, lovely darkness.

“Here, put your head down,” the voice commanded, coming now from a great distance, somewhere on the other side of the darkness. “Don’t get sick on me now.”

The idea of passing out or throwing up on her shoes in the presence of a total stranger was all the inspiration Jane needed. Cautiously opening her eyes, she found that her view now consisted of the hotel-room carpet and her own feet. From that fact, her sluggish powers of deduction reasoned that she must be sitting on the edge of the bed with her head tucked between her knees. Besides being hideously uncomfortable, she found it a mortifying position to be in, especially since a stranger was sitting beside her and holding her firmly by the shoulders.

At some point, he’d also apparently closed the door, but turned on only the entry light. She didn’t know whether to be sorry there wasn’t more light, or glad.

“Are you all right?” the man asked for the second time, in a gravelly, dispassionate voice that Jane suddenly realized was familiar to her. “Want me to call someone?”

She gasped. “Oh, God, no!” The idea appalled her. “No, I’m okay. Really.” She tried a somewhat gingerly stretch.

Her Good Samaritan instantly let go of her shoulders but stayed where he was, close beside her, his body touching hers, as if he thought she needed bolstering.

And she did-oh, she did! All the willpower she’d employed moments ago to keep her wits and her lunch, she called upon now to keep from throwing herself into those strong masculine arms. To keep herself from thinking about how lovely it would be to have those arms around her while she blubbered and snuffled into the man’s nice broad chest.

Instead, she let her eyes drift shut again, drew a long breath and rotated her head carefully. “Oh, my,” she murmured. “What on earth happened?”

“I was hoping you could tell me,” the now very familiar voice said dryly.

Recognition came like a clap of thunder. Jane’s eyes flew open upon a facial landscape so forbidding and at such close range, she pulled back from it with a soft, reflexive gasp. “Mr. Hawkins-it is you. What on earth are you doing here? I’m Jane-Jane Carlysle-from the auction, remember?”

He seemed to be regarding her with puzzling intensity. “Oh, I remember you,” he said, and something about the way he said it made her heart stumble.

While she pondered that phenomenon, he got up and turned on the lamp on the dresser. On the way back, he stooped to pick something up from the floor. “I guess this must belong to you,” he said, and held it out to her on the palm of one hand.

“Oh, God.” Instead of taking the offering, she put a hand over her mouth to stifle a giggle. Then, to her dismay, she began to shake, but not with laughter.

Tom Hawkins looked at her for a moment, then shifted his grip on the toy pistol he held in his hand, hefted its weight, sighted along the barrel, pulled back the hammer. He squeezed the trigger and listened almost thoughtfully to the crisp metallic click.

“Quite a weapon,” he drawled with more than a hint of sarcasm. “What were you gonna do, throw it?” It was only when he transferred a steely blue gaze back to her that she realized he was angry.

To Jane, seeing anger in the eyes of a stranger was so unexpected-it seemed so very personal, somehow-it was as if she’d been doused with cold water, or slapped smartly across the face. Her head cleared. Her shaking subsided. She sat very straight and still, immersed in a strange calm that was almost like being suspended in weightlessness.

“I don’t know what I meant to do with it,” she said in a hollow voice. “I don’t think…the fact is, I didn’t think. It was stupid, of course. Right now I can think of at least six things I should have done instead. I don’t know what got into me.”

Hawk found it impossible, suddenly, to be so close to her. He went to sit on the other bed, shoulders hunched and hands clasped between his knees, and studied the woman who had just become his biggest problem. Her face was very pale, and there were dark smudges under her eyes. She should have looked older, he thought, with her makeup gone and her hair all mussed and curling with the humidity in a way that could only be natural, but for some reason she didn’t. She looked incredibly young. And frightened. He hadn’t expected that.

“You were damn lucky,” he said harshly. “You know that, don’t you? If I hadn’t come along when I did-”

“I know.” She caught in a breath hungrily, as if she hadn’t had one in a while, then repeated, “I know. I haven’t even thanked you.” She looked sideways at him. Amazing, he thought, how expressive those sea-gray eyes of hers could be-and a reminder to him to keep his own shielded. “I’m very grateful you happened along. How did you-I mean. it’s such a coincidence, isn’t it?”

There was a nuance in her words that didn’t escape Hawk. He laughed, hoping to head off her suspicions with a certain gruff charm. “No kidding. You’re the last person I expected to see here. Hey, I was on my way to the elevators-going down to get a bite to eat, as a matter of fact. And I hear this yelp and a thump, and the next thing I know, this guy comes tearing out of here with this package in his hands-”

“Package-oh my God, my painting!” She shot to her feet. He could have told her it was a bad move. He put out a hand to steady her when she swayed.

“Hey, it’s okay-it’s right there, on the bed.” He put his hands on her shoulders and eased her down, narrowing his eyes when he looked at her, trying hard not to see how pale and vulnerable she was. “I…more or less persuaded the bast-uh, guy-to leave it behind.” His lips tightened and stretched in a smile while his jaw clenched with the unpleasant taste of lies. Necessary lies, he assured himself. “Unfortunately, I couldn’t persuade him to stick around and explain why he was making off with it. Hey,” he added, all innocence, “isn’t that the one you just bought, today at the auction?”