CARRIE'S PROTECTOR by REBECCA YORK

fragile emotional state,” he added.
    She swallowed. He could be speaking the truth as he knew it, but she didn’t want to hear his assessment of the heat that had flared between them.
    He sat up and ran a hand through his dark hair. Then he moved to the side of the bed and got up, putting several feet of space between them as he stood there breathing hard.
    She was also struggling to control her breathing, and listening to the wild pounding of her heart.
    She wondered what would happen if she got off the bed and reached for him. Would he come back and take up where they’d left off?
    It was tempting to try it, but she didn’t want a second rejection.
    Instead, she got up and pulled the covers aside so that she could climb in.
    “Are you going to be okay?” he asked.
    She might have told him she wanted to be held. Instead, she said, “Yes,” and fixed the pillow more comfortably under her neck as she closed her eyes.
    She could feel him watching her for a few more moments. She thought he’d get back into bed. Instead, as she watched through slitted lids, he walked to the table where he’d left his computer and sat down, leaning toward the screen as he accessed material she couldn’t see.
    She kept covertly watching him, sure she wouldn’t get back to sleep. But finally she surrendered to fatigue. The next time she opened her eyes, she smelled coffee.
    Blinking, she looked at Wyatt, then at the clock. It was after nine.
    “Why didn’t you wake me up?”
    “You needed the sleep. They have breakfast here. I got us both something. Better than last night’s stale sandwiches.” He kept his voice matter-of-fact, as though nothing personal had happened between them in the night.
    If he could do it, so could she. “Thanks.”
    He set down a cardboard tray with coffee, juice, cinnamon buns and hard-boiled eggs. She joined him at the table, and they both drank coffee and ate.
    “What were you working on when I fell asleep?” she asked as she glanced toward his computer.
    “A couple of things. I got the address of Madison’s wife, but I’m afraid that if we go over there, we’re going to run into a bunch of people.”
    “If we get some dressier clothing, we can go in as friends of her husband, then ask to speak to her privately.”
    “That might work. But it could be dangerous.”
    Setting down her coffee cup, she picked up the remote control and turned to CNN. She and Wyatt were still of interest, starting with a rehash of the attack at the Federal Building and progressing to speculation about whether they had been at Aaron Madison’s house.
    “His poor wife,” Carrie murmured. “Even if they were having problems, his death has to be a shock.”
    * * *
    D OUGLAS M ITCHELL MOVED restlessly on the narrow bed. His captors had let him get up to go to the bathroom. Then they had secured his hand to the bed again. And they’d given him a bottle of water and a sandwich. Something from a deli, he judged.
    He sat in the dark, eating the food slowly and drinking the water.
    He wasn’t sure how long the men had been holding him. He shook his head. Sometimes it felt as if he’d been here for hours, sometimes days, and the sense of time distortion was maddening.
    One thing he did know: Carrie must still be on the loose. These men hadn’t captured or killed her because he was still alive.
    He clenched his teeth together, hating that he was at the mercy of these men.
    He’d seen three of them when they’d let him out for his bathroom break. They were all young. In their late twenties and early thirties, he judged.
    And they all looked like American men from the Midwest. Not what he’d consider typical terrorists.
    Well, maybe they were, if you thought about Timothy McVeigh. But McVeigh had been a fanatic. These guys had talked about getting money for what they were doing. Did that mean they didn’t care about their terrorist plot?
    He took another swallow of the water. Should he drink it all or save some for