lifted her leg and tucked her back under the sheet. And why hadn't she told him?

He knew the answer to that one. She would never think to complain.

Fighting the urge to kiss her, he went into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face.

He became angry thinking about the interview he'd have to suffer through with the Feds. If the team leader turned out to be

like so many others John Paul remembered, then he'd be an arrogant, opinionated, we-do-it-my-way-or-no-way prick.

By the time he'd dried his face and hands, he was ready for a fight. Fact was, he was looking forward to it. He found himself hoping the guy did turn out to be a prick because he was suddenly in the mood to kick some ass.

Unfortunately, Agent Knolte was neither a prick nor a know-it-all. The freckle-faced agent was intelligent, eager, and sincere,

and seemed to know what hewas talking about as far as strategy went. He'd certainly done his homework on Monk, knew

almost as much about him as John Paul did.

There were only two problems with Agent Knolte. One, he looked like a twelve-year-old. And with a cowlick and braces, no less. What were they doing in the Bureau these days? Recruiting from grade school? The second problem was monumental. Knolte was a by-the-book agent.

"Mr. Renard, it's an honor to meet you," Knolte said, extending his hand as four other eager agents crowded around.

"We all heard about the hostage rescue down in South America, and I want you to know we consider it a privilege to be able

to work with you."

John Paul stared into Knolte's brown eyes. "I was never in South America."

"But I talked to-"

"I was never there."

"Yes, sir. If you say so," Knolte hastily agreed.

Another agent stepped forward. "Sir, we understand the Agency was elated to hear you decided to come back to work after

your long leave of absence."

John Paul didn't look at the man when he responded. "I didn't take a leave of absence. I retired and I'm still retired." Then

without missing a beat, he asked, "How old are you, Agent Knolte?"

The question didn't seem to faze the man. "Older than I look," he answered. "Let me introduce you to my team."

John Paul suddenly found himself surrounded by agents wanting to shake his hand. The attention didn't sit well. Chief Tyler observed the spectacle from the back hallway. When John Paul caught his eye, the middle-aged man shook his head and

muttered something about a damn fan club.

"We'll need to question Miss Delaney," an agent named Brock said.

"Not until she's had some sleep," John Paul said. "You can talk to me."

The interview lasted an hour. There were constant interruptions as Knolte kept getting updates from another agent at the explosion site. He told John Paul that they'd brought in the dogs and were searching for bodies. Thus far, two had been found. From the remains of the vehicle near the site, they knew that one of the women was the former wife of Dennis Parnell, the

owner of the house.

The wait for the discovery of the other bodies was grim and tense. Then Knolte got another call and thrust the phone at

John Paul. "You'll want to hear this."

A minute later John Paul bounded up the stairs. Knolte could have sworn the brooding man actually smiled for a second there.

The door to the dormitory banged against the wall when he rushed inside, but the noise didn't disturb Avery.

He shook her awake. "Sweetheart, open your eyes. Come on, Avery, wake up."

She was slow to respond. She felt drugged and disoriented. She finally opened her eyes and struggled to sit up.

"Is it time to go?"

"Carrie's alive."

She squinted up at him, shaking her head as she tried to comprehend what he was saying. "Alive? How can she be alive?

The house-"

"She got out before the explosion. I don't know how she managed it, but she's okay."

Avery burst into tears. John Paul sat down next to her and pulled her onto his lap. He held her while she cried all over him.

When she was finally able to calm down, she asked, "Did everyone get out? Where's Carrie now? Have they called Uncle

Tony? The poor man will be beside himself. First, they tell him she's dead, and then they tell him she's alive. I hope to God he has a strong heart."

John Paul wasn't sure which question to answer first. "Carrie's in a hospital in Aspen."

She jerked away from him. "Why is she in the hospital? You told me she was okay."

"She is," he insisted. "But the other woman was hurt. The judge tore up one of her knees when they fell into a deep ravine," he explained. "Carrie twisted her ankle, and fractured her arm, but she was still able to drag some dead branches over them so they could hide the rest of the night. One of the police dogs found them," he added. "They were taken to the hospital, and the judge is

in surgery."

"But what about the other woman? There were three… weren't there?"

"Anne Trapp. She stayed inside the house."

"Why? Why would she stay?"

"I don't know. You'll have to ask Carrie, or maybe Knolte knows the reason now."

Avery stood and nearly tripped over her backpack and duffel bag. "How did these get here?"

"The chief called a friend. He got my car working and drove it here."

Avery was so relieved and jubilant about Carrie, she felt limp and giddy. She wanted to laugh and cry, and kiss John Paul.

Oh, she really wanted to kiss him, and a whole lot more. What was wrong with her? Maybe it was the endorphins. Yes, that's what it was.

She mentally shook herself. She needed to concentrate on Carrie now. And Uncle Tony. "Did anyone call my uncle?"

"Yes," he answered. "He's a happy man right now, but scared too. He wants to get on the next flight to Aspen."

She nodded approval. "Who's downstairs?" she asked as she knelt beside her duffel bag and unzipped it.

"FBI," he said. "There are five of them downstairs, all talking on their cell phones. They've taken over the police station, and

Chief Tyler isn't real happy about that. Tyler's an okay guy," he added. "He doesn't much like the FBI either."

She rolled her eyes. "Your prejudice is juvenile, John Paul." She pulled out a pair of khakis. "I should go down and find out

what they have so far. Any word on where Monk might be?"

"No," he answered. He was staring at her legs, noticing how long and shapely they were. One thought led to another, and

another, and before he could stop himself, he was picturing her legs wrapped around his thighs.

He looked at the wall behind her head. "You can't go downstairs like that."

"Like what? I'm going to put on slacks," she said. "And since when do you care what I look like?"

"I don't care," he answered gruffly. "But I can see through that threadbare T-shirt."

She looked down, whispered, "Oh, God," and grabbed the sheet from the cot, tugging with all her might to get the end out from under John Paul. She dropped her slacks as she wrapped the sheet around her.

"Why didn't you say something sooner?" She was blushing.

"Now, why would I want to do that?"

His grin was lecherous. Shaking her head, she said, "I need to go to Carrie as soon as possible. She must be crazed after what she's been through."

His smile vanished. "Not a good idea," he said. "Sit down, Avery. We need to talk."

His tone of voice indicated it was serious. She sat down beside him. "You don't think I should go see Carrie?"

"No, I don't. Talk to her on the phone if you need proof she's okay, but don't go to her."

"Why not?"

"Because that's what the FBI wants you to do," he said. "The agent calling the shots from Aspen told Knolte-"

She interrupted. "Who's Knolte?"

"The kid agent downstairs running the show here," he explained. "He told me the game plan. They want to put you and Carrie