the squeaking of his sneakers. He disabled the alarm with two seconds to spare. He was way too slow.
He shook his head in disgust. He’d brought his walking stick with him, but he’d abandoned it by the French doors. He didn’t want to use it inside the house and take a chance on dropping it or banging it into something.
He hobbled down the hall to the nursery, where he’d hidden the flash drive in plain sight. He’d thought at the time that he’d chosen an excellent hiding place. He had no idea how well it had worked, although he figured if anyone had found it, Boudreau would know.
So unless Sandy had noticed it, the device was probably still exactly where he’d put it. He’d grab it and go, and Sandy would no longer have anything that anyone wanted.
Of course, he’d have to figure out a way to assure the mysterious head of the terrorist group that had tried to smuggle guns, using his dock, that Sandy had no idea that he had been working undercover, nor was there anything in the house that could incriminate him.
But he would work that out later. Right now he just needed to get the drive and get out of the house without Sandy hearing him.
As he started to open the nursery door, he heard a sound from behind him. He stopped dead still and listened.
Nothing. What had he heard, exactly? He reached for the knob and heard the same sound again. It was soft and low-pitched, and his heart wrenched when he realized what it was.
That was Sandy. He was sure of it. She was talking. It was almost two o’clock in the morning. She should be sound asleep. She was a lark, an early riser. She’d never stayed up past midnight or gotten up later than seven or seven-thirty. Although she was pregnant now, and he remembered his mom telling her that she’d be going to the bathroom almost constantly by the time the baby was born.
That was probably it. She’d gotten up to go to the bathroom. On the other hand, maybe she was talking or moaning in her sleep.
He waited, listening. He was in no hurry. Once she settled down he could sneak out without her ever knowing he’d been there.
He stood there on his left foot, flexing the right, trying to stretch and exercise the muscles that were left beneath the ugly scar where Boudreau had stitched up the gaping wound. Point then flex. Point then flex.
After a few moments without a sound, he turned the knob again. He was just about to push the door open and slip into the nursery when he heard a familiar sound that twisted his aching heart even more. The sound of Sandy’s bare feet on the hardwood floor. Then the knob on the master bedroom door turned. Within the couple of seconds while he wondered if he had time to push the door open, slip through and ease it shut, the master bedroom door opened and his wife stepped through it into the hall.
In the dim glow of a night-light from the kitchen, he saw that she had on pajama pants and a little sleeveless pajama top that stretched over an obvious baby bump. She’d hardly been showing at all the last time he’d seen her.
He stared at her smooth, rounded belly barely covered by her pajama top. He wanted to touch it, to kiss it, to feel the movements of the tiny little child growing inside. He had missed her so much, and here she was, close enough that he could reach out and take her into his arms, and he couldn’t.
If she knew he was alive, she would be furious—more than furious—that he’d let her believe he was dead. She wouldn’t understand the danger. She’d spent her entire life in the belief that just because he was with her, she was safe.
That was the one thing about her that had always awed him.
Sandy had always believed in him.
He just prayed that she loved him enough to forgive him for this unforgivable hurt he’d caused her.
She yawned and pushed her fingers through her hair, leaving it sticking out in tangled waves all over her head. He smiled. He knew her, knew her every move, her every little gesture. She was three-quarters asleep, padding on autopilot to the kitchen in her bare feet. Her habit of getting a drink of water without ever completely waking up might save him if he stood perfectly still. Often, people only noticed things that moved.
He concentrated on keeping his bad leg still. If he tensed it too much, the muscles jerked involuntarily. “It’s okay,” she whispered.
Shock flashed through his body like lightning and instantly the muscles in his right leg cramped. He clenched his jaw. Was she talking to him? He couldn’t move. Didn’t dare.
“Ow. Watch it, bean. I know I woke you up. Just need some ice for my water and maybe a couple of crackers. Kinda nauseated,” she murmured, rubbing the side of her belly. “Then we’ll get back in bed.”
She wasn’t talking to him. She was talking to her baby. To their baby. Tristan’s eyes stung. It hurt his heart to know how much he had missed. He’d been gone too much, working on the oil rig for two weeks or more at a time, and he’d missed most of the pregnancy. And now...now she thought he was dead.
He held his breath as she took her first step up the hall. There was no way she could pass by without seeing him. He debated whether he should speak to her or wait and let her notice him on her own. Which would be less traumatic?
Sandy jerked as the baby’s foot knocked the haze of sleep right out of her head. “Oh, why do you have to kick, bean,” Sandy said, rubbing her belly. “One day your foot’s going to kick right through—”
She gasped and stopped cold. What was that? Her heart suddenly vied with the baby’s foot to see which could burst through her skin first. She pressed her fist to her chest.
Dear God help her. There was someone there. In the dark. Right in front of her. Her first instinct was to turn and run, but she couldn’t move. Her arms and legs were numb with fear.
“Who are you? Wh-what do you want?” she asked, trying to force a cold sternness into her voice, but hearing it quaver.
The dark shadow didn’t move. She took a step backward as the nausea that had woken her hit her again. She felt hot and cold and terrified.
“Get out,” she said hoarsely, then filled her lungs and shrieked, “Get out! Get out now!” She ran out of breath too fast. Her heart was drumming against her chest wall now. Boom-boom run! Boom-boom run! Boom-boom!
“Sandy,” a voice that could not possibly be speaking said.
She recoiled, her back slamming against the wall. Her throat closed up. Her lungs burned with the need for oxygen. Another scream built behind her throat, but when she opened her mouth all that escaped was a quiet squeak.
She pressed her hands flat against the wall behind her, as if she could make it move, and dug her heels into the hardwood floor, trying to get away from the thing that was hovering in front of her. “Oh, please,” she whispered desperately. “Come on, Sandy, wake up. Stupid dream.”
“San, you’re not asleep,” the voice said gently. “Don’t be afraid.”
She tried one more time to get air past her strictured throat into her lungs, but she couldn’t. Her fingers curled at her constricted throat, then stars danced before her eyes and the next thing she knew, she was crumpled on the floor and the wet, haggard ghost from her nightmare was crouching above her, dripping water on her and calling her name.
“I’m
