reston Seaholm, Hayden Young, and Liam Halliday had each attended Simon's party dressed in a ninja costume. All three also owned a beeper. Hayden had one because along with his lifeguard job, he moonlighted as a paramedic and volunteer fireman. Liam was the sheriff, and as everybody knew, there were times—like when Duke Torrelson had too much tequila and jumped on top of the jukebox in the Rustler's Hideout and challenged everyone in the place to a leg-wrestling match—when the mere deputies simply couldn't cut it. And Preston had a beeper because, according to Frankie, he was pretentious.

Leila stared at the list of six names she'd given Frankie to check out. From those six names, she had narrowed her suspects down to three. Three men, three beepers, three ninjas.

Except, Marsh and Simon—and Frankie, too—had spotted a fourth ninja at the New Year's Eve party.

And that was probably the mysterious Robert Earle.

Frankie had checked into Alan Lanigan and Bruce Kimble, both longtime residents of Sunrise Key, the other two names on the list. She had found that Alan hadn't even attended the party and that Bruce had come dressed as Godzilla.

But Robert Earle had been a visitor to the key. He'd been staying at Seaholm's resort and had checked out early in the afternoon of January first. Frankie hadn't managed to persuade the hotel clerk to give her Earle's home address, so she hadn't been able to track the man any further. As a result, Leila didn't know a thing about him, whether he owned a beeper, whether he wore a ninja costume to the party. Or whether he was her mystery man.

Leila had asked Simon about Robert Earle, but he wasn't any help. Apparently, he'd met Earle on the golf course, the two men had hit it off, and Simon had invited him to the party. He thought Earle lived up in Georgia. Atlanta, maybe.

Frankie had promised to get Earle's home address from the resort one way or another. Leila didn't dare ask how.

But for now she had three names, three suspects, three places to start.

Frankie had told her that Pres Seaholm, the first suspected ninja, could usually be found down at his various construction sites, or at the marina where he docked his yacht. Occasionally he could be found at his office, which was on Ocean Avenue, in the same building as Marsh's office.

It was still funny to think that Marsh was a doctor, even though he'd been practicing for years. Leila had never gone to see him as a patient. It was hard to imagine him giving her any kind of examination, even something as simple as looking at a sore throat. Of course, she'd been lucky. She'd never gotten sick or been hurt while here on vacation.

She could just picture him, calm and aloof and in control while she nearly wept aloud from intense pain.

Or maybe not. Over the past few days, she'd seen a new side of Marsh. He wasn't as calm and self-confident as she'd always thought. He doubted his ability to make a marriage work. He was afraid of being hurt the way his mother had been. He was vulnerable, and capable of feeling pain. He was neither icy hearted nor emotionless…

What was she doing? She was supposed to be figuring out which of her suspects to approach first, not thinking about Marsh Devlin.

Hayden Young. She should be thinking about Hayden Young instead. The new lifeguard lived not far from the town beach, where he spent most of the hours from sunrise to sunset. She should be thinking about the best way to introduce herself to Hayden Young, instead of daydreaming about Marsh Devlin.

Except it was hard not to think about Marsh. Have you ever wondered what it would be like, Leila … you know, you and me? Had he known she was lying when she told him no? What if she had said yes? Yes, she had wondered, and lately it seemed as if she was wondering all the time. Would he have kissed her if she'd admitted the truth? And what about at the Sullivan's? If Ben hadn't come out of the barn, would he have kissed her then?

This was really stupid. She had to stop thinking about Marsh. Leila frowned down at her list of names.

Liam Halliday.

Liam was the town sheriff. He was a little bit harder to pinpoint than the other two men, except on his rare nights off. Then, according to Frankie, you could find him, without fail, at the Rustler's Hideout, drinking beer, shooting pool, and dancing the two-step to the country songs on the jukebox.

And tonight was one of Liam's nights off. There was no telling when he'd have another night free. So it was Liam she'd go to see first. It was Liam she'd try to kiss.

Too bad it couldn't have been Marsh.

Leila was sitting drowsily in the sun out on the deck when a voice made her open her eyes.

"I heard rumors you were back in town."

It was Preston Seaholm, one of her ninja suspects, and he was leaning against the deck railing, smoking a cigarette. He was wearing a cranberry-colored polo shirt and a pair of expensive-looking black shorts. His reddish-blond hair was growing long in the back, and he had a heavy five-o'clock shadow, as if he hadn't shaved in days. It made him look faintly dangerous.

"I heard rumors you were back in town, too. It's been a long time. How are you?"

He smiled very slightly and took the last drag on his cigarette, stubbing it out in an ashtray that sat on the railing. "Unmarried." He exhaled the smoke. There might have been a flash of pain in his hazel eyes, but if there was, it was gone as quickly as it had appeared. "No doubt you heard those rumors, too."

"I've heard a few," Leila admitted. Was Pres Seaholm her ninja? She looked into his eyes, searching for some kind of sign, some kind of recognition.

"Is Simon around?" Pres asked. "I'm in the market for some Stickley furniture, and rumor has it—there go those rumors again—he's got a lead on an entire houseful."

"He's in his office. I'll walk you back there." She sat up and started to pull herself to her feet. This was the perfect opportunity. But for what? How on earth was she going to get him to kiss her?

"I know the way," he said. "Don't get up."

"That's okay." She slipped her sundress over her bathing suit. "Actually, I want to ask you—"

Standing there, face-to-face—or nose to nose, as it were—Leila knew she didn't have to kiss Pres Seaholm to convince herself that he wasn't her ninja. Because her ninja wasn't a smoker. Her ninja hadn't smelled—or tasted—of cigarettes. Pres did. Everything about him reeked of tobacco smoke.

"I wanted to ask you," Leila said, filled with relief that she didn't have to make a fool of herself, "about that building that you're putting up over by the airport." She led him into the house. "Nobody I've talked to seems to know. Is it going to be a restaurant or some kind of store…?"

Midafternoon, Frankie called.

"Robert Earle." She skipped the hellos.

"Did you find out something?" Leila asked.

"He's a skeeve. I, um, located his home address and gave him a call. Mrs. Earle answered the phone."

"Uh-oh."

"Uh-oh's right," Frankie agreed. "And Mrs. Earle didn't have a clue that her husband had spent a week on Sunrise Key. She was under the impression that he'd been attending some kind of corporate convention in Orlando. I didn't try to correct her poor deluded view of reality. I told her I must be mistaken and left it at that. You want me to pursue it, try to get his work number?"

Leila lay back on her bed. "No." She stared up at the ceiling. "Let me check out Liam Halliday and Hayden Young first."

"Have we already disqualified Pres Seaholm?" Frankie asked.

"He smokes like a chimney. You can't get within six feet of him without smelling tar and nicotine. The man's a walking ashtray. He's not my ninja."

"So, one down," Frankie said. "That's good news, provided that your ninja's not being a billionaire is good news."

Leila laughed. "Right."

"I'll see you tonight," Frankie said. "For Operation Halliday."

"I'm going out with Frankie tonight," Leila announced as dinner was drawing to a close. "We're going over to the Rustler's Hideout."

Both Marsh and Simon eyed her speculatively. In both pairs of eyes she could read only one thing: Liam Halliday. She never should have told them that Frankie had narrowed down the list of possible ninjas to Liam, Pres, and Hayden.

"Gonna do some line dancing, huh?" Simon said, a knowing glint in his eyes. "Put on your cowboy boots and do some boot scootin'?" He looked at Marsh and grinned. "You know who I hear is a really good dancer? Liam Halliday. Can you believe it? For such a tall guy, he can really shake a leg."

"Knock it off, Si," Leila said tightly.

"We can't let Leila go alone," Simon told Marsh.

"I suppose you're right," Marsh mused. "The Rustler's Hideout is no place for a lady to go by herself."

"I'm not going alone. I'm going with Frankie. You two are not invited."

"Frankie's barely five feet tall," Simon remarked.

"She won't be extremely useful if Duke has one of his flashbacks and starts swinging his pool cue around like a wild man," Marsh admitted.

"I hear Duke's meeting his biker buddies at the Hideout tonight," Simon said. "They're a pretty scary gang."

"Everyone knows that Duke's a pussycat," Leila protested. "His so-called biker friends ride Schwinns. Frankie and I will be fine—"

"Still, maybe we should go, too," Simon said. "I'm not doing anything tonight. You're not busy either, are you, Dev?"

"No." Leila stood up, carrying her plate into the kitchen. "Absolutely not."

They wanted to tag along. They wanted to watch her approach Liam Halliday, to see if he was her ninja. They wanted to witness her making an ass of herself.

"My schedule's clear, too," Marsh said cheerfully, as both he and Simon followed her into the kitchen.

"Nope," Leila insisted. "You're not coming. No way."

Simon smiled. "I'll drive."

"I think you should ask him to dance," Frankie told Leila.

"No," Simon said. "Fall to the floor and act like you need mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. That'll do it. Liam'll be over here in a flash."

"Marsh is here," Frankie drawled scornfully. "You don't really think the sheriff's going to resuscitate Leila when the town doctor is standing two feet away from her, do you?"

"Good point," Marsh said.

"Maybe if Marsh went into the men's room first…" Simon started.

"No resuscitation," Leila said firmly. "No, thank you."

"Then just walk up to him and plant one on him," Simon suggested. "It'll blow his mind, but it'll get the job done."

"I still think you should ask him to dance," Frankie said. "Then you can just let nature take its course. Two minutes into the dance, he'll be the one trying to figure out how to get you to kiss him."

The Rustler's Hideout was fairly busy for a week-night. Although the bandstand was empty, the jukebox was playing, and seven or eight couples moved around the little dance floor.

The air was smoky and the lights were dim, and other than a promotional picture of Clint Black that had recently been tacked up on the rough-hewn walls, Leila didn't think the bar had changed one bit since she was last there, four years before. It was not that the tiny roadhouse wasn't clean, because it was. The place had an obviously well-cared-for appearance. Yet it held a sense of timelessness. When she opened the door and walked inside, it could've been 1985. Or 1975. Or even 1955. Only the songs playing on the jukebox were different.

Leila leaned on the rail that separated the dance floor from the rest of the bar. Frankie was next to her, and Marsh and Simon were nearby. She could see Liam Halliday, across the room, sitting alone at the long, worn, wooden bar.

Even from the back, the sheriff of Sunrise Key was good-looking. His hair was thick and dark and it curled over the collar of his blue chambray shirt. He was resting his elbows against the bar, and that pulled the fabric of his shirt tightly across his broad shoulders and muscular back. The shirt was tucked neatly into a snug-fitting pair of jeans so faded they were almost white. He wore cowboy boots. Leila could see the chains of his boot bracelets gleaming in the darkness.

"How well do you know him?" Leila asked Frankie. "Could you introduce us?"

"Well, yeah. But that might not be such a good idea. He's not my biggest fan these days. He's a little annoyed that I've got my PI license. He thinks all I really want to do is dress up like Humphrey Bogart in The Maltese Falcon and play pretend."

Leila glanced at Simon who at least had the good grace to look uncomfortable. He'd said nearly the exact same thing about Frankie's PI license.

"That's why he gave me that job digging through the dumpster," Frankie continued. "He thought I'd turn it down. Well, I didn't, and now he's madder than ever."

Simon cleared his throat. "I don't know Halliday that well, but I can introduce you to him, if you really want, Lei."

Leila made a face. "No, that would be too weird. What would you say? 'Hi, meet my sister, she wants to kiss you?'"

"That wasn't what I had in mind."

"The bar stool next to the sheriff's is empty," Frankie said. "Go sit down next to him, order a beer, and see what happens. You've got to do something."

"You might consider telling him the truth." Marsh spoke up for the first time in a long while.

Tell Liam the truth?

Leila looked at Marsh. He was leaning against a support pole, his hands jammed into the front pockets of his jeans… Jeans? Yes, he was actually wearing jeans. They weren't as faded as the pair Liam Halliday was wearing, but they looked as if they'd feel soft to the touch. His shirt was one of his regular old white cotton button-downs. As usual, the top few buttons were undone, and he'd rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. It, too, was worn—the collar was starting to fray.

The sight of that fraying collar gave Leila a shock. Funny, but she'd always thought of Marsh as an extremely well-to-do type who'd refuse to wear anything but a crisp, new, professionally laundered shirt. But he'd carried himself with that air of quiet wealth for so long, it was possible that his shirts had been frayed for years, and Leila simply hadn't noticed.

His brown eyes were bemused as he watched her study him so seriously, so intently.

"The truth," she echoed. "You mean, tell him…"

"Everything," Marsh finished. "The whole story. The Cinderella costume, the clock striking midnight, the vanishing ninja…"

"The kiss," Leila said.

"Yes." Their gazes locked, and for one brief moment the music, the dancers, Simon and Frankie, the entire bar seemed to disappear. For one brief moment, Marsh and his warm brown eyes were all that existed, and Leila had the odd sensation of flying, of weightlessness, of stomach-flipping freefall.

"No way." Simon jostled her, bringing her back to reality. The music blared, suddenly seeming way too loud, and Leila lost her balance. "You can't tell him the truth. It sounds like you're nuts. He'll think you're making it all up and he'll back away."

Simon didn't seem to notice when Leila swayed, but Marsh was there, steadying her by holding her elbow. His fingers were warm and solid against the bare skin of her arm.

"You all right?" he murmured, and she nodded. But he didn't let go of her, and she was oddly glad.

"It is a pretty strange story." Frankie agreed with Simon for once. "On the other hand, you don't want to put yourself into a situation where you're leading Liam on. Because if you're wrong, and he wasn't the one you're looking for, it'll be really difficult to discourage him. He can be pretty damn persistent when it comes to women."

"I know," Simon said enthusiastically. "Go over to Halliday and tell him you just made a twenty-dollar bet with your friends that you could get him to kiss you. Tell him if he does it, you'll give him half."

"That's stupid," Frankie said scornfully.

"Actually, it's the best idea you've come up with so for." Leila pulled her eyes away from Marsh's quiet gaze.

"Then do it," Simon urged. "Come on. This music is starting to affect my central nervous system."

"It figures you don't like country music," Frankie sniffed.

"It figures you do," Simon said. He turned back to Leila and gave her a little push toward the bar. "Come on, Lei. Let's get this show on the road."

Marsh watched Leila slowly pick her way through the tables and chairs that dotted the floor. She was wearing a pair of khaki shorts that made her legs look long and graceful. She'd only been on the key for a few days, but already she had a decent tan. It was emphasized by the white tank top that hugged her upper body, outlining her slender curves. Leila wasn't a large-breasted woman. In fact she often found it unnecessary to wear a bra, a fact that Marsh was all too well aware of. But she wore one tonight, and one of the pale pink straps had slipped out onto her shoulder from beneath her shirt.

The woman looked positively delicious. With her cloud of golden curls, her beautiful eyes, her five-million-watt smile, and her friendly, funny disposition, Leila was going to enter Liam Halliday's field of vision and he was going to…

Marsh hurried across the room, after her.

"Leila, wait!"

He grabbed her arm, and her skin was soft and so smooth beneath his fingers. Startled, she spun to face him.

"Marsh, you scared me," she whispered.

"Sorry." He cleared his throat and wet his dry lips. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to frighten you."

He was still holding her arm, and she didn't pull away, so he slid his fingers down to her hand and clasped her fingers within his.

"Look, Leila." He cleared his throat again.

She stood there, watching him silently, waiting for him to tell her … what? What was he going to tell her? That she didn't need to approach Liam Halliday because he, Marsh, was really the man she was looking for?

He almost said it. He cleared his throat yet one more time, but the words simply wouldn't come. He couldn't tell her. Not here. Not like this. "You don't have to do this."

Leila smiled. "I know that."

"You don't even know Liam Halliday," Marsh said quietly. "He's not perfect, in fact he's far from perfect. In quite a few ways, he'd be worse for you than your Elliot. He drinks way too much, for one thing. And he's known on the key to be something of a heartbreaker."

She smiled again, squeezing his hand very gently. "I can handle him."

Marsh smiled in return despite his trepidation. "You might think so. But Halliday's showing every sign of becoming an alcoholic. If I'm right about that, he's on a downward spiral that even you can't stop. He's got to stop it himself. But before he does, he'll take you down with him."

Leila frowned down at their entwined fingers. "I'm not going to marry the guy. I'm just going to have a conversation with him." She glanced up at him, her violet-blue eyes suddenly soft. "I'm glad that you care."

"I do," he murmured, his heart in his throat. This was it—the perfect time to tell her. Provided, of course, he could find the words. But, hell, he didn't have to use words. All he had to do was to lean forward and…

"He's gone," Frankie said flatly.

Marsh dropped Leila's hand and turned, startled, to see Frankie standing next to them, scowling.

"The sheriff just walked out the door," she informed them.

Marsh followed Leila's gaze as she looked over at the bar. Sure enough, Liam was gone. "Oh, no," she said.

"While you were standing here," Frankie continued, "Halliday got beeped, made a phone call, and left. Honestly, Leila, you've got to keep your mind on the job."

The next afternoon, Marsh found Leila out on the deck, tying the laces of her running shoes.

"You're back from work early."

He glanced ruefully at his watch. "Actually, it's nearly half four, and I'd hoped to be back before three. Look Leila, I'm in a bit of a bind. I just got a call from the Beauchamp boy. His parents aren't home. They drove over to the farmer's market on the mainland. It's going to take them at least three hours to drive back, and the family's mare has chosen this very moment to foal. I could use some help, mostly in calming Timothy down. He's only ten years old. He has this rather inconvenient habit of fainting from excitement and—"

Leila stood up. "I'd be glad to help. Let's go."

Her red running shorts were very, very short, and her skintight black top ended just below her breasts, exposing a wide expanse of her flat, tanned stomach. She looked slender and athletic and Marsh wanted desperately to touch her, to run his fingers over all that wonderful, smooth skin. He smiled at her instead, then turned, leading the way out to the driveway.

"This is probably unnecessary," Marsh said as they climbed into the jeep. He started the engine with a roar and left the driveway before Leila even got her seat belt fastened. "Timothy has the tendency to be overly melodramatic. Even though he seemed so convinced that something is wrong, that the mare is in trouble, I'm sure everything's all right—I'll probably just stand by and let nature take its course."

Yesterday, Marsh had driven her brother's jeep the same way he used to drive his little convertible sports car—nice and easy, with one hand on the steering wheel and the other resting casually on the gear shift. But today, both hands gripped the wheel, and he was driving at least fifteen miles per hour faster than the speed limit.

"Still," Marsh continued, "this mare is a major source of income for this family. If something were to happen to it, the Beauchamps would be in even worse shape financially."

Leila watched him as he drove. He looked incredibly handsome this afternoon—almost as good as he had looked last night at the Rustler's Hideout. He was wearing a crisp, new pair of navy slacks and a clean white shirt, nothing worn or secondhand today. In the backseat of the jeep, she could see a nice sports jacket and a tie. Whatever he'd been doing earlier that afternoon, he'd been wearing his very best clothes to do it. "You look nice. What's the occasion?"

He glanced at her. "I had a meeting with the building inspector."

"The building inspector?" Leila said. "Why?"

Marsh shifted into a higher gear, making the tires of the jeep hum as they sped even faster along the road. "I have to decide what I'm going to do about the house. If I don't start rebuilding soon, they're going to condemn the place." The muscles worked in his jaw as he stared otherwise expressionlessly at the road. "And they're right. As it stands, the house is a health hazard."

He glanced over to find Leila watching him. He hadn't fooled her. He could see in her eyes that she knew how upset he was.

"Did they give a date, a deadline? How soon are they talking about?"

Marsh shook his head. "I don't know. I don't care. I've got Timothy Beauchamp to worry about right now."

He didn't care about the deadline? That wasn't remotely true. But it was clear to Leila that he didn't want to talk about his financial problems right now.

"Don't forget about the horse," she said lightly. "She's the one in labor."

Marsh glanced at her again in surprise. She'd let him change the subject. "Somehow I think Tim probably is the more frightened of the pair."

"Back when you were at Harvard Medical School, did you ever even dream that someday some of the babies you'd deliver would have four legs and a tail?"

She wasn't pressing him about his financial woes. That was strange. He'd expected her to question him relentlessly until he spilled all of the vital information.

And it wasn't as if she simply didn't want to know. She did. He could tell that she was curious. But for some reason, she'd backed off. She'd given him space instead of the third degree. It was thoughtful of her, and sweet.

Impulsively, he reached over and took her hand. "Thank you."

"What, for asking you a silly question?" she said with a laugh.

"Yes." Marsh gave her hand a gentle squeeze before he released it. "Exactly for that."

"One of these days you're going to get out your accounts books and we're going to sit down and figure out a financial plan. And it better be soon. You're running out of time in more ways than one. I'm leaving in a little more than a week."

Marsh nodded. That was a fact he was all too aware of. Nine days and Leila would be getting on a plane, heading back north to New York City. "How about tonight?" he asked.

"Great. After dinner we lock ourselves in Simon's den."

The image of the two of them on the soft leather sofa in Simon's home office was tantalizing … and frustrating. He and Leila would be talking business, not making love. But, oh, it didn't take much imagining to picture her in his arms, kissing him the way she'd kissed him at Simon's party, molding her lithe body against his and…

Marsh hit the brakes hard, nearly missing the turn to the Beauchamp's farm.

Nine days and she'd be gone. But not if he could bloody well help it.