Real comforting, he thought, with a glance at the shards of broken glass on the floor behind him. Keeping his voice low, calm, he said, “Lady, I don’t know what you’re doing here, but you’d better go now.”

      “I should go?” she echoed, astonishment evident in her tone. “You’re the intruder here and—”

      Her voice broke off on a gasp and John risked sticking his head back into the danger zone to see what the trouble was. One look was all it took.

      “Oh, hell,” he muttered grimly.

      Two

      “Are you alone?” he asked.

      “I was,” she said, then winced. Stupid. She never should have told him that. Should have said her big, burly, football-playing husband and eight of his biggest friends were in the next room. Too late now.

      “You’re pregnant,” he said.

      “You’re a genius,” she muttered, and reached toward the table. Keeping one eye on him, she fumbled for something else to throw at him.

      She’d come out of a fretful sleep to the sounds of someone crashing around in the living room. Fear had shot through her but was quickly swamped by an almost overpowering sense of protectiveness. She would defend herself—and her baby—with everything she had. Even if that was only—she spared a glance at her arsenal—a paperback novel, a pad of paper and a cordless phone.

      Oh, God.

      Pitiful.

      Annie snatched up the phone, reared her arm back to throw it and stopped when he held up both hands, palms out, toward her.

      “Cease fire,” he told her.

      “Why should I?”

      “Because you might hit me.”

      “That’s the point.” Really, she’d never expected a burglar to be so chatty. Or so handsome. She mentally erased that thought. His looks had nothing to do with his personality. Weren’t there mobsters once known as Pretty Boy Floyd and Baby Face Nelson?

      “Look, lady,” he said, slowly dropping his arms.

      She lifted the phone higher, and his arms shot right back up.

      “Okay, okay.” He shook his head. “Relax, all right? I’m not going to hurt you.”

      “If you were going to hurt me, would you admit it?” she asked.

      “I guess not,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t change the truth.”

      She hoped he was telling the truth, because frankly, she just couldn’t see herself holding him off much longer. The pains in her back were quickening, and she was fast running out of ammunition, anyway. But how to know whether to trust him or not? How could she be sure that he wouldn’t hurt her and her baby?

      His eyes, she thought, studying those pale-blue depths that held neither threat nor shadows. She’d always prided herself on being a good judge of character. And those were good eyes. Not necessarily kind, but definitely good.

      But even as she thought about lowering her weapon, she reminded herself that she’d once looked into Mike Sinclair’s eyes and hadn’t seen him for the rat he was.

      “I don’t know what you’re doing here,” he was saying, “but the guy who owns this place is a friend of mine and—”

      Aha! she thought, ignoring the flash of pain down low in her back. Now she had him. “What’s his name?” she asked, her gaze narrowing in suspicion.

      “Whose name?”

      “The owner.” Annie scooted back farther against the headboard, knocking a tumble of pillows to the floor. “You see, I happen to know the owner, so I’ll know if you’re lying.”

      Slowly, carefully, John lowered his hands to his sides, and when she didn’t threaten him, he drew a deep breath. Tilting his head to one side, he looked at her and asked, “And how do I know that? If I tell you his name, you’ll just say you knew it, anyway.”

      “Unless you’re lying.”

      “I don’t lie,” he said, and leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb.

      A Boy Scout intruder. Though he looked incredibly relaxed and calm for a burglar. And that fact irritated Annie more than she could say. Frowning, she said, “Fine. We’ll each say the owner’s name at the same time.”

      A short laugh shot from his throat. “What is this? Second grade?”

      She ignored that. “On the count of three. One…two…three.”

      “Peter.”

      “Lisa.”

      They stared at each other. As the reality of what must have happened sunk in, Annie asked, “Peter loaned you the cabin?”

      “Yep,” he said, nodding. “And Lisa did the same for you?”

      “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”

      Another, sharper pain poked at her spine, and Annie winced as she sat up and swung her legs off the edge of the bed. Shooting him a long look, she said, “Well, Peter obviously made a mistake, and you should go.”

      “I was here first.”

      “Now who’s in second grade?” she demanded.

      “Lady…”

      “And stop calling me lady in that tone.”

      “What tone?”

      One blond eyebrow lifted into a high arch. “That tone that says, ‘calm down crazy person.’”

      He frowned and straightened away from the door. “That’s not what I meant.”

      She winced as another ripple of pain unwound inside her, this time rolling from the base of her spine all the way around her immense belly and back again. Not now, she silently pleaded with the baby. For pity’s sake, give Mommy a break.

      John took half a step forward and stopped dead. She still didn’t trust him, he knew, so she wouldn’t want him offering to catch her when she fainted.

      And she was going to faint, he thought. Or worse. His mouth dried up and his throat tightened. He’d watched a wave of pain overtake her. Could actually see it grabbing her, tensing her body. Her small, oval-shaped face went so white her pale-blond eyebrows actually stood out in sharp relief against their colorless background.

      His gaze dropped briefly to her swollen belly, and John frantically wished himself into the middle of a firefight somewhere. Hell, he’d take flying bullets, exploding mortars and hand grenades anyday…anything had to be better than being stuck in a tiny cabin with a woman about to go into labor.

      Just thinking the word labor sent his stomach on a sharp plunge to his feet. At last he understood the expression a sinking feeling. It was kind of like stepping unknowingly into the La Brea Tar Pits. Every move you made only sucked you in deeper. There was no escape. Just the inevitable. The only question was, how long would it take you to go down?

      “Are you all right?” he asked, hoping to God she’d say, Sure. Just a little toothache.

      “Do I look all right?” she asked, lifting her head long enough to slide him a glare that should have toasted him on the spot.

      “Actually,” he said, with an inward sigh, “no.”

      Her lips twisted into a mocking smile. “Gee, thanks.”

      Then she groaned and clapped one hand to her middle.

      All the air left John’s lungs.

      “C’mon, sweetie,” she murmured, smoothing one hand up and down over her stomach, “not now, okay?”

      “It’s