The door wasn't locked.

John MacAlistair doubted he'd find many doors in the sleeping community locked. Except this house-Sean Malone's house-should have been locked, especially since Sean wasn't home. As a highly trained, former security agent, Sean took privacy and security seriously. And regardless of the low crime rate in the rural neighborhood of Rockton, Oregon, he'd taught Mac to do the same. However, the most important reason for the door to be locked was that Mac had locked it himself this morning before he driven Sean to the hospital.

Mac slowly turned the handle. Exhaustion melted away as he entered the dark house. Stealthily he crossed the threshold, expecting to surprise the unwelcome intruder in the act of robbing the home of its few valuables. Through the open door, the porch light cast a dull gleam on a long, metal object. Mac stared into the twin tunnels of a double-barreled, 12-gauge shotgun and froze. The Swiss army knife strapped to his belt, handy in most situations, wouldn't help now. His only defense would be quick reflexes and luck. Mostly luck.

He took a cautious step forward. A threatening lift of the gun stopped him. Letting his breath out slowly, he cleared his mind. It was after midnight and he was tired. Rather than drive home to La Grande for the night, he'd opted to stay in Rockton. A decision he regretted the moment he heard the click of the gun's safety release.

A number of options raced through his mind, none of them pleasant. All ran the risk of the weapon discharging. His best option would be to step aside, while pushing the weapon away in the opposite direction.

The snick of a switch followed by a blaze of overhead light precluded his decision to act. Blinded by the sudden brightness, he stood rooted to the floor, afraid to make any sudden moves.

"Damn it, Mac, I could've killed you!"

Caitlin Malone.

His heart stirred to life. Blood surged through his veins. His reaction had nothing to do with the fact Caitlin had surprised him at the front door with a shotgun, and everything to do with the woman herself. He thought he'd be prepared when he saw her again. He should have known better. Nothing prepared him for the lilting sound of her voice and flash of her amber eyes. He wondered how she'd arrived so quickly. He'd only called this afternoon with news about her father.

"Either let me in, or take me hostage, but get that thing out of my face." Mac was surprised how calm his voice sounded against the thunder in his ears. Caitlin lowered the barrel toward the floor. His gaze followed, and settled on her delicate bare feet peeking out from her sweatpants. But he didn't kid himself in thinking her feet were any less lethal than the shotgun, which looked absurdly out of place in her small hands, even though she'd practically cut her teeth on one just like it.