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arresting beauty that nagged at him, had his mind returning to her. He wondered if he hadn’t seen her somewhere before. He rarely forgot a face. In his business, his life and the lives of others could depend on such recall. And Randi Terhune’s wasn’t the sort of face he’d be likely to—
    The murmur of voices in the corridor intruded, and Travis lost the thought. Visiting hours. Scowling, he picked up the book a candy striper had brought him and found his place. Vonnegut’s Slaughterhouse Five. Fit reading for a hospital room? he mused darkly. Maybe not, but it sure fit his mood.
    Settling in with the book, he ignored the muted sounds outside his door. He hadn’t had any visitors yet, and hewasn’t expecting any until tonight. Which was just fine with him.
    Jason Cord had said he’d drop by, bring his shaving kit and a few other items Travis had told him where to locate in his apartment. And although Jason could be pretty surly these days, he was never boring, especially talking about the doings at the Agency.
    Rafe O’Hara had called, of course, to see how he was, the smug bastard. OI’ Rafe was getting married today, though, so maybe Travis had the last laugh. For he firmly believed in one self-evident truth in this life: romantic love was for poets and fools.
    Still, Rafe and Francesca looked so happy together that he’d briefly wondered if there might be an exception….
    A low rumble of laughter resounded from the corridor just outside the door, and Travis slapped the book shut. Hell, weren’t hospitals supposed to be quiet?
    Realizing how grouchy he’d become, he made a conscious effort to relax. If he were honest, he’d have to admit that a few noises wouldn’t faze him if he had visitors. But he didn’t right now, so visiting hours just increased his frustration. And boredom. Hell and damnation!
    Suddenly Travis’s head snapped in the direction of his door as it opened. Then he froze.
    The slender, elegantly dressed woman had also stopped moving, except for the clear blue eyes that swept over him, drinking in every detail. Eyes so like his own, although the rest of her patrician face had been passed on only to her younger children, missing Travis entirely.
    “Hello, son.” She spoke quietly, in the soft Tidewater accent that would forever stir nostalgic echoes from his youth. “May I…may I come in?”
    Travis found himself swallowing, unable to speak. He managed a nod, gestured to a chair near the bed.
    He watched her as she found the chair, lowering herself into it with as much grace and poise as ever. Judith PaxtonMcLean was a year short of sixty, but she’d always looked at least a decade younger than her age. An active life that included daily horseback riding and tennis had preserved the girlish figure in the red Chanel suit; the youthful impression was aided by her expertly applied makeup and the smart beveled cut of her silver hair.
    Only when she was seated and he saw her close up could Travis believe she would leave her fifties behind next May. The lines around her eyes, which had seemed faint in the dim light of the doorway, were more sharply etched than he remembered. The frown lines on her brow were new, too.
    Well, five years was a long time. Damn the son of a bitch! Damn him to hell and then some!
    “I suppose it was Reston who told you I was here?” he asked tightly.
    Judith McLean nodded. “He…he said it was a gunshot wound! Oh, Travis, I—”
    “It’s nothin’ serious, Mother.” How strange it felt to be addressing her like that. Mother. After all this time, like something alien on his tongue. “Just a simple flesh wound. I’ll be fine.”
    She eyed the bandaged shoulder, the sling they’d used to immobilize his arm. “Are you certain? It looks as if it might be…You’re not in pain, Travis?”
    “I said it’s not serious. Certainly nothin’ that’d require bravin’ the wrath of your husband by traipsin’ all the way up here to see the black sheep of the