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items had taken on the semblance of adult pacifiers, he strode into the apartment and directly to the bedside table.
    After snatching up the beeper and the shoulderholstered agency-issue revolver, he shoved the beeper into his pocket and, gripping the weapon, pivoted and retraced his steps to the door.
    Something, an uneasy sensation, halted him midway to. the door. What was it? he asked himself, raking the living room with a narrowed look. What was wrong? Nothing had been disturbed in the bedroom. Pacing to the kitchen, he ran a slow, encompassing look around. The entire place was exactly as he’d left it a half hour ago.
    Still.
    Sandra.
    Telling himself he really did need a vacation, Cameron shrugged off the odd sensation, patted his pocket and once again exited the apartment. After stashing the gun in the rear of the vehicle, he drove away.
    Now he was on vacation.
    Maybe he’d stop somewhere along the way to the cabin and pick up a bottle or two of good wine, and a couple of six-packs of beer, he mused, anticipationcrawling along his nerve endings, arousing all kinds of wicked thoughts and exciting reactions.
    It wasn’t until he was well out of the city, the wine and beer stashed in the back of his almost new Jeep Cherokee, that Cameron gave some thought to his brothers—and one in particular.
    While talking to his mother, he had mused about his brothers. First Jake, the baby of the Wolfe pack, and now Eric, the third of the brood. But, on reflection, he recollected a phone conversation that he had had several weeks ago with Royce.
    At the time, something—more what Royce hadn’t said than what he had, a trace of distraction in his manner—had bothered Cameron.
    Now, on reflection, he wondered whether Royce could possibly be involved with a woman, and whether his emotions were seriously engaged. Of course, he could have been reading his brother’s voice incorrectly. But Cameron seriously doubted it; he knew his brothers.
    And now, here he was, impatiently maintaining the legal speed limit, as anxious and excited as a teenager in the first throes of passion about spending a couple weeks alone in the mountains with Sandra.
    Hmm.
    Did this portend something?
    Cameron’s question to his mother came back to haunt and taunt him.
    It’s physical, my attraction to Sandra is purely physical, he assured himself, while trying to ignore the tingle that did a tango from his nape to the base of his spine.
    Wasn’t it?

Three
    “W hoosh.” Sandra exhaled a deep breath and swiped the back of her hand across her damp forehead.
    Damn, housecleaning was hard work, she thought, but at last she was finished. The interior of the cabin virtually sparkled as a result of her concentrated efforts of yesterday afternoon and all of today.
    Going into the now-gleaming kitchen, she crossed to the fridge for a diet cola. She was sweaty. She was thirsty. She was hungry. And, boy, was she tired.
    Was Cameron Wolfe worth her feverish flurry of activity? Sandra asked herself, dropping limply onto a lemon-scented, polished chair.
    Damned right he was!
    Laughing to and at herself, she downed the last of the cola and heaved her wilting body from the chair.
    Tomorrow.
    Cameron should—would—be arriving in less than twenty-four hours.
    An anticipatory chill invaded her body.
    It was rather shocking. Sandra scowled at herself, at her involuntary physical and emotional response to the mere thought of Cameron’s forthcoming arrival.
    Honestly, she chided herself. If her thoughts, feelings, could have been monitored, a stranger, or friend, could have been forgiven for looking askance at her. She was a full-grown woman, mature, intelligent—well, usually. And here she stood, shivering, in the center of the kitchen, figuratively and literally itching to get her hands, among other body parts, on Cameron Wolfe.
    Pitiful.
    Sandra grinned.
    So it was pitiful. So what?
    She wanted the Lone Wolfe in the worst way. and the best way…every way there