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“It might help!” She leaned back against the chair in a totally attentive pose.

“When I got back from Northern Ireland,” he began, but her face froze in disbelief at his words, and all of the tension of the last few hours destroyed her facade of Southern civility.

“When you got back from Northern Ireland?” she whispered with a distinct catch in her voice. “Just like that?” She snapped her fingers. “You haven’t even explained to me what happened to you in that horrible war, and why you let me think that you were dead!” Her eyes showed the anguish that she had lived four years ago and her breath was ragged and torn from her throat. “You were just going to start a lecture on micro-computers with a phrase like ‘when I got back from Northern Ireland’? For God’s sake, Shane, what happened over there? Why did your father tell me that you were dead? For so many years you let me think . . .” Her voice broke with emotion and tears began running down her face and onto the table. She reached for her napkin to cover her eyes, but her small clenched fist continued to pound against the table, rattling the silver and the wine glasses. “Why? Why?” she murmured, only vaguely aware that people at nearby tables were beginning to stare at the spectacle she was creating. Her shoulders drooped, and she couldn’t stem the uneven drops that ran in darkened smudges from her eyes.

Shane listened to her tirade, his large hand half covering his face, as if to shield him from her torment. He couldn’t bear to see her so ravaged, and yet he knew that he was the source of her anguish. Aware that he had to get her out of the restaurant, he fumbled in his pocket for some bills and stuffed them into the open palm of the waiter as he helped Mara to her feet and ushered her out of the building past the disapproving eyes and gaping mouths of several of the well-to-do patrons.

The drive home was silent, and with extreme difficulty Mara regained her poise. She stared into the night and felt the brooding silence of the man seated so closely to her. Mara was drained and exhausted, and Shane was driving the small car as if the devil himself were chasing them. The tires screeched against the pavement, the gears were ripped savagely, and Mara wondered vaguely if Shane was going to kill them both. It didn’t matter, she thought wearily, but an image of Angie’s laughing face broke into her lonely thoughts, and she realized that everything mattered. It mattered very much. Her life, Shane’s life, and most especially their daughter’s welfare.

When the headlights flashed against the oak trees that guarded the circular drive and the large front porch of the house loomed into Mara’s view, she felt a wave of relief wash over her. The strain of the day had taken its toll on her, and she was thankful to be home.

Shane walked her to the door, and she didn’t object when he asked to come in. She fumbled with the key, and he helped her unlock the door. Their hands touched in the darkness, and a warm possessive heat leaped in Mara’s veins. She tried to calm herself and tell herself that all of her reminiscent memories were to blame for her reaction to him, but she couldn’t ignore the pounding of her heart at his touch. Shane pushed open the door, and once inside, locked it. Mara didn’t protest—it was impossible to do so, because it felt so natural that he was home with her again after nearly five long, lonely, years.

Still silent, he poured himself a drink from the decanter at the bar. He lifted the glass to her in a silent offering, but she shook her head negatively. The last thing she wanted was a drink to cloud her tired mind.

After slumping onto the couch, Mara kicked off her shoes and tucked her feet beneath her on the soft cushions. She waited. Shane finished his quick drink and poured himself another. She watched. Was it her imagination, or did Shane’s hands tremble slightly as he poured the drink? He poured yet another glass of brandy and handed it to her over her whispered protests.

“You want to know about what happened in Belfast, don’t you?” he asked curtly.

She took a deep breath and nodded. Her blue eyes reached out for his as she nodded her head.

“All right, but here.” He gave her the brandy.

“I didn’t want a drink, remember.”

“You might change your mind,” he responded gravely, and without further question she accepted the drink.

Shane sat beside her, but didn’t look at her. Instead, he concentrated on the clear amber fluid in his snifter and pulled at his tie, which he finally discarded angrily. When he began to speak, his voice was hushed, disturbingly distant.

“You know that several of us went over there?” She nodded. “Well, everything was going just fine—most of the work had been completed. The rest of the crew had already taken off back for the States, leaving just Frank and me to finish the last few finishing touches. There wasn’t much work left—Frank and I just had to retake a couple of feet of film that hadn’t worked out quite right the first time. If everything had gone as planned, we would have been home within the week.

“It was uncanny how well everything went together.” He paused for a long drink, and his eyes darkened in memory. Mara felt her stomach tighten. “The last day that we were shooting, it wasn’t even anything controversial, just a shot of parents and kids in the park, that sort of stuff. There was this cathedral, a huge stone building, and the parishioners were just arriving for services. It was an absolutely gorgeous Sunday morning. . .”

“And?” Mara prodded, as his voice trailed off.

“And . . . Frank and I stopped for a quick shot. We left everything in the van, other than the shoulder camera and the portable microphone.

“There were a lot of people there, all ages. Parents, children, babies, grandmas, all talking and climbing the steps. The children were playing, laughing, but suddenly I—” he searched for the right words, and his voice was tight, as if it was an effort to speak “—sensed . . . felt that something wasn’t right. I had been filming the gardens, near the steps of the church, but I pulled my camera away from the church just as a horrible noise came from a parked car. The car exploded, metal flew everywhere, people screamed and ran, the timbers of the church rocked, the stone steps cracked . . . there was blood, bodies . . . cars smashed into parked vehicles to avoid running over the people who had been knocked into the street by the explosion. And then I felt something painful on the side of my head—I heard a baby cry just as I passed out. When I came to, I was in a hospital bed, and a nurse was shining a light into my eye. Two weeks had passed.” Shane’s voice sounded as dead as Mara felt. Tears glistened in her eyes and she took a sip of the brandy.

“And the children that you saw playing?”

Shane drew a whispering breath and shook his head. “That’s the worst of it. Several entire families were killed. All of them.” Shane turned to face Mara and she saw the rage and guilt that contorted his features. “Those people died because of me, Mara.”

“What? How can you blame yourself? That’s crazy . . .”

“Why do you think that particular church was bombed—at that time? It was common knowledge that we were filming a piece on terrorism at the time—”

“No!”

“It wouldn’t be too difficult to have figured out the general area where we would be—”

“I don’t believe it. How could they have known?” His eyes held the sincerity and the pain of the guilt that he had borne for four years. “You can’t be sure . . .” she whispered, but knew that her protests were only the ghost of hope that he would absolve himself of his blame.

Pain twisted his features. “I know, damn it! I know. It was our story that brought attention to that area of the city. We’d been friendly with several of the local residents, and they must have been on the opposing side, you see, and somehow, we weren’t careful enough. The word got out, and we created an opportunity for the terrorists to strike again!”

Mara closed her eyes, as if by force she could destroy the painful picture that Shane was painting.

“You can’t blame yourself!”