The Mammoth Book of Special Ops Romance

Constable & Robinson Independent thinking since 1795

www.constablerobinson.com

Trisha Telep was the romance and fantasy book buyer at Murder One,

the UK’s premier crime and romance bookstore. She has recently relaunched this classic bookshop online at www.murderone.co.uk. Originally from Vancouver, Canada, she completed the Master of Publishing program at Simon Fraser University before moving to London. She lives in Hackney with her boyfriend, filmmaker Christopher Joseph.

Also available The Mammoth Book of 20th Century Science Fiction The Mammoth Book of Best British Crime The Mammoth Book of Best Crime Comics The Mammoth Book of Best Horror Comics The Mammoth Book of Best of Best New SF The Mammoth Book of Best New Erotica 8 The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror 19 The Mammoth Book of Best New Manga 3 The Mammoth Book of Best New SF 21 The Mammoth Book of Best War Comics

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The Mammoth Book of Killers at Large The Mammoth Book of King Arthur The Mammoth Book of Lesbian Erotica The Mammoth Book of Limericks The Mammoth Book of Maneaters The Mammoth Book of Modern Ghost Stories The Mammoth Book of Modern Battles The Mammoth Book of Monsters The Mammoth Book of Mountain Disasters The Mammoth Book of New Gay Erotica The Mammoth Book of New Terror The Mammoth Book of On the Edge The Mammoth Book of On the Road The Mammoth Book of Paranormal Romance The Mammoth Book of Pirates The Mammoth Book of Poker The Mammoth Book of Prophecies The Mammoth Book of Roaring Twenties Whodunnits The Mammoth Book of Sex, Drugs and Rock ‘N’ Roll The Mammoth Book of Short Spy Novels The Mammoth Book of Sorcerers' Tales

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Acknowledgments Introduction ONCE BURNED Penny McCall CANE RIVER Rinda Elliott SURRENDER AT DAWN Laura Griffin INTO THE NIGHT SKY Charlotte Mede A KEPT MAN Shannon K. Butcher RUSSIAN ROULETTE Rachel Caine VERISEAL Marliss Melton SHOOT TO THRILL Charlene Teglia

THE ANGELS OF PUNISHMENT Michele Albert DARK FORCE

Contents Cheyenne McCray LIPSTICK SPY SCHOOL Gina Robinson DONTWALKAWAY Shiloh Walker HEAT OF THE NIGHT Jordan Summers OVERKILL E. C. Sheedy THE GREY MAN Caitlyn Nicholas GOOD GUYS Liz Muir CODEWORD: STORM Sydney Croft TAG TEAM Nicola Marsh THE GAME Gennita Low THE TRAITOR DebraWebb Author Biographies

Acknowledgments

"Once Burned” © by Penny McCall. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author. "Cane River" © by Rinda Elliott. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author. "Surrender at Dawn" © by Laura Griffin. First publication, original to this

anthology. Printed by permission of the author. "Into the Night Sky" © by Charlotte Mede. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author. "A Kept Man" © by Shannon K. Butcher. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author. "Russian Roulette” © by Rachel Caine. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author. "VeriSEAL" © by Marliss Melton. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author. "Shoot to Thrill" © by Charlene Teglia. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author. "The Angels of Punishment" © by Michele Albert. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author. "Dark Force" © by Cheyenne McCray. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author. "Lipstick Spy School" © by Gina Robinson. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author. ''Don't Walk Away" © by Shiloh Walker. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author. "Heat of the Night" © by Jordan Summers. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

"Overkill" © by E. C. Sheedy. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author. "The Grey Man" © by Caitlyn Nicholas. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author. "Good Guys" © by Liz Muir. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author. "Code Word: Storm" © by Sydney Croft. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author. "TAG Team" © by Nicola Marsh. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author. "The Game" © by Gennita Low. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author. "The Traitor” © by Debra Webb. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

Introduction

Everybody needs a hero. I know Tina Turner flatly stated that "we don't need another” one but I say Tina is wrong! So, if you like your military suspenseful, you've come to the right place. This book is packed as tight as a sexy six-pack with tough yet tender men who have the skills to get the job done. They win their loves -or take them by force, if necessary - but still wake up day after day to right the wrongs of the world, whether they be in the jungles of Indonesia, the waters of the US eastern seaboard or deep in the lawless South American wilds. Navy Seals, Delta Force, Green Beret and special ops commandos from different countries around the world are joined by FBI and CIA operatives, mercenaries and double agents in stories to make you swoon. These stories run the gamut from cosy, curl-up-witha-warm-cup-of-cocoa-and-a-sweet-hard-boiled-Navy-Seal-on-a-mission to flat out adrenaline-fuelled action and a chance to let these trained warriors show you exactly what they're built for. Danger and intrigue are their business but passionate, soul-crushing sex and unbridled desire are high on their list of targets as well. The lives of these highly-trained warriors can seem a bit of a mystery to the rest of us - unknowable and slightly off to the side of everyday life. Their missions are never really seen directly but you read about them in newspapers when a kidnapping is foiled or an ambassador is saved. They slip in and out of the shadows rarely seen, and their praises often go

unsung. But what about when you do catch a glimpse of one? I mean, they have to go grocery shopping sometime, don't they? And where do they channel all that energy when they are not saving people from burning buildings, masterminding great escapes or taking a bullet for their best buddy? These are men of passion and intensity - their very lives depend on it - and that same intensity is found in the bedroom. Truly, these guys (and girls) seem to have two main settings: hard and harder. And what kind of book would this be without a nod to the more fantastic side of Special Ops: superheroes and other teams of covert paranormal operatives. Not everyone uses AK-47S and Uzis as standard operating equipment, you know. Some use electric fingertips, ghost summoning, salt and holy water instead of guns and knives. Who said Special Forces can't have otherworldly powers? Aren't these guys pretty much superhuman anyway? So stay in with stories of hot-blooded, highly trained former lovers reunited on missions, skilled soldiers in (and out of) uniform, and hapless civilians spellbound by the allure of unstoppable, sexy saviours who inspire more than just their gratitude. Heart-stopping danger means heart-stopping

passion.

From

traditional

military

suspense

and

intelligence capers of sexy operatives with a paranormal lack, you'll find all lands of stories to sate your physical desires and leave you gasping. These are men on a mission ... for your heart. Trisha Telep

Once Burned Penny McCall

One Kate Morris snapped awake, snatched from the depths of REM sleep by the slight buzz of her home-made alarm system going off. Not a muscle so much as twitched, not even her eyelids. There was no way her bedroom had been breached so quickly, but Kate wasn't a woman who took chances. Not any more. The house had gone silent again, but silent didn't mean empty. This silence was like a held breath, the ticking seconds between one chess move and another, the moment after a gauntlet was thrown down. "Game on," this silence said, and the intruder wasn't your garden-variety sneak thief looking for trinkets. It wasn't a pervert either, and it sure as hell wasn't the Avon lady. It was a pro - a pro who knew he'd been made. Who it was, what he wanted, Kate had no clue. What he'd get, she thought with a grim smile, was a fight. She rolled out of bed, a gun already in her hand by the time her bare feet hit the floor. She cat-footed it into the en-suite bathroom, barely pausing there to strap a knife - one of the weapons she had stashed around her house - at her calf.

She eased open the door to the hallway and slipped out, headed away from the stairs to the foyer. Her house was one of the old Victorians in Washington, DC - three rambling, half-restored floors, complete with servants' quarters in the attic and a back staircase. She eased down the stairs, skipping the third and seventh risers with their purposely unrepaired squeaks, assessing the situation as she went. The guy downstairs was good, good enough to get through the best security systems in the world. He wasn't good enough to avoid her traps though, or get out of them easily. The back stairs let out on to the kitchen. She slipped through that room, taking a few seconds to assess the situation. The front door was half open. The intruder, a darker shape against the slight illumination from the street lights, was crouched down in her foyer with his back to her, still trying to disentangle himself from the snarls of fishing line wrapped around his ankles. Kate ran on the balls of her feet, fast and quiet, ending up with the gun barrel pressed to the nape of his neck. "Stand up. Slowly.” He did, and she nearly fumbled the gun, covering her sudden case of nerves by jamming the barrel into the small of his back. She was tall, but he had enough height on her to make it dangerous to keep her gun at his neck. Having her arm in the air put her off balance - physically. Emotionally she was already reeling. She hid that too. "One shot and you'll never walk again,” she said. "If you're still alive." "It's me," he said, which covered a hell of lot of territory- none of which she was eager to revisit. "I know." She didn't lower the gun.

"Is this how you welcome an old friend into your house?" "Friends wait to be invited." "We're not friends anymore? I'm crushed." "We were never friends." "No, 'friends' is way too mild a word for what we were." His words hit her like fists. Kate wanted a moment, just a few seconds really, to catch her breath. But he was too good at reading her. Or at least he had been, once upon a time. "When I came down here I wasn't planning to pull the trigger," she said, as if seeing him again meant nothing to her. "Dead bodies are so inconvenient: all the questions from the police, and the mess. I just refinished this floor." "So you're not over me." "Keep talking, Swiss Cheese." He turned, slowly, moving the gun aside with an index finger, then bent to take a closer look at it, flipping on a penlight. "Hair trigger?" "And armour-piercing rounds." “I’mflattered."

"Right, like I was expecting you to show up. My house is probably at the bottom of your list of favourite destinations, right after hell." Reese Kyle shook his head, his slight smile lending no humour to a face that could have been chiselled out of granite. There was nothing soft about the rest of him either, and she didn't just mean the tall body with its rockhard muscles. The man inside that shell, and the heart that beat in his chest, were just as cold and hard. He pulled a wicked-looking dive knife from the

sheath at his waist, sliced away the fishing line around his ankles, and closed her front door. "Thanks, but you're supposed to be on the other side." "Nope. I'm here for a reason." His eyes dropped to her bare legs, moving up slowly to settle on her skimpy tank top. Her nipples hardened. "That better not be the reason,” she said. He lifted his eyes to her face. "I'm on an op." That staggered her, almost more than seeing him. "Mike would never send you to work an op that involves me," she said, referring to Mike Kovaleski, the FBI handler who'd once run her professional life. "Not after the last time." "Mike does whatever it takes to get the job done." "The two of us don't exactly have a stellar track record as a team when it comes to getting the job done." Or anything else for that matter. "Nobody asked you to quit.” She snorted. "Shit flows downhill, and I was at the bottom of the slope. Not to mention the one with the blown cover. It was just a matter of time before I was sent packing.” "You didn't have to cut me out of your life.” "You weren't exactly burning up the phone lines.” "I was trying to let the dust settle.” "Five years is a lot of dust.”

"You could have picked up the phone." "Yeah, I could have.” She jerked the door open. "Try to stay gone this time." "Of all the pig-headed, stubborn—” Reese stomped over to the door, but Kate's hand must have been fisted around the knob because when he slammed it she jerked forwards, crashing into him. Reese wrapped his arms around her’ it was either that or they would both have gone down in a heap on the floor. She felt so damn good, like no time had passed - for either of them, if he was any judge of body language. She might be holding a hard line verbally, but her body told another story. She still wanted him. Bad. Probably why she was so pissed off. Too pissed off to step back, and he'd be damned if he flinched first. "You want to dance?” she asked, a challenge in her words, in her eyes, in the way she held her body against his, deliberately relaxed. She said it as if being pressed up against him meant nothing. "No," he said, and kissed her. If she wanted to play games, they'd play, he thought. The taste of her burst through him. She was fire in his arms, fire that became an inferno when she kissed him back, her tongue tangling with his - just for a second - before he felt the barrel of her gun poking him in the stomach. His world turned to ice, between one racing heartbeat and the next. And that was before he heard her cock the hammer. "Give me one good reason why I shouldn't pull the trigger."

Two "If you shoot me you'll never know why I'm here."

"I could live with that." "Can your clients?" She didn't move, her eyes just shifted up until their gazes met. Time passed, a second, a minute, and then she uncocked the gun Reese had forgotten about and stepped back. He missed her, death threat and all. "I'm listening," she said. He snorted. "There ought to be a calendar around here so I can write that down for posterity." She eased back a couple more steps, slipped the gun into her thigh holster, and flipped on a small nightlight that gave off barely enough illumination for them to see each other. "Did you just drop in to do a standup routine, or is there some other reason you darkened my door?” Stand-up routine? Hell, it was comic relief. Hearing her voice was hard enough without seeing her in a skin-tight tank and shorts, slim, curvy, hotter than any Hollywood gym body. And then there were the weapons. The Glock 27- a back-up-size handgun with all the power of the full-size model- strapped to her thigh, a Smith and Wesson combat knife on her opposite calf, not to mention the look in her cool blue eyes. Kate Morris knew her weapons and she wasn't afraid to use them. It was sexy as hell. "Reese." He looked up, and Kate knew she was in trouble. More trouble than a little light could solve. But she couldn't be in the dark with him. Not after he'd kissed her. And she'd responded. She rolled her eyes when she remembered that. Responded? Hell, the anger that had lain dormant for the

last five years had flashed to heat so fast she'd have jumped him right then and there if not for the fact that her muscles had gone weak. There'd been too many nights she and Reese had spent filled with each other, too many memories she couldn't help but relive, the feel of him moving over her, inner, the scent and heat of his skin ... Her eyes lifted to his. She could see he was taking that trip down memory lane too, and that he knew she was right there with him. But he moved away, positioning himself in the entrance to the hallway. Kate pulled back, shoving the past out of her mind so she could focus. She didn't waste any time wondering why he was bracing for a fight. Reese Kyle never borrowed trouble. He inflicted it. She eased over a few more steps, stopping so she had a clear view down the hall and into the living room and dining room. Reese had nowhere to go that she couldn't get to him. Fast. He smiled slightly, one eyebrow inching up. "If we're going to play cat and mouse," she said, "I get to be the cat." "Most women would object to that characterization." "Most women wouldn't do more than make a cutting remark." His eyes dropped to the gun. Not so sure she wouldn't use it on him, she thought, grimly amused. 'You were telling me why the stuffed suits at the bureau sent one of their puppets to annoy me." That hit the mark. The muscles in his jaw bunched before he got hold of himself. "We got a tip about Amir Kashani."

"Tip?" "Kashani and his family are being held hostage, as of about an hour ago." Kate snatched a cell phone from the top drawer of the apothecary's chest in the foyer. Reese closed his hand around her wrist. "I have two men in that house,” she said, switching the phone to her other hand and flipping it open. "I don't know what shape they're in, but they're definitely out of commission. You try to call them in the middle of the night for no reason, the kidnappers will know you're onto them, no matter how slick you are at hiding it." Her thumb hovered over the speed dial. She snapped the phone closed instead, paced a couple of steps away, thinking about the bodyguards who were on duty with Kashani's family. She knew them well, knew their wives and kids. Amir Kashani trusted her with his life and the lives of his family’ that made them hers. And she had to stop thinking of their safety if she was going to rescue them. "Kashaniis a member of the Balyks, the monarchist ruling party in Balykistan, but he has a reputation as a man who embraces democracy," she said, putting herself back in the op, which was the only place she could be any good to the people who needed her. "He's here to negotiate a peace treaty between his party and the Reformists. His people trust him to make the best agreement possible, and the other side believes his word will be honoured." "Not everyone wants peace," Reese said. "The men who are holding

Kashani and his family are part of a militant faction of the Reformist Party. They won't settle for less than supremacy, and that means they have to win the war, not end it amicably." "The peace treaty negotiations are supposed to start first thing tomorrow morning. But Kashani will do whatever he's told as long as his family is in danger." And it was up to her to save them. She wanted to move now, but without more intelligence she could blunder in and make a mess, costing innocent lives. It was a mistake she refused to make again. But she couldn't let past tragedy freeze her in place, either. "Tell me the rest of what you know." "The Bureau is replacing you with an agent—" "No." "Use your brain instead of your heart." "I learned that lesson five years ago. From you." This time he met her eyes, and his were hot. Direct hit, she thought. Too bad it didn't make her feel any better. His being right wasn't helping. "Those are my . . ." people, she'd almost said. Not the way to convince him. "Those are my employees and my clients. My reputation. It's taken me five years to get this business up and running.” 'Your incorporation papers were filed four years ago." "And you think I spent a year mooning over you." She huffed out a slight laugh. "I didn't lose you, Reese, I left you behind. What I lost was a career I spent half my life working for."

You walked away." "Yeah." She'd walked away before the Bureau could give her directions. And before Reese could add injury to insult by putting words to the silence he'd left between them after their last op went bad. "This time I'm sticking." "I can't walk," Reese said. "Still the good little soldier?" "Is that why you really think I'm here?" Kate backed off from that, and not just verbally. "There's no way I'm letting the FBI bully their way into my life and destroy what I've built. This is my job, and I'm going to do it." "That's what we figured you'd say." "Then why are you here?" "I thought I could reason with you." Sure, he wanted to reason with her, that's why he was braced for a fight. "You thought you could put me out of commission and replace me with an agent." At least he had the grace to look sheepish. "I know the layout of Kashani's house, their routine—" she continued. 'You can run the op with Mike." "Right." Mike Kovaleski was a rough, gruff, ex-marine who took no bullshit, accepted no excuses and wasted no time caring about anything but the missions and the agents under his direction. And he didn't share

authority. "I run the op, period. Mike agrees, or I run it without you." Reese hesitated, weighing his options. Kate dropped her hand to rest on the Glock holstered at her thigh. He pulled a cell phone out of his belt clip, hit speed dial and handed it to her. She didn't waste time with greetings or old-times'-sakes, just repeated her ultimatum. "Figured you'd say that," Mike said in his distinctive rasp. 'You could have called me. There was no need to send—" her eyes cut to Reese "—anyone, let alone a special ops hothead." "Reese went to bat for you five years ago." "And you're telling me this because ...?" "If you have to be saddled with a special ops hothead, it helps to have one who gives a shit about you. Or I can pull Reese and send in some other agents—" "Nobody else," Kate said. "You send in a bunch of trigger-happy Feds and somebody will die." "You'd know that first-hand,” Mike shot back. Then she heard him blow out a breath. "Shouldn't have said that. You pissed me off." "Nice to know I still have the touch.” "Been keeping my eye on you, kid. Wouldn't let you handle this otherwise,” he said, as close to a compliment as she'd get, but - as usual he spoiled it. "Try to send Kyle back in one piece. Lunkhead insisted on taking this op, even after I reminded him you'd as soon shoot him as look at

him.” Her eyes cut to Reese's. "I guess he still doesn't trust me to watch my own back." "Maybe not, but he's trusting you with his." Kate disconnected, handed the phone back. "It's my op." Reese's jawbunched, but he didn't look away. "The family is my only concern. They already know me." "So do the kidnappers." "Then they know that what I care about is my client and his family, and they know I’ll do whatever it takes to keep them safe." "They'll be expecting you." "Exactly. If someone else shows up, they'll know the FBI is onto them. So .. ." She lifted her chin, stared him down. "It's me or no one."

Three 'You or no one," Reese repeated, his mind taking an instant detour off the job and into the personal, his body already a step ahead of him. He was halfway across the foyer and reaching for her when she said, "I still have the gun," and even then it didn't really register. "You'll have to use it," he said, "because that's the only way you're getting rid of me this time." She slipped away, deciding retreat was the better part of valour. Even as the frustration hit him, the aching need still clamouring to be satisfied,

Reese knew he had to focus on the job and worry about the personal later. He managed his part by stopping where he was, then fisting his hands to stop from reaching for her. If he touched her again, he'd have to have her. Even if the whole world paid a price. "The kidnapping," she reminded him. "It's me or no one." "Then it's no one," he said and started for the door. This time she stepped in front of him. "Why are you interfering?" He didn't answer. He didn't have to’ they'd always understood each other perfectly. "We made this mistake before," she said. "Yeah." And she'd paid for it. Kate had been an FBI agent when he met her, one who'd risen through the ranks quickly to become one of the lead agents on a new FBI taskforce specializing in foreign terrorism on US soil, specifically those incidents involving hostages. Some of the men she'd outstripped had chalked up her fast rise to the fact that she was a woman in an organization trying to modernize their hiring profile. Anyone who'd run an op with her knew she'd gotten where she was on skill, courage and complete balls-to-the-wall dedication. Reese had come out of the military - army special forces, to be exact about a year before he'd been assigned to her taskforce. He still recalled that moment, the first time he'd laid eyes on Kate Morris, five feet eight inches of strength and determination, a living weapon no less effective for being easy on the eyes. He still remembered the way their gazes had met

across the room, the impact of it knocking him back a full step. He hadn't been a man who believed in love at first sight. Hell, he hadn't been a man who believed in love at all. He still didn't. He'd seen too much of the horror people inflicted on one another in the name of religion, of loyalty. Of love. What he'd felt for Kate had been lust - desire was a prettier word, but there'd been nothing pretty about the craving running through him, the need to touch and taste, to throw himself head first into the flames with no regard to what that kind of fire would do to him. Thank God she'd felt it too, Reese thought. It had been nearly impossible to concentrate on the job, but she'd been with him every heated step of the way. There'd been a lot of down time between missions, and they'd been unable to keep their hands off one another. It hadn't been a problem. Until it spilled over into work. There'd been a hostage situation involving a Colombian family being held in New York by a drug lord because the father had turned informant. After two days they'd reached an impasse in the negotiations. Reese had wanted to take the kidnappers by force. Kate had been equally convinced she could talk them out, so convinced she'd gone in without waiting for the green light from him. She'd never gotten the chance to find out if her way would have worked because the second Reese realized the risk she'd taken, he'd stormed the place. The bad guys had escaped, Kate had taken a bullet to her left shoulder, and the witness had been killed. The other casualty had been her job. She'd quit before she could be fired, and not for pride's sake. Kate Morris was a woman who took responsibility7 for her actions. She'd screwed up, and she'd owned that.

Reese hadn't spoken to her since. He'd been pissed, at her, at himself. He'd forgotten the mission, put civilians in danger because all he'd been able to see was her. He'd believed distance would help, but not a day of the last five years had gone by without Kate being his first thought in the morning and his last at night. He'd kept tabs on her’ he'd even picked up the phone a time or fifty. Thinking was as far as he'd allowed himself to take it. Five years should have cooled his blood. At least that's what he'd told himself when he'd agreed to take this op. He'd been wrong. The wildness might have gone out of the fire, but the flame was still there, deep and warm and steady. And as long as Kate was pissed off, he didn't have to decide what to do about it. "It could have been a lot worse,” she said, reading his mind again - but not his feelings, thankfully. "It will be this time if you don't listen to reason. These people mean business.” "The bad guys always mean business. That's why I have a job.” "You've got to be rusty.” "Sure, I was just sleeping away in complete oblivion when you showed up. Self-preservation is like sex, Reese, you never forget how to do it, you just find better equipment.” Though he stood in the shadows, she knew the expression on his face: one eyebrow quirked up, mouth tight, half pissed that she'd gotten the

upper hand, half proud. And, as always, he put emotion aside and focused on the problem at hand. "That gun isn't going to do you any good out in the open tomorrow.” "It's not doing me a whole lot of good tonight. You're still—" The sidelight by the door broke and a bullet thunked into the wall about an inch above her left shoulder. The next bullet hit where her head would have been if Reese hadn't tackled her. Her first reaction was gratitude because the weight of him, the solidness, felt damn good, comforting, protective. She closed her eyes, just for a second, and thought about what it would be like to let him run the show so she didn't have to make the life and death decisions. And live with them. Then reality crashed back in and she shoved him off. "Still don't trust me, I see.” He climbed off her, staying in a crouch. "Reflex." "Don't let it happen again.” "The next time I get you horizontal, there won't be any gunfire involved.” "Don't be too sure.” Kate drew her legs and arms under her, but stayed down, keeping away from the broken glass pane next to the door and out of sight of the other nearby windows. When Reese looked over at her, she nodded once and moved, heading in a low run for the back door as he went out the front. She circled clockwise around the house, gun out and ready. There wasn't a lot of illumination, but she searched the yard, heading to the side fence line when she saw that the grass was flattened off that way. The climbing rose she'd been coaxing up the arbour at her fence line was mangled, probably

dead, she decided, picking up a broken branch as long as her leg. It pissed her off, seeing as she'd spent hours on the damn thing. A car started and she flung the rose branch away, running flat out, despite her bare feet, for the twenty-year-old Camaro parked in front of her house. It was nothing much to look at, but she didn't keep it around to buy groceries. It was modified for pursuit or escape, from the big-ass engine under the hood and the manual tranny, to the roll bars and bulletproof glass. She hurled herself through the driver's door, snagging the key she kept in a magnetic holder under the front seat. Reese was already sliding into the passenger side when she fired it up, the throaty roar of the V-8 engine revving through her like a second heartbeat. She shot into the street with a slight squeal of rubber, popping the clutch before she got her nerves under control. "Break it down for me," Reese said. She glanced over at him, surprised he was going to let her run the op, until she realized he was giving her a way to steady herself. Then again, she was behind the wheel, so his life was in her hands. "Guy must've used a silencer,” she said. "1 didn't hear a shot." "Me neither.” He braced himself between the door and the dash as she cut into a driveway, practically on two wheels. She blasted through someone's backyard and into the alley behind a row of houses, her lights off the whole time. "There's a car on the next street,” she said. "It's 2 a.m., it's a weeknight, and this is a working class neighbourhood. It has to be the shooter.”

She stayed in the alley, whipping around garbage cans, parked cars, tyres galumphing over broken pavement. She kept the lights off, including the interior lights, which were just a distraction in the pitch black, as she paced the shooter's car on the street beyond the row of houses to her left. "He knows he missed me,” she said. "He knows I'm on his ass. If he gets away, the hostages are dead.” "You think?" He was being sarcastic, but he'd hit a nerve, too. "I've handled more of these cases in the last few years than anyone working at the Bureau. It's my specialty." She'd even negotiated a successful hostage release. The woman was in therapy, but at least she was alive. "If word of the kidnapping gets out, Kashani is instantly useless to them. They'll kill him, and everyone else who can identify them. If nothing else it gives them time to figure out their next move while another negotiator is found," "Spending time finding another negotiator acceptable to both sides is risky. They'd rather neutralize your agency, a small business with only a handful of employees—” "Run by a woman. They think it'll be easy.” "Easy is a term I'd never apply to you," Reese said. "They don't know me like you do." "Lucky them." She gave him a look and jammed her foot on the gas. The Camaro shot ahead of the car it was pacing. They hit the end of the alley and Kate cut the wheel hard left, the tyres screeching but holding around the turn so

they were heading straight for the hit man's late-model sedan when she flipped on her brights. Blinded, the other driver swerved into a parked SUV. Kate whipped the Camaro around behind his, blocking him in. Reese was out and at the driver's door, and, before the shooter could fight his way clear of the air bag, he was cuffed and being shoved into Kate's trunk. She took off, lights dark again, before any of the neighbours could identify her car. "Under a minute,” Reese said. "We always were a good team." Kate looked over at him. "Except when we weren't."

Four Kate paced, baggy sweats over her pyjamas, across the kitchen and back again. Her eyes never left the shooter, sitting across the room like it was any normal morning and he was waiting for Mr Coffee to back up the rich aroma on the air with a hot cup of Colombian roast. Except he was tied to his chair, and there wasn't any coffee in his immediate future. Nothing to look forward to long term, either, she thought, sending him another sidelong glare. Not if she had anything to say about it. He'd messed with her and hers. He didn't deserve a future. "He's just a kid." Kate shifted her glare to Reese. "A kid who tried to kill me." "He can make it up to you by telling us everything we need to know about his friends, so we won't be going in blind." "I will tell you nothing," he shouted in slightly accented English.

Defiance she'd expected. But his voice wavered, just enough for her to take another look, this time pushing through her fury so that she saw what Reese saw: a kid, barely twenty, with a layer of bravado slicked over his fear. No challenge at all. She slipped behind him, giving Reese a wink as she bent to whisper in the kid's ear. "I want a name." The kid jerked a little then went sulky, clamping his mouth shut. Reese moved to stand in front of him, arms loose at his side, a bland, reassuring smile on his face. Good cop all the way. Only Kate knew how much he hated the role. "I don't need your name to know who you are," he said to the kid, cutting Kate out of the conversation because she was just a woman. The subject's cultural background would respond to that. "You were born in Balykistan, but you've lived here most of your life. Your parents are Reformists and make frequent trips back to the mother country, but you haven't been there since you were a teenager. You've established distance from them in other ways, living away at college, even during the summer. Not so far Daddy cuts off funding, but far enough to make it look like you don't agree with their politics." The character assessment earned Reese a sneer, which was confirmation, but not progress. "This is interesting, but let's get to the really important stuff," Kate said, taking way too much pleasure in the way the kid jolted. But then, she was the Bad Cop. She circled, got right in his face. 'You have a problem with women. Is it skill, or skill and size?"

"Untie me, woman,” he said struggling enough to make the chair jump around, "I will show you skill." "Oh, I see, you can't perform unless there's violence. I mean, you're the type of coward who shoots from hiding—” He spat something in Balyk, something both disgusting and insulting. "Wait until I am free. Then I will take you to my friends, and we will make you regret the day you were whelped by your bitch of a mother." "I have nothing better to do than meet the man who sends a child to do his dirty work. Tell me where he is and we'll go see him together." "Pull it back," Reese murmured, "he won't know where the instructions came from." "I realize that. I was having fun." Taking your temper out on him isn't going to solve anything." Kate planted a foot on the kid's chest and shoved him and his chair over. "I don't know, I feel a little better now." The kid muttered threats under his breath, staring daggers at Kate. "Bring it on," she said. Reese shook his head, righted the chair, and told the kid to shut up. He did, but not because he was told to’ it was the expression on Reese's face that did the trick. "Like old times," Kate observed. ''He's a zealot," Reese said, "not a trained operative who thought about what it might mean to fail."

"Yep, just a tool, no brain." "A tool who was sent to take you out," Reese reminded her. "You and all the other people who work for you. Otherwise, when your guards don't check in, someone will know there's a problem and alert the authorities." "I'm the only someone there is," Kate said. "I don't have an office. I only take referrals, and only after I've vetted them myself. All my other guards are working, and I'm the one who hands out the assignments so they don't have any idea where their counterparts are." "If they've done their homework, and I'm sure they have, they knew they'd only have to take out you and the guards with the Kashanis." "Which we can make them believe they've already done." They both turned to look at the kid. He wouldn't know the other conspirators. They'd have kept the participants in the plot ignorant of one another, so if one of them got caught, the others could carry on with their operation. The guy in charge would be waiting for the kid to check in, though, verify that Kate was dead. Reese plucked up the cell phone out of the small pile of belongings - no ID, unfortunately - that they'd stripped out of the kid's pockets. He flipped the phone open and waited for directions, but the kid snorted and looked away. Kate whipped out her Glock and put it to his forehead, right between the eyes. His stare cut to hers, still looking defiant, so she cocked the gun, making sure what he saw in her eyes was cold and hard and determined. Her eyes stayed that way until beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. When his gaze flicked away from hers, she knew she had him.

"Reese is going to dial, then put it on speaker." She bent close, whispered, "And don't do anything stupid,” in a dialect of the same language he'd used earlier. A single drop of sweat trickled down the side of his face, and the light of defiance in his eyes went out. "Speed dial six," he said. The call lasted less than five seconds. He told them Kate was dead, but then he had no choice. "There's nothing to do but wait now," Reese said. "The Reformists won't make another move until after the treaty is formalized and signed. Then they'll take out all the witnesses, probably stage it as a traffic accident." Kate nodded. "We go in tomorrow - I mean, this morning," she amended after a glance at the stove clock told her it was after three. "They'll have to send at least two people with Kashani." "Likely there weren't more than five or six kidnappers to begin with," Reese said. "Good odds. That leaves three, possibly four for us to deal with." "Three or four? I could handle that many by myself." Kate gave him a look. "Problem is, you won't let me."

Five Reese secured the kid in Kate's basement - dirt floor, stone walls and cobwebs. He pulled out his cell phone as he climbed the creaking wooden steps, then dialled Mike as he wound his way through the house. He took a seat on the front stairs, watching Kate tape cardboard over the broken window while he filled Mike in on the events of the last couple of hours.

"We go in when they take Kashani out for the negotiations, when their forces are split," he finished. "I'll send a couple of guys into the bargaining room. Soon as you give me the sign and we know the family is safe, they'll move." "Sounds like a plan." Reese disconnected and traded a look with Kate, who turned away and started pacing. It surprised him that she'd tip her hand that way, since it was a sure sign of agitation. Then again, he was pretty torn up himself. Being around Kate again, realizing he wasn't over her. Over her? Hell, just seeing her had been like taking a blow to the chest, the kind of blow that knocked the breath out of you, made you ache in places you didn't know you had and left you just a little dizzy, waiting for the ground beneath your feet to stop rocking again. On top of all that, while he was still struggling to find his feet and sort out his emotions, he found himself on a mission with her, knowing neither of them could forget the way the last one had ended. But at least that one had started with trust. "So," she said, clearly on the same wavelength, "why did Mike send you?" "The Feds don't know anything about these guys. Hell, they don't even have names. Mike didn't want to risk alerting them by calling up the task force, so he asked me to take the op." "I thought you were on the task force.” "I stuck for a little while after you quit, but..." He shrugged, left the rest to her imagination. Her imagination had no trouble coming up with reasons for him to leave the

task force. Like he'd felt guilty over the way their last mission had played out, or because it wasn't the same without her ... But those were just wishful thinking, fairy tales with happy-ever-after endings. Not real life. "So why did you take this one?" she asked him. "I was already in DC when the tip about Kashani's kidnapping came in. I came here to look you up." Kate took a few seconds to get her breath back, to tell herself it didn't matter. Then she said, “Well, you found me," in a credibly cool and firm voice. At least Reese seemed to buy it. "Not exactly how I intended our reunion to go," he said. "Really? How did you think it would go?" "I didn't think there'd be shooting." "Then you have a very convenient memory." "Actually I was giving you more credit than you deserve." She went toe to toe with him, fury whipping through her blood. "I made the same mistake with you five years ago. Then I stopped waiting for you to show up." "I didn't think you'd want to see me. Jesus, Kate, I helped screw you up. But you have to own your part of it." "Part? I got to own it all, remember?" "I screwed up, I know that. I tried . . ." He scrubbed a hand over his head, fingers rasping over close-cropped black hair going grey at the temples. "I should have called you. By the time I figured it out too many months had passed."

"Years. You were always slow on the uptake," she added grudgingly, "at least about that kind of thing." Reese smiled a little. "We should get some rest," Kate said. She tried to go around him, but he wasn't moving. "The bedrooms are upstairs." His gaze lifted, burning into hers. "On second thoughts, you can take the sofa." "Nope." Reese got to his feet. She refused to give ground. "Maybe you can pop back into my life, but my bed is off limits." He crowded her back against the wall. "Who needs a bed?" he said, catching her hand and staking it to the wall. He lay his body on hers and took her mouth. She kissed him back, more aggression than surrender. He remembered her taste, but there was a dark edge to it now that raced through his blood like adrenaline, goading him to respond, to give as good as he got. He held back, let her spin him around and slam him against the wall. He let her use her teeth on him, and pound with her fists - not as an attack, but as a woman who'd been hurt by him. And then he let her collapse, her forehead resting against his shoulder as her breath sobbed in and out, and her tears wet his shirt. Then, because he knew she hated the loss of control, and because they both needed to remember this moment in a different light, he skimmed his hands up her ribs, lifting her sweatshirt and rubbing his thumbs across her nipples.

Kate drew in a shuddering breath, pleasure spearing from her breasts to the centre of her stomach. Her back arched, pressing her closer to his heat. She lifted her arms, moaning when her sweatshirt disappeared, then her tank top. His hands were on her again, hot and strong. Need rushed through her and built. She remembered the need, how it felt to be filled to bursting with it - trembling one moment, energized the next, riding the edge of a wave of desperation that had her fumbling with the snap of his pants. They both shed clothing as they worked their way up the stairs, stopping ever}1 few steps for a drug-like kiss, an inciting caress. She was grateful for the bed since her muscles had gone rubbery, her head spinning by the time Reese laid her down. And then he took his mouth to her, from her breasts down her belly and lower, and every nerve ending she possessed seemed to fire at one time, all screaming with pleasure that built and grew. His eyes locked on hers and he whispered, "Let go,” and his fingers speared into her, shooting her to her peak. Before she could catch her breath, while she was still lost in the last shuddering wave of her climax, Reese slipped inside her, driving the pleasure to an impossible height. She loved the feel of him, his weight pressing her down into the mattress, heated skin over muscle that rippled and bunched, the sense of controlled strength that made her feel frail and protected, but not weak. Until he began to move and her pulse tripped, her breath rushing out again. "Give me a minute,” she wheezed. "I don't think I have one." Her lips curved, her gaze holding his as she shoved him on to his back,

rose above him and shook him to the core with her beauty and strength, the kind of strength that made room for vulnerability. She was more than he could have hoped for, and then he was beyond thought, her body moving over his, heat and friction and raw sensation, driving him up and over, to a place that wrung every ounce of pleasure from him, until lie was empty, sated, floating back to earth to find her draped over him, just as wrung out, just as breathless, her heart galloping against his. Even the smile on his face was an effort. Not that he could have stopped it if he’d wanted to. "That's a cat-that-ate-the-canary grin." "You got it, chickadee.” Kate rolled her eyes. "We never had any trouble in bed." "That was a whole lot better than trouble-free." "That was amazing.” "No,” he said, rolling until he was looming over her. "I’ll show you amazing.”

Six Mistake or not, Kate had to admit she wouldn't have slept so well probably wouldn't have slept at all, if not for Reese. She'd showered, and she felt remarkably alert and absolutely focused. When Reese came downstairs, showered and dressed, she was collecting weapons from around the house. "Definitely not a kid-friendly place,” he observed.

"It is if the kids are being held by terrorists.” "Good point. Kashani is covered. As soon as they know his family is safe, the agents in the bargaining room will take out the Reformists and let him know he's free to negotiate in good faith again. I'm going with you.” "No." Reese didn't make an overt physical threat, but he shifted his weight to the balls of his feet. "We go together or stay together,” he said, prepared to back up his ultimatum. 'You don't trust me,” she said flatly. "It's a two-man job.” "Then it's just about right for one woman." "This isn't about feminism. All your people are compromised. The two at the house, if they're not dead, are incapacitated in some way. Your other employees are on their own assignments, and you can't pull them in and leave their protectees in the lurch. Go or stay, your choice, but we do it together.” 'You keep saying that.” "And “I keep saying it until it gets through that hard head of yours." She sighed and gave up. She'd never take him in a contest of strength and, damn it, she couldn't shoot him. "Always the eternal optimist,” she said and led the way into the den. The closet was an arsenal – metal lined, with, a combination safe.

When she opened it, Reese just stared for a moment, clearly flabbergasted by the array of weaponry, from knives and guns, to explosives, big and small. "Some of these are home-made," he said, "and a lot of them are illegal.” But he grabbed a couple of flashbangs and stuffed them in his pockets. Kate secured the small-calibre Glock she'd been earning earlier at her ankle. She strapped a knife holster at the opposite calf, smoothed her jeans down over both weapons, then slipped a shoulder rig over her stretchy T-shirt and pulled a hooded sweatshirt over it all. She stuffed extra clips into the pockets of the hoodie and said, "Ready to go." Since they were going in during the day, she was dressed like she was out for a walk in the morning sun. Reese had no choice but to wear what he'd worn to infiltrate her house: black cargos, black T-shirt, black boots, intense expression. The first civilian they came across was going to run screaming. "You really ought to change your clothes,” Kate said to him, "but, hell, you'd look menacing in a tutu." "Menacing doesn't begin to cover what would happen if you tried to put me in a tutu." Another time that mental picture would have made her laugh. Another time when she didn't have life and death on her mind. She headed for the car, talking as she went, not to calm her nerves, but to set the scene for Reese. "It's not a crowded neighbourhood. The houses are on big lots, most of them with stone walls or some sort of privacy barrier between them."

"That's a plus," he said. "In the minus column, they're high-dollar places, lots of square footage." "But you know the layout of the house and all the security features. Another plus." "It helps. The family will be held together, probably in the kitchen area. It's convenient for food and water, and there's a bathroom in the maid's quarters, right off the kitchen." "The maid's a live-in?" “

Was. Mrs Kashani always prepared the family's meals, so on my advice

they went from a live-in maid and gardener to once-a-week services, both on Friday. Cuts down on the number of possible cracks in the armour." Reese grunted his approval, and they made the rest of the trip in silence. Kate used the time to centre herself in a calm, cold place, not anticipating what they might find but preparing to react to it. She glanced over at Reese as they pulled down the street, and knew he was doing the same. They'd timed it to arrive before Kashani left for the bargaining table, not that there'd be any negotiating that day. There'd be formalities, opening speeches, feeling out the other side. Not much actual progress would be made on the treaty, a silver lining since Kashani would not be acting independently. He would be by the time real negotiations began, if Kate had any say in the matter, and the other side would never know he'd been under duress in the opening hours of the peace process. "That's the house," Reese said as they cruised by a sprawling, whitepillared colonial behind a mile of front yard studded with landscaping features.

Kate had no trouble figuring out how he knew. "The gates are disabled,” she said, noting that one was slightly ajar. "They were in perfect working order two days ago, so the Reformists must have broken them getting in. Good news for us." She parked down the street next to a green belt between two houses, and then they walked back. It was early but the sun was up completely, the air cool with the tail end of spring, so their jackets didn't look out of place. Amir Kashani's house was surrounded by wrought-iron fences and fronted by a stone wall. Kate crouched down at one side of the gate, behind some bushes that had been planted to camouflage crumbling mortar. Reese hunkered down behind her. "Take the other side," Kate said, not looking over her shoulder. Just the feel of him was enough to split her focus. Seeing him could only make it worse. "There's not enough greenery over there to cover you and you're a lot smaller than I am," he said, and unfortunately he was right. He was also curled around her, so close she'd have said they were spooning if they'd been lying down. "Do you have to hover?" she snapped, resigned but cranky because, even though she didn't look at him and he didn't say anything, she could tell he was grinning. A long black Lincoln Town Car slid down the drive. She shoved her emotions down inside her, a coiled spring of frustration and anger she could unleash on the kidnappers when the time came. Poor bastards. The Lincoln stopped at the gates, and a man exited the front passenger

door. He was young, with black hair and dark skin, his ill-fitting suit outing him as one of the bad guys. Kashani's men would be turned out in something high end, probably Savile Row, since Kashani had been educated in England. The bad guy looked up and down the street, his eyes scanning for traffic. He completely overlooked the shrubbery as he walked one side of the gate open and then the other, ending up about five feet from Kate with his back to her. The car pulled out. Reese waited until it was out of sight, until the kidnapper was walking one side of the gate closed again, then he moved, fast and quiet. He took the guy down, cutting off his shout for help midyelp. Reese dragged the unconscious man into the bushes and secured him with ties which, Kate thought, had probably been meant for her when he broke into her house the night before. Kate, meanwhile, eased around the edge of the brick wall, far enough to see a shadow in the house's large front window. A shadow armed with a rifle. Reese had stayed low enough that he hadn't been seen, but they'd know someone had taken out one of their men. "Sniper," Reese said from right behind her. 'You can tell by the scope." "Silencer?" "I don't think so." "Then he won't use it on me and risk alerting the neighbours,” Kate said. She started to her feet. Reese pulled her back down. "I know what you're thinking, but they'll kill you as soon as you step foot in that house."

"So you should go instead?" She shook her head. "We already agreed about this. You walk in there and you're dead. They'll recognize me, and they'll be more interested in what I know and why I'm not dead than in killing me themselves. Once I'm inside, I can convince them that I'm still bitter about the way the Bureau treated me, so there's no way I would call in the FBI." "And they're just gonna believe you?" “I’ll

be really convincing." She held up a hand. "I know how to play

them, Reese." "These aren't you average kidnappers. They're fanatics." "Yeah, I got that. Look, we've already spent too much time talking. I need to get in there before they decide the mission is a bust and kill the hostages." Reese's jaw clenched. If they hadn't given themselves away they could have snuck in, scoped out the situation and made a game plan. That wasn't in the cards now. And as much as he hated to admit it, Kate was right about everything. "They won't believe you're alone. I'll take out the guy they send out looking for me, cut the odds down by one more, at least." "And after that you're going to wait at least an hour before you come in. HI need time to get the lay of the land." "Jesus," he said, "you don't want much." "Just your trust."

Seven Reese looked into her eyes then nodded. It would have been a nice moment, if not for the life-and-death stuff. Which was all on her shoulders, since she'd left him with nothing to do but cower behind the wall while she took all the risk. She flipped her cell open, ran the contact list and dialled Kashani's house. She held the phone so Reese could hear as well. "It's Kate Morris," she said into the phone, "I'm coming in." "Hurl your weapon over the wall," was the accented response, "and keep your hands in sight as you walk to the house. Any sudden moves and you are dead." All Reese could do was watch from the screen of bushes as she followed instructions, her hands loose at her side but a good six inches away from her body as she crossed the deep lawn. The front door opened when she got to it. She climbed the steps without hesitation, didn't flinch when the man with the rifle stepped out and grabbed her arm. As he spun her around to check her for weapons, her gaze lifted to Reese's. He almost broke cover. Not because of her - she looked dead cool calm- but because he couldn't bear to watch her disappear into that house with an unknown number of armed terrorists, not knowing if she'd get out alive. So he didn't watch, dropping heavily to the ground and bracing his back against the warm brick. Trusting Kate. "How many are with you?" the kidnapper at the door asked as he patted Kate down and took all her weapons.

She'd anticipated that, but it didn't stop her from feeling a little jolt of panic. "How many?" he demanded, shoving her roughly through the door. “I’m

alone."

"You lie!" He gestured with his gun, and a figure separated itself from the rest of the shadows. When her eyes finally adjusted to the gloom she could see that the man was armed to the teeth but dressed as a gardener so he wouldn't draw attention. "You know where all my people are," she said, which was more than she could say herself. She had no idea where her men were, or if they were even alive. If they were, they would be bound and gagged. The family wouldn't be tied up, not for the entire day. That meant there'd be a man guarding them, which put the enemy at three at least with one outside checking the perimeter. But not for long. "If the Feds were involved they wouldn't let me anywhere near this place." "Yes." He smiled, "I know of your history with FBI. But maybe you bring in police." She snorted. "The local cops are useless in this kind of situation." "So are you. Where is the man tasked to kill you?" the head kidnapper snapped. When she didn't answer he backhanded her, splitting her lip. She barely noticed because something in his voice caught her. When she took a closer look she saw the resemblance and knew the kid in her basement was related to him. She could use that. He pushed her down the main hallway, the barrel of his gun in her back.

When they got to the kitchen he gave her a hard shove that sent her sprawling in front of the table where the family sat. The oldest son, a boy of about fourteen named Rahim, jerked, and she could see the hatred in his eyes for the kidnappers and for his own helplessness. And then his eyes met hers and she saw hope. She winked ever so slightly, keeping her head down as she got to her feet. She remained as submissive as she could bear, thinking "game over" when the head kidnapper put his rifle down, tore a pistol out of his waistband and held it to Mrs Kashani's head. It worked far better than binding her hands because she froze, flashing back five years, the image of another hostage superimposed over Mrs Kashani, a hostage shot and dying. Her mind went blank, and a shaking started deep inside her— "Answer my question." —and

just like that she snapped back to the image of Mrs Kashani. It

helped that the kidnapper snarled his question right in her face. And he had bad breath. Seriously bad. Nothing like a little comic relief to make you remember what was important. She still had a chance to save these hostages, if she kept her head. She dragged her eyes off Mrs Kashani and put them on the kidnapper. "You can't kill her," Kate said, giving up on the submissive routine. It wasn't working anyway. "Do not tell me what I can and cannot do." 'You shoot her, or anyone else, there's a chance the neighbours will hear

and call the police. Yeah, silencer,” she added before he could, "but what will Amir Kashani do when he comes home to find that you killed his wife?” "He will continue to obey as long as we have hostages." "Do you really believe that? You promised him you wouldn't harm any member of his family as long as he cooperated. He would never have gone to the negotiations otherwise. You harm her, and you will have betrayed your word. Why would he trust you again?” "It is your fault,” he screamed, and since he was a hair away from total meltdown she pulled back. "I gave Mr Kashani my word that I would keep him and his family safe. That's why I'm here.” If she died, she died keeping her word, and hopefully she'd be the only casualty. At least on her side of the conflict. Fuck it, Reese thought after he'd taken down the enemy operative who'd been sent to find and kill him. The second guy had been older than the kid at the gate. Older and better. Even after being disarmed, he'd kept his head and gotten in a couple of good body blows before Reese dropped him, trussed him up, and left him in a clump of shrubbery along the west side of the property. Less than fifteen minutes had passed since Kate disappeared into Kashani's house, but he was done waiting. Sure, Kate would probably hate him later, but at least she'd have a later. He refused to consider any other outcome. He worked his way around the perimeter of the yard, conscious that time was limited but needing to make sure he wasn't seen. It didn't take a

genius to find the kitchen, but peeking in the window told him precious little. Except that Kate was hurt. He was at the door, reaching for the knob, before he could stop himself. It took a couple more minutes for him to holster his gun and begin the nearly impossible task of talking himself out of busting into the house and killing the guy who'd bloodied Kate's face. If he busted in she'd be dead. Two armed men had guns trained on her - luckily they were both facing away from him and hadn't seen him. But at the first sign of trouble they'd start shooting, and they'd take out the biggest threat first. After Kate was dead they wouldn't care where they aimed. Reese eased back, retraced his steps, and slipped in the front door. He wasn't worried about going in, or being heard, since the guys in the kitchen would think he was one of them. The flipside of that was that the kidnappers would expect their guy to check in and make a report. That meant time was limited. He made his way back to the kitchen, not using the main hall since he'd be seen that way. When he got there he heard Kate talking a blue streak, keeping the bad guys focused on her. He stayed back, letting her run the show and hoping to hell she had a plan. "I caught the man you sent to kill me," Kate said in response to the head kidnapper's repeated question, "but I'm not telling you where he is until I get some answers from you." She'd hadn't heard the front door open, but the change in air pressure had told her someone had come in. She knew it was Reese. No way the kidnapper had gotten the better of him, and no way would he wait an hour to

come in, which was for the best. Ten minutes of conversation with the kidnappers only confirmed for her that more talking would be a waste of time. "He revealed our plans," the other man grumbled. "You should not have sent him, Taj." "Shut up," Taj snapped, the barrel of his gun drifting away from her, just for a second, when he looked over his shoulder. And then he turned back and she saw her death in his eyes. "You must have tortured him." "There was no need," she said. All she had to do was hold Taj off long enough for Reese to make it to the kitchen, and hope to hell he could read her mind. "The men I had posted here didn't check in." "And what do you hope to do?" "The safety of the Kashani family is my only concern." "The family remains safe as long as Amir follows my instructions." "They're safe until the peace treaty has been negotiated and you don't need them any more." 'You are helpless to change the outcome." Rahim Kashani didn't look surprised to hear Taj agree with Kate. Neither was Kate, but she knew otherwise. "Helpless?" she said. "No, I'm really not. Reese," she yelled as she lunged for Taj. She saw the other guy bring his gun to bear on the family, but saw him go down before he could get off a shot and she knew it was Reese firing from behind her. Then she was in under Taj's gun, deflecting it up so his first shot went into the ceiling. She hit him hard enough to hear his breath whoosh

out and make him lose his grip on the handgun. He came right back at her, and he had at least fifty pounds on her, all muscle. But he wasn't trained in hand-to-hand. And she was rusty. Death was a hell of a motivator, though, and she was getting the upper hand. Until he pulled a knife and took a swipe at her, the point burning along her biceps as she moved in, because he had the longer reach and staying back was to his advantage. Then Taj stopped cold, moving his hands out slowly to his sides and dropping the knife. Kate was pissed, filled to bursting with adrenaline and no place to work it off - except on Reese. But when she stepped around Taj, it wasn't Reese holding the gun on him. It was Rahim Kashani, cocking the hammer on the gun Taj had dropped. And he was a hair's breadth from pulling the trigger. :£You

don't want to do that, Rahim,” she said to him, working hard to

keep her voice calm, to talk him down when what she wanted was to take the gun away and kill Taj herself. 'Yes, I do." "You kill him, he's a martyr. His name will never be forgotten. You let him live, he's nothing but a failure." "Yes." Rahim eased back, uncocked the gun and smiled. It wasn't a particularly nice smile. "A failure beaten by a woman." Kate gave him a look. So did his mother. "I mean no offence," Rahim said with a slight bow. "This coward who preys on women and children will be sent back to Balykistan, where we know how to deal with pigs like him." He started the humiliation by spitting on Taj.

"I almost feel sorry for you," Kate said. "I have no need of your pity," Taj sneered. "No, but you have it anyway," she said, knowing it was like rubbing salt in a wound. Petty, but satisfying. "Nowwhere are my men?" Eight Thirty minutes later, Kate sat in the Kashanis' kitchen watching the FBI bundle the four kidnappers off in a white van camouflaged as an appliance repair truck. There'd been only one gunshot and the neighbours were none the wiser. Agents had been sent to her house for the kid in the basement. Another agent was debriefing her bodyguards, none the worse for being tied up and gagged for twelve hours, but who were embarrassed about being overcome by amateurs. That's what Taj and his accomplices were - young, stupid, fanatical, foolishly overconfident amateurs. Sure, they'd gotten the drop on Kate's men posted at the house, but after that there were too many variables. Not just her, but Amir Kashani as well. He'd been playing along. Waiting for the right moment. Some would have said it was cruel to let his family suffer, but that was why he made a hell of a negotiator. He knew when to play his hand. Sooner or later he'd have taken action. There was no need now, since the two conspirators accompanying him had been quietly arrested and replaced by FBI agents. Kate would get her people sorted out and replace the agents with her bodyguards. If Kashani still trusted her. "They won't let their guard down again,” Reese said from where he sat

beside her. "Still reading my mind?" "Just saying." "They won't get the chance to screw up again, not in my employment." She twisted to look at him. "And since when do yon suffer incompetence?" 'They've learned an invaluable lesson." "I'll take it under advisement." "Mike Kovaleski can make the decision easier." She laughed softly, derisively, at the roundabout job offer. I’m not taking orders from the FBI again. But I'd be happy to consult." 'You think Mike will go for that?" 'Yep. He gets the credit if a kidnapping ends well, and he has a nice, convenient scapegoat if it doesn't. It's a win-win for him. Not to mention he can dump all the unsavoury protection gigs on me." "That's what I told him your answer would be. He said to tell you to send him your standard contract and they'll keep it on file. Along with mine." She turned to look at him for the first time since he'd sat down beside her. Yours?" "I quit." And there it was, the flood of feelings she'd been trying to ignore, buoyed this time by hope. "It's about time," was all she said. "What are your plans?" He shrugged. "Got an idea or two."

She dropped her gaze so he wouldn't see how much she hoped she was on the list. 'Yon could always come to work for me." "Taking orders from yon?" 'Yeah, you didn't exactly wait an hour." You didn't expect me to." He bumped her shoulder with his. "I knew it wouldn't take you an hour to scope out the situation. I let you make the first move." "I noticed that. I guess I could take it as a sign of your trust. If I were an optimist." He shook his head. "I don't think I could work for an optimist. And anyway, I was thinking more of a partnership." She twisted around and stared, speechless for a second. And then the outrage took over. "Partnership? You don't want much, do you? After leaving me hanging for five years, yon think you can waltz back into my life, assist me with one successful op, and I'll just—" He buried his hand in her hair, took her mouth, and kissed her, long and deep and mind-scrambling. "What was that?" she said once she'd caught her breath. "My credentials for the partnership I suggested. We can talk about the professional possibilities later.” "Sure. Talk. Later," she said, and kissed him back. "Much later."

Cane River

Rinda Elliott

“I’m calling

in the favour.”

Marcus Bellany swallowed the tongue-lashing he'd been about to lay on his friend for calling at one in the morning. He sat up in bed, flipped on the lamp and reached for the glass of ice he1 d left to melt. His thin white sheet had been lacked to the floor. No wonder. A sheen of sweat covered his naked body despite the air from the ceiling fan. "Must be serious,” "It is." Tony's voice was tighter than an over-tuned guitar string. Alarm skittered up Marcus1 back. No one did chill like Anthony Falk. "I know you're on leave,” Tony continued. "But it's Erica.” Marcus swung his legs over the side of the bed, ran his left hand through his hair. He could kiss his entire vacation goodbye if it had anything to do with that woman. "Oh no, not the brat. Come on, Tony, I owe you and I owe you big, but pulling your brainiac sister out of whatever mess she's gotten into this time w-" "Marcus. I can't trust anyone else." His voice wasn't only tight. That was real fear darkening the edge. Marcus set down the glass without taking a drink. "What did she do?” "She hacked into the wrong computer network this time and stumbled on something that will make you think this world isn't worth shit.”

Marcus had come to that conclusion on his very first mission for the US Marshals’ Special Operations Group. He rubbed the old knife scar in his thigh. It was supposed to have been a simple prisoner transport for one of the nastiest creatures to walk this earth. It had gone wrong. Very wrong. "What do you need me to do?” "Get her somewhere safe. I'd do it myself but I'm still in Italy. You're closer." "She'll light me. I'm probably her least favourite person on earth.” "That's not true and you know it. But if she fights, knock her ass out and cany her off. This went past serious, Marcus, and the stubborn idiot won't listen to me. She's playing vigilante, thinks she's in hiding -thinks these guys don't know she's collecting data on them. I got word through my channels that something's going down and I'm sure it's her." "Who is she messing with, Tony?" "Reyes." Adrenaline flooded his muscles. Red hot fear burned along his lower back. Marcus stood, paced across the hardwood floor. "She's already dead, Tony." "No, I just talked to her. And don't call it in either. There's a leak. I'm sure it's in my group, but you never know. Just get her out now. She's hiding out in an old cabin along the Cane River, right outside of Natchez. I'm pretty sure she's under surveillance already. You have to leave now," he insisted. “I’mup.

Going. But why wouldn't Reyes' men just kill her?"

"I think Reyes is fascinated with her. She managed to crack their code

and sabotage an entire section of his kiddie porn ring. She turned over the locations of a dozen kids to us, Marcus. Three have been rescued already. It's possible Reyes is thinking of using her. But if that doesn't work, we both know he'll kill her." Marcus closed his eyes, his gut twisting into a sick knot at the thought of little Erica in the hands of that monster. It had been five years since he'd seen her. Her gorgeous, pouty lips had tightened into a thin line the minute he'd shown up at Tony's parents' house for dinner. His every attempt at making conversation had been met with smart-mouthed responses or glaring silence. She'd never forgiven him for that night he'd turned her down in college. Didn't matter that his college room-mate's sister had the sweetest, most athletic little body he'd ever seen. Didn't matter that she'd been the cause of many a night sweat. When she decided to test her new womanly wiles on him, she'd been only sixteen. Her humiliation at his rejection still haunted him. "Wait, did you say she's single-handedly been responsible for the rescue of three missing kids?" he asked, snagging a pair of jeans from the floor. "She's fucking amazing, isn't she?" Tony was silent a minute and Marcus knew real fear was twisting up his friend. "The only reason my people haven't got her is she ran. And now I don't know who to trust. I need you to take care of her, Marcus." "I know. Give me the directions." The knot in his gut sat heavy and thick. He couldn't let anything happen to the brat. Still holding the phone,

he grimaced as he pulled denim over the sweat on his legs. He yanked a Tshirt from a shelf in the closet then opened the nightstand to get his wallet and Beretta. Before he flipped the phone closed he made a promise to his friend. "It'll take me about thirty minutes to get there. I'll keep her safe, Tony." Erica Falk rubbed late-night tiredness from her eyes before staring at the computer in shock. Dammit, he'd gotten away again! She pushed her wheeled desk chair away from the computer and jumped out before it crashed into the wood panelling on the wall. Sweat plastered her white tank to her chest, so she ripped it off and threw it into the corner of the room before stomping through the hallway into the cabin's tiny bathroom. She turned the shower on frigid and aimed the spray at a monster palmetto bug latched on to the white ceramic tile. She loved the Cane River. Loved the rich, citrus smell of magnolia blossoms on the breeze. Loved Louisiana. Hated. The. Freaking. Huge. Bugs. The insect managed to get away. Buzzed past her ear as it flew out of the bathroom. ''Probably into my bed," she muttered as she peeled off her khaki shorts and white cotton underwear. She draped a towel over the curtain rod and shrieked as she stepped into the stream of water. That first hit of cold was a bitch, but it still felt better than the sauna of this cabin. Midsummer was not her favourite season in the south. She spent the month as a walking puddle of misery. She'd have to find another hiding place - one with air conditioning.

While she soaped off the sweat and the grit that permeated the air, Erica went over the hacker's tracks in her head. She still couldn't believe he'd cracked her system. She'd used everything she had to catch him’ had installed more than one intrusion detection software and even the prototype to a new tracer program she'd written. It was better than anything on the market, but this guy was good. Had to be one of Reyes' men. Trying to get into her files, see what she'd managed to gather on the scumbag. Someone in her brother's organization was a damn mole. That was the only way they could have traced her because she'd left too long a trail. And the beginning of that trail started with a fake identity. She hadn't shared that little titbit with her brother. Mr By The Book wouldn't approve. But that was the only thing that had slowed them down. Her brother's call tonight had let her know it was too late now. Her real name had been leaked. She'd made the hit list. Tony would hunt that person down and make him or her regret the spill, but Erica would have to stay in hiding. Probably forever. Reyes'tentacles reached far and wide. Even if he was taken down, others would come after her - the bottom feeders who made up his sick client list. Familiar anxiety curled in her stomach but she quickly squashed it and let fury flow through her veins. They'd find her eventually, she didn't doubt it. And her death would probably be a long, slow one. But the rest of her life, short or not, would be filled with nightmares of those first images of children she'd stumbled upon. She didn't feel she had had a choice. Hot tears joined the cold water gushing over her head. She snatched the

shampoo bottle and proceeded to take her raw emotion out on her hair. That first little girl couldn't have been more than seven years old. A sob tore from her throat and she tilted her head back to let the water and lather pour down her face. The shampoo was gone long before the tears. When she turned off the shower, Erica took a deep, shuddering breath and blindly reached around the curtain for the towel. She buried her face in it, wishing it were one from home, which would be softer and would smell of the flowery dryer sheets she liked. This one had a nappy, cotton surface that scraped her skin. At least it was big. When she stepped into the hallway, every sense went on alert. There were no out of the ordinary sounds or smells and because she'd left on the lights, there was enough illumination streaming from the open bathroom. Nothing seemed out of place. Yet, it felt like someone had rubbed sandpaper down her spine. Her brother's words from their earlier call went through her mind. 'These people have invested millions setting up this porn ring. The client base alone took years. They know who tipped off the feds. They'll kill you." Maybe she'd been too cocky in thinking she could hide. She hadn't gone through any sort of special training - not like her brother. But she was a nonentity on the Net - a faceless being who bounced through many computers on her way to her destination. Officially, she was a software developer. Or she had been. She'd missed her last deadline. As she stood there weighing her options, a noise from outside sent her heart into overdrive. Her few years of aikido training were great for self-

defence, but what she really wished for in that second was a gun. Or two. Erica took three cautious steps into the bedroom and scanned every dark corner. Leaving the light off, she raced to her suitcase to grab another tank top and pair of shorts. She hurriedly pulled on the clothes and dropped to the rug so she could reach under the bed. She'd stashed a backpack there with everything she'd need in case she had to run: snacks, water bottles, flashlights with extra batteries, her wallet and, the most important thing when a Louisiana river was involved, bug spray. What kind of damage would it do to someone's eyes? As quietly as possible, she pulled out the can and uncapped it. She set the bottle on the floor and tugged on her socks and tennis shoes, then pulled her blonde hair into a ponytail. Erica felt the warning slide of real panic along her ribs and she took a second to find her calm. Her biggest urge was to crawl down the hall and grab her laptop. The rest of the equipment would be lost, but she had to try to salvage something. She was taking her first step into the hallway when a hot hand smelling of the outdoors closed over her mouth. Gasping, she kicked backwards. A male grunt sounded behind her. She yanked the bug spray up and was taking aim over her shoulder when the can was knocked out of her hand. It clattered down the hall. "Shh, Erica," whispered a deep, familiar voice. She felt the heat of his body as he pulled her back against him. "It's Marcus. Keep it down. I took down one man out front, but there could be more on the way." His words caused the strangest mix of relief and terror. Her body didn't know whether to relax or run. Someone was here to help her, yet someone

else was also here to kill her. She sagged against him. His other arm came around her as he took his hand off her mouth. His presence made the already small hallway feel miniscule. Marcus Bellany, six feet two inches of raw, dark-haired, Italian male. The man who'd inspired every schoolgirl fantasy she'd ever had. "How long have you been here?" Her whisper shook. Someone was here to kill her. Kill her. Plus, her rescuer was none other than the man she would have once done anything to make her knight in shining armour. "Long enough to see that you unpacked all your computer equipment and none of your clothes." She frowned at the amusement in his tone. "You think it's funny that someone is here to kill me?" He turned her to face him and she stilled the urge to touch him. Stupid, damned urge had sprouted when she'd first met him at sixteen when her older brother had brought him home from college for a visit. She'd taken one look at his broad shoulders and big hands and wanted things that had never occurred to her before. She'd spent that entire first night with red cheeks and a throbbing, uncomfortable warmth in her gut. Those dark eyes narrowed, his breath brushed over her cheek. "I don't think any of this is funny. Tony called me, told me what you've been doing. Messing with Reyes is crazy. Courageous, but crazy." When she opened her mouth, he put his hand back over it. "We can argue on the road. You're coming with me before they send anyone else after you." "I doubt they would," she said behind his palm. 'Tve learned a lot about

Reyes. To him, Fm just a woman. And a geek. Both weaklings in his eyes." The corner of Marcus' mouth lifted. "Don't underestimate what Reyes knows or thinks. There's a reason he hasn't been brought down yet. The man is smart and he surrounds himself with smart." "Not that smart or you wouldn't have taken one of his men down already." "The bright ones aren't the muscle. Lucky you. In fact, I think this one was mostly just enjoying the show. You should really put some curtains up in that bathroom - or pin up a sheet or something." "Oh, man." She was out in the woods, miles from another house. The thought hadn't even occurred to her. "Sweets, there isn't a manly thing about you." She wanted to smack that grin off his face. Yeah, once she'd wanted to crawl all over his big body and explore, but she'd spent the last few years in a state of "Marcus Hate". Or, more realistically, "Marcus Resentment". And not for the reasons he thought either. But she had no plans to set him straight. It was easier to just stay away from him - something she'd managed to do every time her sorry brother brought him home for the holidays. "Just let me grab my laptop." "Not a good idea. Don't want to haul it through the woods." "What? You didn't drive here?” His thick black eyebrows came together in a frown. "I certainly didn't park here." "Then we'll take my Jeep."

Marcus didn't say anything, just waited. "The bad guy messed with my Jeep, didn't he?" "That's what I would have done first. Come on. We've only got a mile to walk. I’ll secure a safe house for you- a real safe house with good guys who guard it with guns." He held up his hand. She hadn't even noticed the gun before. "I just wished for a gun. How convenient." She reached for it. He pulled his arm back. "Brat, I'm not giving you my gun. I held it up for show and tell only." Fuming, she marched into her room and hauled her backpack up so she could slip her arms through the straps. "Sweets. Brat. I prefer neither nickname so how about you just call me Erica. And when we get out of here, you can never call me again." He started to smile and she tightened her hands into fists. Lucky for him, he said nothing, merely turned to walk towards the back of the house. She sent one last, longing glance at the room she'd set up with her computer equipment and sighed. Reyes would send in men to take it all. She really liked that laptop, too. "Oh wait." Dashing into the room, she unplugged a USB cord and slipped the small attached hard drive into her backpack. He didn't follow her into the room - probably because the light was still on and the windows uncovered - instead lurked in the dark hallway. "I said I didn't want us hauling stuff around." "That drive holds over two hundred gigs of information and has enough data to put Reyes away. It's a sweet, sweet piece of hardware and since it's

the size of a cell phone ..." She paused, walked back into the hallway and glared into dark-brown eyes. "I don't think it'll slow us down." "Cheeky," he muttered, shaking his head as he turned away. "Always cheeky." "I said the name is Erica." Cheeky or not, Erica Falk was all grown up now. Marcus had years of training, yet one glance into that open bathroom window had almost gotten him killed. Reyes' man had actually spotted him first. He'd never admit to that. Never admit to being caught like a deer in headlights when he glimpsed a nude Erica in the bright window. That incredible body - the one she'd bared to him way too early- had changed. It was a little rounder. In all the right places. She still ran. He could tell by the whipcord leanness of her legs, the strong muscles in her thighs and her beautiful, toned backside. Her skin glowed, made his fingers itch. Marcus moved through the small living area of the cabin towards the back door. Erica stayed close behind him, her strawberry shampoo teasing his senses, reminding him of that night in his dorm. He’d said no back then, but not right away. He had touched first. Felt her against him. Memorized her smells. It had taken years to get the memory of her out of his pores. And now, he had to keep her alive through unfamiliar woods with a raging hard-on. He should be fired.

At the door, he picked up the night-vision goggles he’d dropped just inside, put them on his head, but not over his eyes yet, then glanced at Erica. "On the way here, mosquitoes nearly ate me alive. Do you want to grab longer pants or something?” "Wait," she hissed. "The spray!" She dashed back into the hallway and returned with the can he’d knocked out of her hands earlier. After spraying a mist of it over her legs, arms and neck, she handed him the can. "Do my back then use some yourself.” He eyed the can. Raised his eyebrows. "You were going to spray this in my eyes earlier?" "Yep.” "Good idea.” He sprayed it over her whole back, clothes and all, then sprayed a bunch in the air and walked through it. They didn't have any more time for finesse. Erica coughed and waved her hands in the air. "Trying to poison us first?” "This stuff does make a good weapon. A shot in the eyes would have given you a decent running start." He turned back to the door, eyes burning a little. "We should hurry. The man I knocked out is tied up -can't hurt us - but we've still dawdled too long.” "Lead the way.” "Don't let go of my hand." Marcus wrapped his fingers around hers and looked through the small window in the door, scanning the woods for any signs of movement. Moonlight filled the small clearing, but the forest

beyond was pitch black. He held his gun ready and pulled her with him, opening and then shutting the door behind them. The stretch of grass behind the cabin was only about ten yards deep, so they made the cover of trees fast. If any more of Reyes’ goons had been out there, they would have tried a shot. He’d scouted the area thoroughly and was pretty sure there had been only the man posted, but he’d also stood staring into her bathroom longer than he should have. Watched her drying off after her shower longer than he should have. Yeah, he should be fired. An owl hooted somewhere close by and the sound flowed into a natural symphony with the throaty croaks of frogs, the flapping of wings, different bird calls and crickets - so much noise, it blanketed their steps. The damp ground helped, too. "You up for this? Ill be able to see with my nightvision goggles, but you won't. You'll have to stay close to me." "I’m up for it. But can I wear them part of the time? Those are cool. Slimmer than the ones I've seen." Amusement curled in his chest. He should have known. Gadgets. "You can play with them after we get out of here safely.” Marcus settled into a good pace, one that would let him watch out for obstacles like exposed tree roots and brush. It didn't take long for sweat to soak through his jeans and T-shirt. He scanned the forest as his feet crunched twigs and undergrowth. He spotted movement a couple of times, but wrote it off as animals. The humidity sat heavy on his skin, reminding him of those seventeen-hour training days when he'd first joined the

Marshal's SOG programme. Hours running in sweltering heat, working on little sleep. Erica stayed close, her body brushing his, doing its best to distract him. They were moving along the Cane River, the smell of warm, wet vegetation pungent. To their left, something big plopped into the water, splashed around. They were still pretty far from his truck, and he kept his voice down when he asked, "What started all this?” "Gut suspicion,” she whispered. I’ma part of this locked message board mainly a bunch of tech geeks who hang out and talk code. One of them made what he thought was a joke, some random reference to young girls.” There was a scuffle, then what he thought was her elbow hit his back. "Crap, it's really dark.” She put her hands on his waist, stepped closer. "Can't explain it really. I just had this feeling. So I hacked his system.” "And got Reyes?” "Not at first. Took a while." She dug her fingers into his sides. “What I did find made me sick. I kept digging and found one of the kids. Then I got obsessed with it. Man, Marcus, I saw things I wish I could forget.” She stumbled and he turned to grab her arms so she didn't fall. He couldn't see the colour of her eyes through the goggles, but the ripping horror in her expression tore him up. "I've seen a lot of bad things in my job.”he said. "Even what you've seen. It's not an easy thing to get out of your head." She briefly closed her eyes. "Every second I spend away from my computer feels like a betrayal to the kids I haven't found. I just couldn't

stop, Marcus.” He pulled her close, wrapped his arms around her. "I promise to get all your hardware replaced as soon as we get you protected. We'll set it up somewhere safe where you can track them all down. I'll help.” He shouldn't. He should turn that hard drive over to his superiors and let them go after Reyes. But the determination in her eyes touched his soul. She needed to do this. He understood that feeling all too well. She stepped away, clenching her fists. "I've never been a violent person, never liked guns. But in the last few months, I've read and seen enough to know I could easily pull the trigger on Reyes - on anyone like him really.” "I have," he said softly. She was so damned beautiful - even bathed in the green reflections from the trees. Sharp cheekbones, narrow chin and full, pink lips that had always drawn his gaze. He flashed back to her at sixteen and that one kiss he'd taken before coming to his senses. Marcus had been with several women since then and not one experienced kiss had compared to her eager, inexperienced one’ to that unbearable excitement he'd felt in that small dorm room. His hands had trembled when he'd pushed her away and he'd been afraid he'd never breathe right again. Everything he'd felt since then had been nothing more than a shadow in comparison. But right now, in this dark forest with her pale face raised to his, those powerful feelings came rushing back. He wondered if that desire he'd felt then, like now, had more to do with

her and who she was -what she was to him - than just some horny kid's reaction to a naked girl. Maybe he shouldn't have felt so ashamed for wanting her then. His heart picked up rhythm. A bead of sweat rolled down his cheek from his temple. She stared back and he knew she was lost in memories, too, because she surely couldn't see much in the dark. He shook his head. They'd have to talk more. Later, when she was out of danger. "Come on, we should keep moving." She grabbed his arm. "Wait, just give me a couple more seconds." She licked her lips. "I should have said this to you a long time ago," she whispered. "You were right to push me away. You did the honourable thing." "I didn't want to. God, I didn't want to." Her smile tugged at his chest. Self-deprecating and nothing like the innocent, bright smiles she'd gifted him with before that night in his dorm. This one settled inside him - deep inside him. He needed to keep moving, to get her out of here, but he stood frozen. Stunned by the realization that he'd been carrying this emotion for a long, long time. Erica placed her palm on his chest, smiled again when she felt the rapid thumps of his heart. "I arranged for Tony to be gone that night." "I know." "I was a stupid kid who thought she was a grown-up. I wanted you so much and nothing about it felt kidlike. I didn't stop to think what that would do to you, what kind of trouble it could have caused you. I was selfish, immature and—" Marcus put his hand over her mouth. Wanted to put his mouth there.

She growled at him. He chuckled, but sobered quickly. "What you did, that kiss we shared, it's nothing like what's going on with Reyes, so I don't want to see this expression in your eyes again. Our age difference wasn't that big - we were both young." She pulled his hand away. "I know that. I do. But I was just so impulsive and stupid and later, all that anger ... it wasn't directed at you. It was all mine. And I didn't know how to apologize. Was too ashamed of myself. So—" she sighed "—I was a bitch." "1 wasn't totally innocent, you know." He tugged on her arm again. "Seriously, we'll finish this in the truck.” She followed behind him, held on to one of his belt loops. "Marcus, you were nineteen years old and Tony had told me you'd been without a girlfriend a long time. I walked out of your bathroom completely naked. You didn't stand a chance." He heard a slapping noise. "The bug spray isn't working." "We're sweating it off. And we need to pick up the pace. I should have called in my team - I trust them. But Tony thinks there's a mole, that there could be more. Plus, I wrote Tony's request off to brotherly overreaction." "But you came out anyway. Armed and with night goggles." "It's good to be prepared." They came to a low wire fence and he plucked her off the ground and swung her over, murmuring in her ear as he did. "By the way, I liked it when you walked out of that bathroom naked. I liked your body at sixteen.

Can't lie about that. But if s so much better now." Erica knew she should be terrified. Reyes had sent someone to get her, she would probably have to go into witness protection now that her brother had gotten the Marshals involved . . . and who knew where she would end up? But the relief she felt in finally apologizing trumped it all. And damn if she didn't still want him. Wanted him so badly her body ached with the desire. It was hotter than Hades out here and there were bugs the size of her hand on that ground yet she wanted to throw him down and crawl on top of him. This craving was no different than what she'd felt as a teenager, only then she'd been too young to handle it. He'd been young too. But strong. He'd wanted a career as a United States Marshal too much to throw it away on a one-night stand with an underage girl. At the time, she'd been angry. She'd wanted him to give up everything for her - no matter the cost. She'd been such a selfish teenager. She followed behind Marcus now, taking in the tight fit of his jeans, knowing he had to be dying from this heat in them. Eyeing his broad shoulders, she felt her belly tighten and wondered if that return desire she'd seen in his eyes had been real or a figment of her own desperate wishes. Ones that never went away, damn it. Marcus suddenly stopped. He held up a hand for her to stop, too. She leaned against a tree and strained her ears to pick up any out of the ordinary sound from the cacophony of the woods at night. The voices trickled in, raising the fine hairs on her entire body. More than one person. Marcus pointed to the right and she peered through the thick foliage until

she caught a spot of red. In the moonlit clearing, it stood out like a target among all the surrounding green and brown. Two men, in suits of all things, peered into the truck windows. Her heart threatened to beat through her ribcage. Marcus slid his gun from the hip holster. Motioned for her to stay behind the tree. They waited. She guessed he expected them to leave, but when they finally moved, it was to come towards them. Blood rushed in her eardrums, her thoughts sped up until they became a jumble of incoherence. She'd spent years in aikido, mostly for fitness and selfdiscipline. But she'd picked up a few things and one was not to panic, to stay focused and to use whatever the enemy had against them. Erica pulled air into her lungs then silently let it out. She focused inwards and found a core of strength she hadn't expected. Frustration and protectiveness towards Marcus helped fuel it. Right before the men stepped into their small clearing, Marcus held up the gun. "Stop right there.” Both men did, but one snapped his gun up. Fired. Marcus fired back. Ears ringing and stunned, Erica plastered herself to the back of the tree. In the movies, they always stood around and aimed the guns at each other for a while. And talked! Sweat poured down her face and neck. Rough bark scraped her bare skin. Something crawled over her hands, yet she couldn't move. Until she realized they'd stopped firing. She peeked around the tree, her gaze zeroing

in on the one suit down. Another gunshot rang out and she ducked back, covered her ears, then squatted low to steal another look. The other suit was running her way. She gulped, dropped her backpack and rummaged for the bug spray. She released a huge cloud into the air. Pushing away from the tree, she crouched. The suit hit that toxic air, stumbled, and Erica was ready. Shifting her weight to the balls of her feet, she grabbed his suit jacket in two fists and used his weight and momentum to throw him back over her head. He smacked into a tree. Staggering to his feet, he snarled at her, swiped at eyes that were probably burning from the spray and pulled up his gun. Marcus shoved her to the ground and fired. The bullet ripped through the man's cheek. The spray of blood made a sickening, splattering noise on the surrounding trees and leaves. Erica closed her eyes and gagged. She coughed up bug spray, rubbed her own streaming eyes. Marcus sat on the ground and pulled her into his lap. "Are you OK?" "Yeah." She put a hand on her churning stomach, looked at Marcus to keep from looking at either of the dead men. Her hair had been pulled loose and several strands stuck to her sweaty cheek. "Think there are more?" He nodded, tucked her hair behind her ears. "I think there will be a lot more. This has turned into a lot more than a favour for a friend. I've got to call it in, get my team out here. Then we're going to get you somewhere safe. I promised your brother. Besides, he'll kick my ass if anything else happens to you." He used the bottom of his T-shirt to wipe her eyes. "Sorry,

no handkerchief." She tried to smile but failed. The burning in her eyes made her blink. "Shit, you can take Tony. He's been behind a desk for two years." "Most of your life has been behind a desk and you just sent a man twice your size flying. Pretty impressive." He pulled her closer, pressed his hands tight to her back. "I like you in my lap," he whispered. "A lot." She didn't say anything. Just held her breath, closed her eyes. She'd wanted this man for so long and had never thought either of them could get past the humiliation of her ill-conceived advance that night. He rubbed his hands up and down her back, tucked his face in her neck and inhaled. "You smell like bug spray and strawberries. Hot. And that move? Where you made him fly? Also hot." "Aikido," she whispered, turning her face, then resting her lips against the stubbly skin of his chin. He went still when she kissed his jaw. "Tony insisted I learn self-defence." "About your brother," he murmured. "He saved my life once, when we went out together on our first mission-before he left to join the Feds. I made a stupid mistake, ended up losing a prisoner and gaining a wicked knife wound in the leg. Tony caught the guy, saved my ass before I could bleed out. He called me tonight. Asked me to return the favour. But Erica—" he paused, looked at her "—I didn't come out here just because he asked." She smiled. "So how do you think he'll feel about you dating a US Marshal? He once told me he'd rather see you alone than with someone who carries a gun."

"I don't care." She rubbed her hands over his shoulders, down his chest - nearly groaning over the muscles she felt under that damp T-shirt. They both needed a shower. And maybe a place away from all the dead bodies. "Am I going to be dating a US Marshal?" He slid his hands up her back, under her hair, and cupped the back of her head. He stared into her eyes for what felt like for ever. She saw the same glittering need she'd witnessed so many years ago and this time he didn't hold anything back. He let her see the strength of that need, let it flow into her body through his touch. Her belly fluttered. He pulled her head to his. She moaned with the first slide of his lips over hers and sank into a kiss that made her forget the dead bad guys, her surroundings, everything. When they came up for air, she smiled against his mouth. "You know, I've always loved Cane River. Always thought this place had a spirit of its own, that it absorbed the essence of every living creature passing through. Every emotion. Feels like a person can live for ever here. You feel it?" "I'm feeling something," he murmured before returning her grin. "Are you talking about for ever already, Brat?" She pulled back enough to meet his gaze. "Maybe." Marcus chuckled, his breath brushing over her lips. "Guess I'd better take up aikido then. Wouldn't want to find myself thrown into any trees." "No trees," she whispered, "but I won't promise not to try that with a bed." Erica dropped a kiss on his mouth. "A very, very—" she dropped another kiss, loved the groan that rumbled from his mouth into hers "big bed."

Surrender at Dawn Laura Griffin

One Phuket, Thailand Jack's senses went on alert, and it only took a glimpse at the mirror behind the bar for him to know why. The woman making her way through the scattered rattan tables and chairs was American, clueless and on a mission, and the combination tripped an alarm in Jack's brain. He eyed her from beneath the brim of his Dodgers cap as she approached the counter. She claimed the empty stool three down from his and tucked one of those yellow corkscrew curls behind her ear. Then she flashed the bartender a smile. "I'm looking for John Brenner, of Brenner Aviation." Kai responded with a blank look, and she leaned closer to him. "Do you speak English?” Kai nodded. "I'm looking for John Brenner," she repeated, and Jack caught the

Southern drawl in her voice. "He's a pilot. American. I was told he hangs out here?" Jack savoured one last swill of beer. He plunked the bottle on the bar, and the noise caught her attention. She cast a glance in his direction, did a double take, then slowly turned to face him. "Mr Brenner?" She slid off the bar stool and walked over. "Who's asking?" She held out a hand, and he glanced down at the French manicure. It went well with her loose-fitting white shirt and snug designer jeans. Heeled sandals, too. Jack would bet his Cessna she'd stepped off a plane from the States just this afternoon. When it became clear he wasn't going to shake her hand, she rested it on her hip. "I'm Charlotte Whiteside. I need your services." He looked her up and down, hoping she'd read the intentions behind his gaze. She cleared her throat. “You fly seaplanes, is that right?” "I fly lots of things.” "I need you to fly me to an island not far from here.” ''Whereabouts?” "Ko Aroon.” Kai's hand stilled on the tap. Every pair of shoulders at the bar tensed. “I’msure

you've heard of it," she went on. It's supposed to be one of the

best dive spots in Thailand.” Jack slid his empty Singha bottle across the counter and stood up. "It's not on my route,” he said. "I'd like you to put it on your route.” He gazed down at her, and she didn't act the least bit intimidated by his size, although he knew she was. Despite the ballsy attitude, he could tell Charlotte Whiteside wasn't comfortable in this seedy watering hole surrounded by leering men. "Sony, sweetheart. No can do." ''I'm prepared to pay you well." Jack traded looks with Kai as he took out his wallet and left some baht on the bar. He put a hand on her shoulder and felt her muscles stiffen. He leaned close, but kept his voice just loud enough for the barflies on either side of them to hear. "How 'bout we go back to your place,” he said, "and “1 show you exactly where I can take you?" Confusion filled her brown eyes. He squeezed her shoulder - much too hard - and understanding seemed to dawn. "All right.” She smiled up at him, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Lead the way.” John Brenner was tall and muscular, and looked exactly like Charlotte

had expected, except for the meanness. She hadn't expected a decorated veteran and a former Navy SEAL to have that meanness about him. And despite his warm hand at the small of her back, she knew as he steered her out of the bar that he couldn't stand her. Three paces on to the busy sidewalk, he turned to face her. "What's a nice girl like you doing in a shit-hole like that?” She gazed up at him as taxis and motorcycles and rickshaws rushed by. She hadn't imagined it. He really, truly disliked her, and they'd only just met. This was going to be much tougher than she'd thought. "Listen, Mr Brenner—" "It's Jack," he snapped. "And if you have a brain in that pretty head of yours, you'll get your butt back to the Two Palms, where you belong.” She glanced up and down the street. Bars, strip clubs and massage parlours, as far as the eye could see. She looked up at him again. "How’d you know I was staying at the Two Palms?" "Lucky guess." He slung a leg over the nearest motorcycle and gave her a hard look. "Get on. I’ll take you." She stared at him, all broad shoulders and Levis and bad attitude. He was a dangerous man’ she knew that for a fact. It was crazy to trust him. But almost everything she'd done in the past forty-eight hours –starting with leaving her job in the middle of a workday and catching a flight to Thailand -was just as crazy. Charlotte looked at the motorcycle. She glanced at a nearby doorway,

where a man she recognized from the bar now stood smoking a cigarette and watching her from the shadows. "Get on," Jack repeated. She met his gaze. Then she threw her leg over the back of his bike and settled in. The engine growled, and they lunged into traffic. He sped through streets and alleys and black puffs of car exhaust. Charlotte's hair whipped into her eyes, but she didn't dare let go to push it aside. Instead, she tucked her forehead against his back and clutched his waist, trying not to cling too tightly as he dodged in and out of cars. She was close enough to smell him over all the exotic smells of the city - male heat and sweat and that vague, indefinable scent she hadn't smelled in a long time. He took a corner, and her hands and thighs clutched tighter. She peeked up as they sped through a narrow alley, then turned on to another congested street. Moments later, they were on a two-lane highway flanked on either side by coconut trees. She closed her eyes as he leaned into the curves - left, then right again, then suddenly a sharp left. Her eyes popped open and they were on a familiar driveway lined with bougainvillea. He glided up to the bevelled glass doors of her hotel and cut the motor. She unclenched her hands from his T-shirt and realized they were trembling. Her knees were trembling, too, and she didn't know whether it was the place or the man or the thing she was about to do, but Charlotte felt rattled, right down to her bones. What now? Was she supposed to invite him up to her room and persuade him to take her to Ko Aroon? Just two days ago, such an idea would have

been unthinkable. At this moment, she was thinking about it. Her throat went dry as she pictured herself taking her clothes off for this man. That's what he'd insinuated . . . wasn't it? That if she'd sleep with him, he'd take her where she wanted to go? It was, and yet. . . as she looked into his face now, she saw nothing but loathing. "Stay away from Aroon Island," he said. "But-" "Yeah, it's one of the best dive spots around. It's also been taken over by dirtbags who would like nothing better than to get their hands on a blonde American travelling alone. Get out your travel guide and find someplace else to play." "But I need to-" "Stay away," he said, and roared off. Charlotte awoke with the sun in her eyes and the unmistakable feeling that she wasn't alone. She sat up and blinked across the ocean of her kingsize bed. She jerked the sheet up. "How did you get in here?" Jack Brenner stared at her from across the room, arms folded over his chest. "You didn't tell me you knew Mark Colter.” She pressed back against the headboard as he came to stand at the foot of the bed. "Would it have made a difference if I had?” "Mark and I went thro ugh BUD /straining together,” he said, as if that

answered her question. "How..." She shook off the grogginess and glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Eight fifteen. It must be the jet lag. She'd never felt so out of it. Jack just stood there, watching her. "How did you find out about Mark?” "Simple background search,” he said. "You're from Lazy Springs, Texas. It's a small town. You two graduated high school a year apart.” She brushed her hair out of her eyes and looked at him. Something had changed since last night. The hostility was still there, but he'd come back, which could only mean one thing. "So ... will you help me?” His gaze drifted down, and she adjusted the sheet again. Then his grey eyes met hers, and they were as hard as stones. She wondered how many men had looked into those eyes and hadn't lived to see another day. "What's on Ko Aroon?" he asked. "And don't give me some bullshit about the coral." Charlotte paused a moment, trying to remember how she'd planned to explain herself. Jack was a straightforward man, so she decided to go with simplicity. "I'm looking for my brother." "How'd your brother get mixed in with a bunch of two-bit mercenaries?" "I don't know. He's a reporter. I can only assume he's following a story." Jack let out a stream of curses. But with every word that spewed from

his mouth, Charlotte relaxed a little because she knew it meant he was going to help her. He grabbed the terry-cloth robe off the chair beside him and tossed it at her. "Get dressed," he said. "Meet me at the marina across from the hotel in ten minutes." He moved for the door. "But where are we—" "Pack light,” he added, as he jerked shut the door. She stared after him in shock. They were going somewhere in his plane. He was taking her to Ko Aroon. Charlotte scrambled out of bed and pulled on the robe. She went to the safe in the closet and, with shaky fingers, entered the code-her brother's birthday. Tears stung her eyes as she punched the numbers. Hang in there, Davey. I'm on my way. She grabbed the stacks of bills - all the money she'd been able to withdraw on a Wednesday afternoon on short notice - and shoved them into the small black backpack she'd bought at DFW Airport. She'd chosen the bag because it was sturdy and came with a padlock. Charlotte glanced around her room, feeling the adrenaline coursing through her system now. They were going. Finally. She was doing something, and action was always better than inaction. She spent about five seconds in the bathroom, barely taking time to splash water on her face. She dressed quickly in khaki shorts and the white button-down she'd worn yesterday. It was wrinkled, but it was made

of linen and she needed an airy fabric in the stifling tropical heat. She shoved her feet into sandals, dropped a change of clothes and a few toiletry items into the backpack, and rushed across the street to the marina. There, she saw fishing boats and dive boats and tour operators milling about, but no six-foot-three former SEALs. She did, however, see a seaplane. It was small and silver, and, as she neared it, she discerned the words BRENNER AVIATION stencilled across the side. "You're late." She jumped at the voice and turned around. Jack brushed past her on the dock, his arms loaded with wooden crates. She trailed him down a rickety pier to his plane. He wore cargo shorts, sport sandals and an olivegreen T-shirt that stretched taut across the muscles of his back. He ducked through the doorway of the tiny aircraft, and Charlotte stood on the dock as he loaded the crates. He reappeared and held a hand out for her backpack. "That can go in with the cargo." Her fingers tightened on the shoulder straps. "I'll hang on to it, thanks." His expression darkened, but he didn't comment. She moved closer to the plane and took a tentative step up the ladder. Jack clamped a hand around her elbow and practically lifted her aboard. Charlotte glanced around. There were several jump seats in the back, but they were folded up to make room for crates of produce and cases of wine from New Zealand. Charlotte lowered herself into the only available seat, which was up in the cockpit. Defying the laws of physics, Jack squeezed his immense body

into the seat beside her. He reached over to fasten her seat belt. His knuckles brushed the tops of her thighs as he yanked the strap and she flinched. When, he met her gaze again, his cool grey eyes looked amused. She turned to face the window. "Where, exactly, are we going?” He ignored the question as he began flipping switches and jabbing at the controls. Then he put on a headset and started talking with someone over the radio. Conversation time had ended, apparently. Charlotte busied herself taking in scenery as they manoeuvred away from the pier and across the lagoon. The engine changed pitch as Jack turned the plane to face the mouth of the harbour and the western horizon stretched out before him. "You ready?” She glanced at him and nodded. He shifted the controls, and an invisible force flattened her against the seat, and then they were speeding across the water's surface. Her stomach dropped as they suddenly lifted into the air, and the only thing she could see was sun-drenched sky. After a few long moments, they levelled off. Charlotte gazed down at the azure water, the white shoreline, the emerald-green coconut groves. The blue became darker as they gained altitude and moved out over the ocean. Charlotte's heart pounded. She stole a glimpse at the man beside her and marvelled at his perfectly relaxed features. This was routine for him, just a regular morning. She wondered what he must think of ordinary people who spent their days in office buildings and SUVs and subway

cars, caught up in the endless rat race of American life. He handed her a headset. She put it on, and the snug cushions over her ears blocked out the engine noise. "Tell me about your brother." His voice came through to her, and it no longer sounded as hostile as before. He was on board now. They were in this together, and he probably wanted as much information as he could get so he could perform his mission. And yet he hadn't said a word about payment. She cast a tentative glance at him. Would he accept money from her, or would he want something else? "Davey's a year younger than I am," she told him. "He and Mark were best friends growing up.” She looked out the window at the shimmering ocean below. The passed over a tiny island covered in palms, and she pictured Mark and Davey as kids playing GI Joe in the woods behind her house. It seemed ironic now that Mark had gone on to become the real deal, while Davey had become a roving reporter. "Last I heard,” she said, "he was in Kandahar, Afghanistan, covering the war for an online news site. Ten days ago he posted a comment on Facebook, saying he was on to something 'big' and that he was hopping a flight to Phuket. One of his friends told me he sent him an email mentioning Ko Aroon. That was the last anyone's heard from him.” Charlotte's chest tightened as soon as the words were out. "Ten days isn't a lot of time." She glanced at him. "It is for Davey. Our mother was diagnosed with

lung cancer a year ago. He calls home every few days to check on her. But in ten days we haven't had a word, and I've left him dozens of urgent messages.” Jack glanced at her, his face unreadable. "Any ransom demands to your family? Maybe to his employer?” "No, nothing like that. But he works freelance, so it's not like he's got a boss breathing down his neck.” "And I'm guessing Mark's deployed, right?” "I assume,” she said. "The only contact I have for him is an email address. When I emailed him, I got back a brief response with your name and the name of your company. Davey's his oldest friend in the world, so that tells me he was pretty tied up.” It also told her Mark was worried worried enough to send her to one of his SEAL friends for help. Charlotte glanced at Jack and wondered what he thought of being second in line for this job. She would have preferred Mark, obviously. She wasn't comfortable asking a total stranger to do something dangerous for her, but she didn't exactly have a long roster of military-trained badasses to call on. Jack glanced at her. "Ever since the coup, Ko Aroon's been taken over by criminals: drug runners, gun runners, you name it. Going in there as a reporter would be suicide.” "I know.” Charlotte could hardly talk around the lump in her throat. Hearing him say it made it all too real. "And just what were you planning to do? Wade ashore and ask if anyone's

seen him around?” She heard the scorn in his voice and knew it sounded crazy. It was crazy. But Davey was her kid brother. She'd been bailing him out of trouble all her life and she wouldn't run away now. "I brought money. I thought I'd hire someone to go in there and try to buy him out.” Jack didn't respond, and she wondered what he thought of this plan. She wondered what his plan was, because he obviously had one. "Where are we going?” she asked again. " Reconnaissance." The right wing dipped, and Charlotte gazed down at a cluster of green islands. Not Ko Aroon. From the map she'd studied, she knew it was an isolated chunk of land about twenty miles from anything else. The wings levelled again, and Charlotte took a deep breath. She was in good hands. Not Mark's hands, but good hands. Jack Brenner was highly trained, and Mark trusted him. So why did she feel like she was about to throw up? "If s coming up on your right." "What's that?” "Aroon Island. Up ahead, about three o'clock. Keep your eyes peeled because if I fly over more than once, it'll attract attention.” "What are we looking for?" she asked, as a green dot came into view. "Boats, docks, buildings. Anything that gives you an idea of who or how

many we're dealing with." A chill slithered down Charlotte's spine as they neared the island. It looked like a patch of jungle, hardly larger than a few football fields. Was her brother down there, amid all that tangled vegetation? Was he alive? "I've got three motorboats, two long-tails and a kayak," Jack said. "What about you?" She swallowed down her fear. It wouldn't help Davey. "I see two primitive buildings set back from the beach.” "Quonset huts," he said. "There's one on that south hill, too. OK, we're going to go directly over. Look carefully." She peered out of the window. "I see a tower of some kind on the hill to the north." "Cell tower." aAnd there's a rectangular clearing.

It looks man-made."

"Any clearing around here is going to be man-made." "Is it an airstrip?" "Not long enough," he said. "Looks like a firing range. And it wasn't here last time I did a flyover. Neither were the Quonset huts. Looks like Chanarong's been making some capital improvements." "Chanarong?" She glanced over at him. "The big bad mofo who runs the place. He deals in heroin, arms and pretty much anything of value he can get his hands on." "He's famous around here?"

"Infamous would be more like it." "Infamous enough that someone like Davey might want to interview him?" “

Who knows? I don't know what your brother was working on. Do you?"

"No. But he prides himself on always getting the impossible story, the most unattainable interview." Charlotte's stomach filled with dread. Had Davey really risked life and limb just to interview some Thai drug lord? They passed over the island and the water turned turquoise, with an abrupt shift to indigo. "That's the reef," Jack said. "Used to be a popular dive spot before Chanarong moved in. Not much going on on this side of the island. It'd be a good insertion point, if it weren't for the current." She looked at Jack as the wings tilted again and they veered east. Charlotte pressed her hand to her chest. Her heart was hammering. She was sweating, too. Just being this close to the island had way too many terrifying thoughts racing through her brain. Jack glanced at her. "You OK?" "Fine. Why?" 'You look pale." "Fin not used to flying, that's all." "Paralegals don't travel much, I take it?" She looked at him. That must have been some background check. She wondered what else he knew about her. She turned to gaze out of the window. "Not in my office, they don't. We're one of Dallas' 'boutique' law

firms, which sounds cool, but what it really means is there's a limited budget." "And do you like the job?" She took a deep breath. He was trying to distract her, and she was happy to let him. "The work is interesting," she said. "I like the people, for the most part. And the pay is decent, the benefits are good." She shook her head ruefully. Her job at Bakers and Bindle and the problems she'd thought she had just a few days ago seemed light years away now. "Sounds like a nice gig." She shot him a look. Was he being facetious? He smiled at her. "Add a two-storey house and a black Lab, and you'll be living the American dream." She nearly choked on her laughter. "I have a Lab. She's at my neighbour's right now." "Oh, yeah? What's her name?" She took a deep breath. "Daisy," she said, and closed her eyes. She could breathe again. Jack's voice in her ears had calmed her, and she wasn't going to have a panic attack. They flew in silence for a while, and the vibration of the plane soothed her. She stole a glance at him. Underneath all those muscles, there was some sensitivity. "Ko Phi Phi, coming up on your right," he said. She looked out of the window. "What's that?"

"Popular tourist spot. It's two islands, actually. Phi Phi Don and Phi Phi Leh." They dipped suddenly, and her stomach pitched. "What are we doing?" "Landing. I've got to offload this stuff, then make a plan for tonight." "We're going at night?" "I'm going." He looked at her. "You're staying at the resort." "I most certainly am not! It's my brother we're going after. With my money." "It's non-negotiable." "But this is dangerous. I hardly know you. I can't possibly allow you to—" "Trust me, I'm much better off with you back at the resort." She gaped at him. "My brother's life is at stake. What the hell am I going to do at a resort?" "Have a Mai Tai. Get your toenails done." He cut a glance at her. "You can do whatever you want, just as long as you stay out of the way." Phi Phi Island - 23.00 Jack slung his waterproof rucksack over his shoulder and left his bungalow. He didn't bother locking it. Although it served as his temporary home whenever he touched down on Phi Phi Island, there was nothing inside worth stealing, and the resort manager kept an eye on the place for him to keep out squatters. Jack walked down the beach, passing a few bars, all fairly empty because it was the low season. He glanced up at the sky.

Mostly cloudy with a slight breeze out of the south. Perfect weather for a swim. Provided he could lose the tail he'd picked up. Jack trudged across the sand, using the glow spilling from the beachfront hotel rooms for guidance. He passed a line of sleeping jet skis and a dive shop. He spotted his dinghy on the sand between a pair of long-tail boats, right where he'd asked Sajja to leave it. What he didn't spot was Sajja. Jack tossed his gear into the rubber raft and glanced around, but he didn't see the man anywhere. 'You're taking a boat?" This from the blonde who'd been on his six for ten minutes. "You got something against boats?” he asked her. "But... it's like thirty miles away. I thought the quickest way to get there was by seaplane." "Quick, yes. Quiet, no." She stopped beside the dinghy, which would serve as his aquatic headquarters tonight. She wore the outfit she'd had on before, right down to the backpack that contained something near and dear to her heart - most likely her life savings. She scraped a curl back from her face and looked up at him. "I want to come with you." He'd expected this. "Not happening." "I only just met you. It's not fair for you to risk your life all by yourself for someone you don't even know."

He stepped closer and gazed down into those big brown eyes that had been even bigger this morning when he'd snuck into her hotel room. "Who ever told you life was fair?" he asked. "And anyway, you're paying me. Believe me, the risk is built into my fee." She looked uncomfortable at this, which was just what he'd intended. Maybe she'd think twice about being alone with him. She should. She should stay far away. If she had any sense, she'd lock herself in that bungalow she'd rented and not come out until he returned with her brother. If her brother was even alive, which was a huge if. A reporter dumb enough to go to Chanarong's private island to chase down a story probably didn't have much in the way of survival instincts. Charlotte seemed to know this, which accounted for the desperation he'd seen on her face for the last twenty-four hours. It also probably accounted for her willingness to sleep with a man who clearly scared the hell out of her. Jack checked his watch and muttered a curse. Where was Sajja? They had approximately three hours to get this job done before the cloud cover was scheduled to dissipate. Tonight was a full moon, and Jack much preferred to work under cover of darkness. He glanced up and down the beach. "Who's meeting you here?" she asked. "No one." He stepped into the boat and checked the plastic gas jug sitting beside the motor. It was full, as was the back-up jug. His friend had done everything Jack had asked him to, except stick around to drive the boat. "They've stood you up, haven't they?”

He glanced at Charlotte now and caught the excitement in her tone. Beneath those powder-puff looks was an opportunist. Jack rummaged through his rucksack and checked his phone. No messages. “Let

me go instead," she said eagerly. "I can do whatever you need help

with." "Oh, yeah? What if I need you to slit someone's throat? You any good with a knife?" She stepped back. "You really think you'll have to—" "I don't know what I'll have to do. But whatever it is, I'd sure as hell rather do it before the moon comes out." Jack searched up and down the beach again, but still no Sajja. Shit. He didn't mind working alone. And he didn't mind being outnumbered, because he relied on stealth, not firepower to get himself in and out of tight situations. But he was going to have his hands full retrieving the hostage tonight. And given the sheer number of unknowns, this op would be much, much easier if he could get the lay of the land before committing to an extraction point. He checked his watch again. Almost 23.30. Jack rested his hands on his hips and looked at Charlotte. "You ever driven a dinghy?" She smiled up at him and stepped into the boat. Jack checked the GPS on his watch. He was just where he wanted to be, and only a few minutes behind schedule. He took another look through the night-vision binoculars before turning and handing them to Charlotte, who was seated beside him on the narrow wooden seat.

"Here, have a look." She lifted the binoculars to her face as he glanced around for landmarks. They'd motored their way to within two miles of the island, and then Jack had cut the engine and rowed, to minimize sound. They'd been going against the current, and now he was covered with sweat and had a good dose of adrenaline pumping through his veins. "You see the guards?" he asked her. "Where?" "There's one on the beach, leaning up against a palm tree. Another pair is positioned near the Quonset hut at the top of the hill." "OK, I see them," she said. "What does it mean for your plan?" "The man on the beach looks asleep. The two men on the hill are conducting a patrol. Which tells me there's something in that hut up there worth guarding.” 'You think it's Davey?" she asked, and he heard the hope in her voice. "Possibly,” he said. Though not likely. Charlotte had shown Jack a photo of her brother. The man wasn't exactly a bodybuilder, so it should have been no problem for Chanarong's men to keep him in check, even if he wanted to leave. Jack felt pretty sure those guards were more about keeping people out than in. "Look again at the shoreline,” Jack said. "The rest of the activity is concentrated in two buildings down on the beach, near the boat docks. I'm guessing that's where Chanarong is, assuming he's on the island.” "Why do you say that?"

"Two generators and a satellite dish. He's got power, television, access to boats. It looks a lot more comfortable than that hut on top of the hill.” Charlotte lifted the binoculars again. She sighed quietly, and the little female sound tugged at him. She was worried. And scared. For the past hour, she'd been practically vibrating with nerves. She turned to look at him. "How well do you know Mark Colter?” she asked. "Well enough. Why?" "Because this is an incredible amount of trouble to go to as a favour for an army buddy." "Navy," he said, taking the binoculars. "And anyway, I don't think of it as trouble. I'd swim through shark-infested waters for that guy,” Jack said. He had, in fact. "That's crazy." "That's the way it works in the teams. He'd do the same for me." She paused, digesting this. The SEAL code was hard for most civilians to understand. "If you feel so strongly about it, why did you quit?” "I didn't." He stowed the binoculars under the seat. "But why-” "Injury," he said, and left it at that. He didn't really want to talk about how he'd shattered his knee falling off a mountain in Afghanistan. He didn't want to talk about how, even after three surgeries, he'd never be the same,

and how he'd chosen to leave the teams rather than be the weak link that someday, somewhere got one of his teammates killed. He never discussed that part of his past with anyone, and he sure as hell wasn't going to discuss it now, with Charlotte Whiteside, while he needed to be prepping for an op. Jack rummaged through his bag, inventorying gear: SIG Sauer 9 mm, ammo, knife, radio. He tossed a couple extra flashbangs into his pack just for good measure, then stripped off his T-shirt and pulled his fins on over his coral boots. 'You're swimming from here?" He glanced at Charlotte. It was too dim to see her face well, but he heard the emotion in her voice. "It's no big deal." 'Yeah, right.” She snorted. "A half-mile swim. With all that stuff on your back." "Trust me, this is nothing. I once swam twice this distance in fortydegree water carrying a twenty-two -pound haversack full of explosives.” She went silent at that, and he wasn't sure whether he'd alleviated her fear or made it worse. What was it with this woman? He couldn't remember the last time someone had worried about him, and her concern was getting to him. Or maybe it was the image he couldn't get out of his head, the image from this morning. In one of life's nicer surprises, he'd learned that Charlotte Whiteside liked to sleep in the buff.

"Jack, I'm scared.” She edged closer to him now on the narrow seat. "Maybe we should try this another way. Davey's never been a strong swimmer.” "He doesn't need to swim a stroke," "But how can you possibly—” "Relax." He took her hand, which he could tell surprised her. "I've pulled people out of much worse situations than this. This is going to be fine." Provided he's still alive in there. Her hand was cool in his, and damp too, which for some reason made him feel good. He'd be willing to bet this woman had never been so terrified in her life. And yet she was sitting here, trusting him to do the most important job she'd ever asked of anyone. He planned to doit, too, and it wasn't just because of Mark. "Remember what I told you about the radio," he said. "Silence means you wait for me here, but if I call and give the signal, then I need you to move around to the other side. Stay away from the reef. Just wait for me about fifty yards out." He dropped her hand and picked up his mask. "And if anything goes boom, that means my plan to tiptoe in and out of there is shot to hell, and I'll need you to meet me at the easiest extraction point possible, which is that strip of beach. You got it?" "I got it." He pulled his back-up weapon from his rucksack and folded her hand around the grip. 'You ever used a Glock before?" "No." Must point and shoot," he said. "No safety. Don't be afraid to use it."

He looked at her wide brown eyes and knew that it was a ridiculous thing to say. She was afraid of all of this. But she nodded anyway and put on a brave face- so brave, in fact, that he wanted to kiss her. Instead, he swung his legs over the side of the raft. "Listen for that radio." "Wait." She caught his arm. And then she kissed him. It was an explosive kiss. A bomb blast. Her mouth fused with his and sent a shot of fire straight to his groin. She smelled good. She tasted like heaven and sin rolled into one. And when she finally pulled back, he could barely remember his own name. He stared at her. "Come back quick,” she said. He pulled on his mask and slipped into the water.

Two In the clear, warm waters of the Andaman Sea, a night swim is a psychedelic experience. Phosphorescent particles swirl around. Fish dart by, leaving little glowing trails in their wake. Jack loved the ocean, and normally it was one of those weird nature shows that he really appreciated. But when embarking on a mission it was fucking distracting. About forty yards from the shore, he surfaced and filled his lungs. Then it was a straight shot underwater until turbulence told him he’d neared land. He removed his fins and clipped them to his rucksack, then hit the beach. A sprint across the sand had him concealed in the jungle inside of three seconds.

He crouched at the base of a coconut palm, motionless for a moment as he got his bearings. Noise from the Quonset huts on the shore. The hum of one- no, make it two separate generators. Nothing but silence and shadows behind him. Jack slipped into the darkness without a sound. The terrain went from flat to steep to nearly vertical, and he used branches and tree roots to haul himself up the hillside. There was definitely an easier path to the top, but he wasn't feeling particularly sociable tonight, so he’d opted for the steep and solitary route. When he reached the top, he turned north, towards the structure he’d seen from the boat. He moved to the edge of the thicket where he’d be more exposed but less likely to make a sound. Cigarette smoke drifted over on the breeze, beckoning him directly to the hut where a pair of clowns with AK-47S were talking loudly and sharing a smoke. These guys were strictly amateurs - Jack could tell from the way they held those Kalashnikovs. Their voices provided extra cover as he crept around the building and peered into the sole back window. A kerosene lamp glowed from the centre of the room, atop a table covered with papers. Beside the lantern - looking completely out of placewas a sleek silver laptop. Jack's gaze skimmed over the chairs and overturned crates scattered across the floor. No hostages stashed in the corners. No inhabitants at all, in fact. What the hell were these guys guarding? But the instant the thought entered his head, he knew. He shifted his position so he could see the part of the wall directly beneath the window. A narrow bed. And on it a lump. A pale hand dangled off the edge of the

mattress, attached to the bed frame by a handcuff. He'd located the hostage. But that wrist didn't belong to a man. The lump shifted, and a sneaker peeked out from under the grungy blanket. It was definitely a woman's shoe, with a lavender Nike swoosh. Jack gritted his teeth and went through a silent litany of curses. OK, change of plan. A female hostage was a no-brainer, but it sure as shit complicated things. The lump shifted again, and Jack settled on a plan. Good thing he'd skipped the face paint. If he'd bothered to cammy up, he'd no doubt scare the spit out of this girl. He tapped, as lightly as possible, on the windowpane. She bolted upright and turned to face the glass. She had a mane of tangled brown hair, grimy cheeks and green eyes that had gone wide with terror. Don't scream. Jack flashed a peace sign, followed by the universal signal for shut the hell up. He pointed at the window lock. Fear flitted across her face. She cast a frantic look at the door, then turned back and used her free hand to unlock the window. The pane didn't want to budge, but Jack used his knife to prise it up. Silently, he slipped into the hut and crouched beside the metal bed. He motioned again for her to keep it zipped. He didn't know if she even spoke English, but her rumpled Northwestern University T-shirt and denim cut-offs told him she was most likely American. He made quick work of

taking apart the metal bed frame, then slipped off her cuff. "Can you walk?” he whispered. She scrambled to her feet in response. He started to pull her to the window, but she jerked her hand away and pointed at the table. Jack followed her across the room and watched as she lifted the corner of a big map and pulled out a pair of passports. She stuffed them into her pocket and crept back towards the window as Jack frowned down at the map. He recognized the city. And his blood ran cold as he recognized the building circled in red. A metal squeak at the window snapped his attention back to the job at hand. She was getting the hell out of Dodge. Jack rushed over and poked his head outside to check for threats. He helped her through and quickly followed. Then he took her arm and led her into the woods, but she suddenly freaked out and tried to pull away. He kept a grip on her until he knew they were out of earshot. "We have to go back," she whispered. "My boyfriend's back there." "Where?" Jack hissed. "The other hut. The wooden one." She tugged his arm urgently. "They beat him to a pulp. I think he's unconscious." "What's his name?" "David Whiteside." Charlotte thought she knew what fear was when Jack had pulled on his scuba mask and left her alone in this dinghy. But that was nothing

compared to the raw, stark terror she felt right now as she heard the roar of a boat motor closing in on her. She had no cover, nowhere to hide. She thought about starting the engine and taking off, but the very last thing she wanted to do was tip anyone off to her presence. She flattened herself against the bottom of the boat and prayed for the moon to stay hidden behind clouds. The noise drew nearer and nearer, and then finally - just when she thought she was about to get run down the roar receded. The dinghy bobbed over a huge swell, and she knew they'd left her in their wake. But they were going towards the island. Charlotte peeked over the side. She groped for the binoculars and peered through them in time to see the motorboat pull up to the dock. The base camp hopped with activity now as newcomers piled off the boat. Six, seven, eight... when she reached twelve, she stopped counting and grabbed the radio. "Are you there?” Nothing. She waited. And waited. And her mouth went dry as she watched the men assembling near one of the Quonset huts. They carried big black guns and milled around like some sort of ragtag militia. "Hello? Bravo, you there?” Still nothing. What was she doing wrong? "Bravo here.” "Do not, I repeat, do not return to the beach." She clutched the radio in her quivering hand as she surveyed the activity on shore. "There's a boatload of new arrivals, and they're heavily armed.”

Silence on the other end. "Did you hear—" "Roger that." He sounded out of breath, like he was running. With a heavy load. "Go to PlanB, over." "PlanB." PlanB was the other side of the island. "I'm there, over." Did he have Davey? He must, or he wouldn't be leaving. She clung to the thought as she scrambled into the seat and picked up the oars. She was too scared to start the engine, at least until she put some distance between herself and that crowd of armed men. She rowed for all she was worth until her shoulders screamed in pain and her arms felt like they were on fire. The current picked up as she neared the tip of the island. Finally, she stashed the oars and found the pull cord Jack had shown her when he'd demonstrated how to start the engine. Just one simple pull... After the third unsuccessful attempt, she was nearly in tears. She got up off her knees and stood in the middle of the boat. She gripped the handle and took a deep breath. She yanked fiercely, and the engine sputtered to life. She sat down and grabbed the rudder. As the dinghy slammed across the choppy water and ronnded the tip of the island, Charlotte prayed all the while that no one could see or hear her. At her feet, the radio crackled. She snatched it up. "Bravo ... dock ... south end." "What?" "I said ... dock ... side."

"There's a dock?" "Affirmative." "How will I-" "Flashlight... you ... close as you can ... Roger that?" Pop! Charlotte dropped the radio at the sound of the gunshot. Someone was shooting at them! She groped for the radio and finally got her hands on it. "Jack? Jack, are you there? Jack?" Panicked, she headed for the island. She hadn't caught every word of what he'd said, but she'd gotten the gist of it. She was looking for a flashlight signal. Assuming he was still alive to signal her. Heart racing now, she curved around the southern tip of the island. Her stomach clenched as she saw nothing but the hulking shadow of the island itself. No lights. No signals. She tried the binoculars, but didn't see any warm bodies or even anything resembling a dock. She manoeuvred closer to the shore, hoping she wouldn't get caught up on the reef she'd seen from Jack's plane. Suddenly a flicker, there in the darkness. She peered through the binoculars. A large figure moved quickly towards the shore. Jack. And he had someone in a fireman's carry. Please, please, please be OK. She didn't know whether she was praying for Davey or Jack. Both, she decided. Another blink, close this time. Charlotte stowed the binoculars and steered the boat towards it. When she was almost there, she cut the engine and the dinghy drifted right into the dock. A shadow crouched to catch it.

"Nice work." Jack's voice wrapped around her like a warm blanket. "Are you OK? I heard a gunshot!" 'Yeah, one of the guards wasn't too happy when he noticed his hostage was gone. Good thing his aim isn't worth shit." Jack lowered something into the boat. Davey. She grabbed hold of the body and instantly recognized her brother as she helped ease him aboard. He groaned, and Charlotte's heart skipped. She got to her knees beside him. “What happened?" "He took a beating." She jumped at the words. "Who—" "Fin Jane," A woman stepped aboard the boat. It was too dark to even see her in the shadows. "Yeah, you didn't tell me your brother had a girlfriend." Jack finally stepped aboard, and they were packed together like sardines. He didn't waste any time jerking the cord and bringing the engine to life. Gunfire erupted from the beach. Jack shoved Charlotte's head against the floor of the boat. "Everybody down." The boat lurched forwards, and they were skipping over the waves. Charlotte clutched Davey's hand as the rat-tat-tat of machine-gun fire shattered the night. "Hurry!" Charlotte pleaded. "They could hit the raft!" Jack tossed a glance over his shoulder as they rocketed across the water. "What if they follow us?" This from Jane.

"By the time they figure out which way is up, we'll be airborne,” Jack said. "Now everyone hang on. It's time to haul ass."

Three Jack ended his cell-phone call and gazed across the treetops at the marina where he'd left his plane. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, he was in Charlotte Whiteside's hotel room. She was down the hall with her brother and his girlfriend, who were being checked out by some Thai doctor the concierge had managed to scare up at 4 a.m. David Whiteside was safe. Mission accomplished. Jack had about sixteen things he needed to be doing right now and not one of them involved standing on Charlotte's balcony, waiting for her to come back here and collapse on that giant bed. He needed to leave. Now. He'd fulfilled his obligation to Mark, and the honourable thing to do would be to disappear into the night like the elusive special operations warrior that he was. But Jack didn't want to do the honourable thing. He wanted to do Charlotte. A lamp went on in the room behind him. The sliding glass door scraped open, and he turned around to face her. She nodded at his phone as she stepped outside. ''Who'd you call at this hour?" She still wore the sea-soaked clothes she'd had on in the dinghy, and the wind had turned her hair into a riot of yellow curls. She looked drained and

dishevelled and so goddamn pretty he wanted to pull her inside and throw her down on the bed. Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets right along with his phone. "Just talked to a buddy of mine at the embassy. They're sending someone down from Bangkok to talk to Davey and Jane." "Why does the embassy need to talk to them?" He gazed down at her, knowing he couldn't give her too many details, but wanting to, so maybe she'd understand better what he was about to do. Because she wasn't going to like it. He didn't know Charlotte very well, but he knew that much. "Did Davey tell you what he was doing on that island?" he asked. "He went down there for an interview. Jane's his photographer, so she went too. He said they were invited." Yeah, invited to be used as jihadists. "He give you a name?" She shook her head, and Jack breathed a sigh of relief. It was the one smart move the kid had managed so far. She eased closer, watching his face carefully. "I'm guessing it's not Chanarong." Jack just looked at her. "I'm also guessing it's someone affiliated with Al-Qaeda. Someone important." "Where'd you get that?"

"Jane told me. She said some of the people on the island were speaking Arabic. She thinks the place is some sort of training camp." It was. It was also a staging ground for a major operation, but Jack didn't say that. Jane had told him the name of the man they'd come to interview. He was a leader of Jemaah Islamiyah, an Al-Qaeda affiliate based in South-east Asia. "Looks like Chanarong's got himself some new friends," Jack said vaguely. The less Charlotte knew about all this the better. But he had a feeling she understood much more than she was letting on because her eyes were shadowed with wariness. 'Your brother and Jane were very, very lucky to get out of there alive." That hadn't been the kidnappers’ plan. Jack didn't know the plan- not exactly-but he felt pretty sure it involved the building he'd seen circled in red on that map of Manila. What better way to smuggle a bomb into the American embassy than to have two American tourists waltz it right through the door? Or maybe just one of them. Probably Jane. It was certainly no accident the militant leader on that island had selected an American couple to come interview him. He probably figured his men could threaten the stronger one with torture to get the weaker one to do his bidding. Charlotte eased closer, and Jack felt a sharp stab of protectiveness. He didn't want her anywhere near this thing, and yet here she was, caught in the middle because of her idiot brother. Jack gritted his teeth. He couldn't make it right, but he could do damage

control. Which was what he needed to do. Right now. Jack was in possession of valuable, time-sensitive intelligence - the only kind worth having. And he knew a SEAL commander in the area who was more than eager to get his hands on it. Charlotte slid her arms around Jack's waist and gazed up at him. "I need to go," he said. She tipped her head to the side. "It's four in the morning.” “I

have to be somewhere in exactly three hours. And I have to fly."

Something flashed in her eyes. Confusion? Hurt? But then it was replaced by a cool determination. She tipped her chin up, exposing her neck to him in that thin white blouse. It was dry now, but it had been wet before, out on the dinghy, and he wondered if she had any idea how much he'd wanted to peel it off of her. How much he still wanted to. Her hips shifted, and he stared down at her. She knew. She knew exactly what she did to him. "Don't go," she whispered. He had to go. He needed to go. "Charlotte-" She went up on tiptoes and kissed him, just below his ear. It was a soft, timid kiss, and it sent a powerful jolt of lust straight through him. Then she pressed her mouth to his, and it was all over. What little will power he'd had vanished. He pulled her against him, sweeping his tongue inside her mouth and trying to devour her in one greedy bite. She tried to devour him right back. She was hot and ready and he could practically

taste the energy humming through her system, because it was humming through his, too. And he knew what this was. This was about danger, and life-or-death situations, and all the things she'd felt tonight that she wasn't used to feeling. Jack had trained himself to deal with his body's response to danger, but Charlotte was utterly untrained. She just surrendered to it, gave into the urge, and no matter what logic his brain threw at him, Jack's body was right in sync with hers - amazingly, perfectly in sync. He moulded her against him, and she moaned into his mouth, and he knew that there was no way he was putting the brakes on. He'd fly like a bat out of hell if he had to, but he wasn't going anywhere this minute besides Charlotte's bed. He slid a hand between them and tried to undo her buttons, but his fingers were too big for the little holes. She took over the job, and soon her shirt was on the floor of the balcony, followed by her bra. Jack didn't even give himself time to look. He just scooped her off her feet and carried her through the doorway, then laid her down on the bed. She propped up on her elbows and watched him as he got rid of his shoes and T-shirt. Then he kneeled beside her, and she rolled into him, laughing, as he filled his hand with one of those plump white breasts he'd been fantasizing about all day. He took her in his mouth, and her body arched. "Jack." She said his name in that soft Southern accent that reminded him of home and heat and places he hadn't been in a long, long time. He nuzzled her breasts. With his free hand, he went to work on her shorts. She went to work on his, too, and pretty soon they were skin to skin, and he felt her bare legs wrapping around him and pulling him closer.

She said his name again and nipped his ear, and he nearly went off. "Wait." He grabbed his shorts, fumbled for a condom, and barely managed to get it on before she pulled him again, and he sank into her sweet heat. She was heaven. She gazed up at him and moved with him, urging him on with her sighs and her hips as he supported his weight above her and battled for control. He didn't have it. He didn't have nearly the control he needed to take on this woman’ this warm, lush woman who'd turned herself over to him completely. He kissed her again, loving her taste, her scent, the way she moved beneath him. She trusted him. He felt it in her clasping hands. He saw it in her smoky eyes as she let herself get lost in the pleasure he was giving her. She whispered in his ear, over and over, and time spun out as he tried to give her what she wanted, tried not to stop, tried not to let it end, even though it was a losing battle. She wrapped her arms around him and said his name. And finally he felt her coming apart, and his world became a blinding flash of pleasure. For an endless moment, he just lay there, too wasted to move. But he knew he must be crushing her, so he rolled over on his back and pulled her with him. She didn't say anything. She just nestled her head against his chest and sighed deeply. Jack closed his eyes, and several minutes ticked by as their heart rates came down from the stratosphere. Her breathing slowed, and he wondered if she'd fallen asleep.

'You're still with them, aren't you?" He opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. “With who?" "The SEALs. You never really left." She propped up on an elbow and watched him. "It's OK, I won't tell anyone." He glanced at her with a questioning look, and she rolled her eyes. "Come on, Jack. The night-vision binoculars? The phone call? The urgent meeting you have to race off for?" He sighed. "I'm not a SEAL anymore." She searched his face. "But you want to be. And you're helping them. You're going to help someone bust up that terrorist cell." He looked at her for a moment, then reached over and tucked a curl behind her ear. "Why do I keep underestimating you?" "People do it all the time." She smiled slightly, and then looked down at his chest. She traced a little pattern with her fingernail. I’msorry I got you into this. I don't want you to get hurt." He cupped his hand over hers. "I'm glad you got me into this." He remembered the way he'd felt staring down at that map, seeing his country's embassy circled in red. Something had shifted inside him. He'd had a purpose before, all those years as a SEAL. He hadn't had a purpose that mattered in a very long time, and he wanted to go back. Charlotte had given him that. As long as he lived, he’d be indebted to her for it. Maybe someday he’d even find a way to repay her.

She rested her head against his chest, and he pulled her closer. He felt her shoulders tense. She was fighting tears, and he didn't know if it was for his benefit or hers, but held on to her and let her win the fight. The room was washed with the grey light of dawn when she woke up and realized he'd gone. She sat up and looked around. On his pillow was a paper airplane. Charlotte picked it up and unfolded it to read the note: If you ever need me. just call. - J and then a phone number. It was a Los Angeles area code, if she wasn't mistaken. She remembered the Dodgers cap he’d been wearing when they first met. Maybe he still had some ties to home after all, ties that might bring him back some day. She shrugged into her robe and tucked the note safety inside the pocket. Birds trilled from the trees below. She gazed out at the sleepy marina, where the tourist boats still bobbed placidly beside the dock. Her gaze followed a silver Cessna as it taxied across the harbour and picked up speed. Charlotte's breath caught as it shot up into the air. It receded towards the west, then made a wide arc and circled back. She lifted her hand to the sky and smiled as it neared her. The right wing tipped up. Her heart filled. She whispered goodbye and watched him soar away.

Into the Night Sky Charlotte Mede

One NYC — present

day The hand with the credit card moved with brutal swiftness, cutting the white powder spread on the table like an offering to a god. Only Alexa noticed that she trembled picking up the tightly rolled hundred-dollar bill before holding it to her left nostril. Just like blowing out the candles of a birthday cake, only in reverse. The white powder was gone, a bullet into her cerebral cortex. A burst of clarity, like somebody had turned on an extra bright light. The sounds in the background were simultaneously faded and magnified, and she saw clearly now, as if for the first time. The man with the deep tan, smiling, his eyes inches from hers. The woman in the corner, her dress a shimmering white, her face stretched taut in agony or ecstasy, she couldn't tell. For this people lied, bartered, bought, sold - and killed. She took a sip from her vodka and ice to stop the flow of unwanted memories, the cold bringing a fresh reality to her senses. The sunken marble floor gleamed, the swell of the sea a lullaby that helped her crest the waves in her head. She remembered that they were on a yacht in North Cove at the foot of Wall Street. The man leaned in closer. "Only the best for the guests. Don't think this stuff will give me snow lights like last time." She saw beneath the mahogany of his skin and beyond the deep creases

at the corners of his eyes. His words were meaningless, buried by the deep draught of cologne that flooded her awareness. Against the drip of cool at the back of her throat, she wrestled with the aromatic clot of bergamot and musk. Even with the cocaine fueling her bloodstream, her pulse steadied to a slow gallop. "Only the best for his guests,” she repeated, the irony lost least upon her. "Bouncing powder is the only way to get off - if you can afford it." He directed her by the elbow over to the ornate lapis lazuli fireplace. Her senses artificially heightened, she fixed on a Renoir, a Miro and a Goya lining the opposite wall. He caught her appreciative glance. "Amazing what money can buy. Did you notice the helicopter pad on your way in? Somebody running around here swears there's also a submarine tucked away below deck." "Such excess - I like it. Very much." She took another sip from her drink and removed her elbow from his surprisingly soft hands. Voices tumbled from above, echoing in her head, the source a dozen or so people clustered around the pool on the main deck. The pool, another gem that only fathoms of money could buy. Bronze and inlaid with an original twelfth-century mosaic from Turkey which, with the flick of a computer key, could be transformed into a dance floor. The woman in the corner, in the shimmer of white, had disappeared moments ago. She and Marcus Wright, if that was really his name, were alone. The drug in her veins pulsed with false courage. "He collects art, does he?"

Wright chuckled. "He collects everything." “I’d

love to get to know the owner of this wonder,” she said, glancing

around admiringly before sinking into the Giorgetti chaise, crossing her legs. Wright was hardly immune, his glance taking in the length of bare skin beneath the simple ivory sheath. "Don't know if that's a good idea. Unless you like looking right into the fucking sun." "I might go blind?" She knew how to bluff, her eyes holding his. Wright paused for a slice of a second then switched on a Baccarat crystal wall sconce. The soft light stung. "Everybody wants to know the guy but it's in his own best interests to stay out of the glare, if you get what I mean." This time he was looking at more than simply her legs. "You can't blame him for being paranoid, especially when people start sniffing around for no good reason. How’d you get an invitation to this party anyway?" "A friend of a friend. Somebody who's equally paranoid and suspicious." Even in the flattering glow of the lounge, Wright appeared older than she had first thought, perhaps in his mid-fifties, dissipation lining a face no surgical magic wand could touch. And it was always the eyes, the emptiness. She clutched the tumbler between her palms more tightly, forcing a casual tone. "I've yet to meet our host." "Let's just say sometimes he doesn't show." Wright shrugged carelessly beneath the fine linen of his shirt. "Really? So he does all of this for what purpose exactly? To have his guests test the merchandise?"

Wright sat down opposite her, a careless man, the kind she had met many years ago. He wouldn't care until it was too late, and maybe not even then. "I don't know and even if I did I wouldn't tell you." He propped one leg thoughtlessly on the priceless lapis-lazuli-encrusted side table. "I'd be real careful about asking too many questions." "Even if they are of a business nature?” she tested. Wright eyed her speculatively, taking in the heavy fall of her hair, the cut of her dress, not failing to notice the discreet, but serious, cabochon diamond and white gold band on her left hand. "Doesn't look as though you're down to your last million." She glanced at the Goya opposite. The mad grin of the shepherd leered, guessing at half-buried truths she never wanted to unearth again, as if to acknowledge that great art and great suffering were mankind's claim to fame. The glass in her hand was suddenly slippery, the ice long since melted. She placed the crystal tumbler carefully on the table between them. "It's never enough." "What's never enough? Money? Or thrills?" Alexa's shoulders tightened, ignoring the last question. “I’m looking for something else entirely." 'You're looking for—" Wright paused as though to suggest an abomination "—an introduction?" "If it can be arranged." "And why should I?"

"It might be lucrative for you." He shook his head, his smile revealing a shark's small white teeth. "You don't know what you're asking, Alexa. Either you're blowing smoke or the coke's really gone to your head. Wouldn't be the first time somebody too bored and too rich decided to walk on the wildest side there is." She forced a small smile to bloom on her face. "Motivation is a strange thing. Regardless, you'll regret turning down my offer. As a matter of fact, I know that you will." 'You've got a fuck of a lot of confidence. Which must mean you either don't know what you're doing, or you do." "Care to take a guess which it is?" Wright shook his head. "No thanks. I like living too much." "He can't be that bad." Although Alexa knew just how bad he was. Wright exhaled sharply, clearly uneasy with the focus of the conversation. He was on the Gabriella to party and this scene was bringing him down. 'You didn't hear it from me." She bent her head to hide her disappointment, absently twisting the rings on her left hand. Then she rose and tilted her head towards the murmur of people on the main deck. "I suppose I'll have to find our host on my own." "The man doesn't like people nosing around, I told you." He was nervous, leaning over the table between them, reaching into the inside pocket of his dinner jacket. "Plus you don't even look like his type, no offence. His women are a little more obvious if you know what I’mgetting at."

Bile rose in her throat, a caustic mix of anger and revulsion so strong she thought her chest would explode. God, let it never come to that. "Another hit?" Wright asked without looking at her, bent over the table. His words jangled her nerves like cut piano wire. She had to get out of the room. Wright's voice had lost its studied laziness, picking up on her tension. His hands stilled as he gazed at her over a little mound of white powder. "I don't usually repeat myself but you're looking for the worst kind of trouble.” She held her breath to keep from screaming, then swallowed the urge to laugh hysterically. If only it were that simple. She caught, and held, his glance and there was no hiding the look in her eyes. "You're wasting your time warning me." The statement came straight from what was left of her soul. His hand stopped mid-air, a small packet clenched between elegantly manicured fingers. "Look, I'm just telling you that ugly things can happen ..." Her smile was bleak. "Ugly things have already happened, Mr Wright.” And I have the scar tissue to prove it. Alexa Stoppard forced herself to slow down, to walk deliberately up the majestic spiral staircase in the atrium, her hand trailing the onyx and silver handrail. The false courage was beginning to fail her now, the pumping in her veins fading to a faint rhythm and leaving her with the beginnings of a headache.

Up on the main deck, she skirted the open-air bar and the dozen or so people brandishing champagne flutes and false smiles. The woman in white laughing wildly at something somebody said. Three men in a corner feigning heartbreak as she walked by. She ignored their gestures and disappeared around the corner, swept along by her own brand of desperation. Maybe Wright was right and Rafael Hunter wouldn't show. It could take weeks and months to get anywhere close to him. He was probably better protected than most heads of state. She hurried now up a short flight of stairs to the bridge deck. The sharp scent of the tidal estuary of the Hudson River cleared her head, a warm breeze blowing off shore. Pulling the hair back from her face, she rested against the rail of the Gabriella, Manhattan at her feet. Daylight bled into dusk as North Cove was transformed into a dangerous playground by the sea. A short distance away on shore a child gathered up her pail and shovel, looking for stones, while an anxious mother followed close behind. The little girl was four, maybe five. Alexa stared and then looked away, the dull headache tightening around her forehead like a tourniquet. She never cried, not even at Julian's funeral, but now she felt the unfamiliar sensation of building tears, salt water biting at deep wounds. Zachary had relinquished Julian's papers, giving her what she needed to secure an invitation aboard the Gabriella. As long as he'd been alive, her husband had kept away everything that might hurt her. Names, dates, locations. The possible whereabouts of Hunter.

Twelve years. But little had changed. Hunter was probably millions of dollars richer with millions more lost lives to account for. She would find him. Because this time she wasn't alone. The thought of Zachary Coombs brought a sad smile to her face. He’d tried but failed to put her off, an old warrior who recognized when to raise the flag of defeat. Against his better judgment and directly against his best friend's wishes, he made the one simple phone call that had opened the gates of hell and unleashed the forces of her past. If Julian were still alive he would have never forgiven him. The wind shifted and, despite the calm of the sky, a faint rumble of thunder sounded. The ship continued its gentle movement in counterpoint to the tightening of her stomach. She pulled away from the rail to peer into the purpling horizon. A blur of black appeared off shore, an ink blot spreading its nasty stain. The rumble was a roar now, a huge storm cloud closing in. The deep grunt of rotor blades were transformed into a giant metal insect floating above, at one with the sky, hovering over the yacht. The stench of fuel, a great wind, her hair and dress plastered against her body. A half-formed thought blossomed like the beginnings of a plague. Bright light flooded the yacht as the helicopter touched down with awkward grace. Instinct told her to run. She pushed herself away from the rail and turned to stumble down the stairs, a childhood monster biting at her heels. Afraid to look over her shoulder, she was back on the main deck in seconds. And then, like in a horror movie, the film began to unspool.

Above, near the bridge, blades sliced the air as men loaded with AK-47S poured from the helicopter and on to the landing pad. How many? Four? Five? They fired from the hip, shooting wildly, scattering Gabriellas guests like petals in a storm. Crystal shattered, deck chairs overturned. People lunged for the stairs below. She froze, impulse taking over, as screams ripped the air whenever a round hit its mark. Get down, get down, get down. The words ricocheted through her brain while a flat-out panic pushed her to the floor. She made herself small, her skin slippery against teak and the hot fear knocking the air out of her lungs. Smoke, ash and a fervent prayer. Hopeless. She didn't even believe. It had never come to this, those many years ago. But she knew it had been there, in the background, a miasma that poisoned everything she was and everything she did. She squeezed her eyes tight against the smoke and then the smell of sweat as a gloved hand clamped over her shoulders and the butt of an AK47 jammed into her ribs. The man dragged her up in front of him, making sure he stayed behind her, the gun still buried in her flesh. It would end before it even started. She didn't struggle but forced her eyes open. Marcus Wright - his shirt tail flapping in the wind and debris like he was still looking for a vodka or another hit - lurched towards her. Her breath rushed back into her lungs. Alexa winced as her head was forced back in a brutal grip. She couldn't

look away over the ship's rails to the blue of the river, now festooned with palls of smoke. Wright's bizarre smile held a demonic intensity as he rushed straight towards hell. Towards her. His words sailed over the growl of helicopter blades, indecipherable. The grip around her waist didn't ease but the gun swung away from her. Before she could breathe again, before she could groan a protest, three red holes flowered on Wright's still immaculate shirt. For countless seconds he swayed - high, smiling and suspended between life and death - then collapsed to the floor. The gun jammed back into her ribs and, before she could be sick, a dirty rag was pressed over her mouth and nose. The rough movements barely registered as her arms were wrenched behind her back, cutting off her last coherent thought. I can't go back. I can't...

Two Washington, DC Zachary Coombs, retired Supreme Court judge, hauled long and hard on his cigar. His wife detested the habit but she was at their country house in McLean, Virginia so he didn't have to care. He punched a number into the phone at his desk, checking first to make sure he had a secure line. The voice on the other end snapped to attention. "Yes, sir, what can I do for you this evening?"

He dispensed with niceties. "Mrs Stoppard, I want to know where she is at all times, is that clear?" "We're on it, sir." Coombs exhaled a curl of cigar smoke. "I don't want you on it - I want you on top of it." The former judge's voice brooked no dissent. Well into his seventies, he knew his reputation as one of the toughest supporters of the war on drugs still carried weight. He could quote the statistics in his sleep, that 40 per cent of violence and crime was drug related, that of the thousands of sentenced prisoners in federal institutions, those in for drug law violations were the largest single category. "Mrs Stoppard's car dropped her off at North Cove and she boarded the yacht Gabriella where she has been for the last two hours." Coombs grunted and then set down his cigar. He didn't have to enquire as to the registered owner of that floating castle. "Keep me posted. Doesn't matter what time it is. I damn well want to know." He slung the receiver back into its cradle. Alexa Stoppard was his worry now that Julian had passed away. He opened the bottom drawer to his desk with a key and removed a DVD, deliberately ignoring the book that lay beneath. Rotating his chair around, he inserted the disc into the flat-screen television built into his oak credenza. The face of his best friend flickered to life. Hell, he'd loved the old guy like a brother. And he knew how much Julian had loved Alexa - his young wife - and wanted to keep on protecting her from beyond the grave. The stubborn bastard. "She's the most important thing in the world to me. When I'm gone,

Zachary, you are the one man who can ensure her continued safety. Shell come to you for information, the kind that will put her in danger. And I trust you'll know what to do. Because I've always trusted you." Coombs stared, no longer hearing the words. Julian's eyes were goddamned imploring him. Christ, the two of them went way back, years before Alexa. He grabbed the remote. Julian's image vanished into the ether. Well, Alexa was certainly the poor little rich girl now. More like rich widow. Coombs pictured her walled up at the Connecticut estate, surrounded by Julian's priceless collections of paintings and sculpture, as strong as she was vulnerable. As though money would keep her safe. It would take a helluva lot more than that. Impatiently, he swung his chair around and picked up his glowing cigar. The hot smoke filled his mouth. After a second's hesitation, he opened his desk drawer again and pulled out the book - its title, The Description of the World, gleaming in gold lettering. First published in 1299, it was Marco Polo's account of his travels across Persia and Afghanistan. Coombs had been through the volume at least a hundred times and had all but memorized the story of the explorer, his father and his uncle travelling all the way from Venice to Hormuz, a port on the Persian Gulf. He'd read between the lines, scoured for details, looked for hidden clues, anything that would shed light on their decision to follow a trade route across Asia. And through Afghanistan. He flipped through the pages with impatient hands. Nothing, nothing,

nothing. This was over his head’ criminal litigation, not historical exegesis, was his bread and butter. He couldn't risk bringing in the experts, not now. The FBI, the CIA, the DEA had more holes than a sieve. As for academics, he didn't know where to start or whom to trust. Coombs snapped the book shut and threw it back in the desk drawer. Taking another haul on his cigar, he grabbed the phone and punched in the numbers he had committed to memory. Country code 93 - Kandahar, Afghanistan. Three Alexa Stoppard opened her eyes and thought she had gone to heaven. Sweeps of cerulean blue, pink-cheeked cherubs flecked with gold dust swirled above her. Early Renaissance, a fresco and a fake. The thought hurt her head, which throbbed with the intensity of a train coming into a station. Her mouth was dry. Somebody had removed the rag but her hands and legs were bound, fastened to the bed she was lying on. A small porthole on the left told her she was still on a boat. The pitch of the small cabin said they were at sea. Far out at sea. Bitterness filled her mouth and with it the memories. She remained calm, forcing herself to breathe deeply until her heart rate settled. Waiting was the hardest thing of all, enduring those long moments when time was suspended, luck stretched into the thinnest wire. To make yourself still, make yourself invisible. And hope chance was on your side.

She studied her surroundings. The cabin was small but opulent with a queen-sized bed colonizing most of the room. Sleek cabinetry made of some exotic wood she was hard pressed to identify took up one wall. A desk, a Philippe Starck invisible chair, filled the rest of the space. A partially open door suggested a bathroom beyond. Was it the Gabriella? Somehow the ship felt different, smaller, less glamorous. Beyond the pounding of her head, she tried to remember. She had a bare outline of what happened when Wright was killed. Sometime after the cocaine, she'd passed out. But somehow she remembered another boat, a loud motor. She wasn't sure. It could have been the helicopter. A glimpse of light from the porthole indicated that it was day. The day after? Her ears strained. She heard murmurs just outside the door to the cabin. Spanish, spoken by Mexicans. Coming closer. The door to the cabin slid open with a hiss and two men stepped inside. She slammed her eyes shut, feigning unconsciousness as she tried to gentle her breathing, a thin layer of sweat coating her body. "Let's get her up." A rough hand on her left foot began loosening the ties. His tone was emphatic, anxious, like the boss was waiting and getting dangerously impatient by the second. A combination of dread and elation rose in her throat. She'd sent out feelers and somebody had taken the bait. "Up, come on, up, you bitch." Brutal hands shook her shoulders, hauling her into a sitting position. She opened her eyes. He leaned over her, tall and rail thin, his hair slicked

back, his eyes, black, deep set. At the foot of the bed was a portly man, his trim beard shot through with bits of grey. Her skin pricked on the back of her neck. "I don't understand, don't speak Spanish," she lied. "Please. Need to go to bathroom. Bagno" The cold muzzle of a pistol punched her hard between her breasts and brought her up short. "Shut up." In English. The tall man's voice was as deadly as the gun he levelled at her chest. "Or you die right now.” Her hands were still tied in front of her. Her head throbbed from what she suspected was chloroform which they'd used to knock her out. She needed food and she needed water. But more than that, she needed to destroy. The bastard. The word gave her strength. She held the tall man's gaze defiantly. "I want to meet with him." "Madre de Dios. I told you to shut up." With a hard tug, he pulled her off the bed. Her head reeled as blood rushed to her brain, her knees nearly buckling under her unsteady feet. The stout man gave a slow, disgusted sneer, his thin lips under his greying beard revealing discoloured teeth. "Stupid woman. She thinks it's so easy," he said in Spanish to his partner. "Let her have the bathroom. Could be fun for us too, eh? We don't want her pissing on the floor." Her legs trembled beneath her and she remembered how the ground had shaken under the helicopter assault on the Gabriella. Her thoughts reeled. Why would Hunter order a hit on his own yacht? It made no sense. And

those AK-47S, the choice of the American military. Colombian or Mexican drug lords wouldn't have access to them. A cell phone shrilled and the bearded man withdrew it from his pocket. "Si si." he muttered into the mouthpiece, scratching his beard before snapping the device shut. He jerked his head, motioning upstairs. "Hay unproblema.y It took a moment for her to react and she didn't see it coming. His punch landed on her abdomen with a soft thud, sending her backwards, sprawling on the bed. She tried to catch her breath and focused on a cherub that danced mercilessly before her eyes. Her stomach burned, obviating her need for the bathroom, and she rolled into a fetal position, clutching her middle. Groaning, fighting through the dizzying pain, she was barely aware of the men leaving the cabin. It was worth it. It would all be worth it. Would all be worth it. She rocked herself gently back and forth. Please let it be Hunter, in the next stateroom. Let it be Hunter they would take her to. The pain in her abdomen was a deep ache. She pulled her legs closer to her body to staunch the pain. This was a test, a rite of passage, another trial by fire. Remember Danni. . . No, don't remember Danni. This wasn't the time, not now, not yet. She swam somewhere in purgatory between sleep and wakefulness. Thoughts of Julian, the last days of his illness, mingled with images of his dear friend Zachary at the funeral. The cloying scent of lilies as she begged him for the files sealed twelve years before by the courts. He could do it, a former Supreme Court judge, now that his best friend was dead and could

no longer stop him. They were coming back. She jerked awake as she heard the cabin door slide open, then close again. Panic trumped pain and, with every muscle screaming, she rolled to a sitting position, prepared to face her demons. Her courage dissolved like snow in the desert when she saw that it wasn't the two Mexicans standing a few feet from the bed. The eyes that captured and held her attention were a hard blue. He was a large man, standing well over six feet, broad shoulders, lean torso, narrow hips. She could tell all that because he was sheathed in a neoprene wetsuit. He didn't say a word but pulled her from the bed and began stripping her tattered dress from her body. "Don't scream, don't say a word, or “1 have to gag you." His voice was low and dark, the words English and his hands lean and efficient. She remained still, listening to her heart pounding in her ears. All her muscles tightened, overwhelmed by a different type of awareness, a renewed danger that poisoned the air. He was different from the other two men - not Mexican, probably American, his movements silent and stealthy, controlled as a jewel thief. All she could make out were his eyes and the outline of a strong nose and clean jawbeneath his mask. Still leaving her wrists bound, he unzipped her dress and, with little effort, tore the rest of the fabric until it was a rag at her feet. The cool air hit her skin. She looked down at the silk of her bra and

suddenly came to life, struggling in his arms. He spun her around and the expression in his eyes said there would be no mistake about his intentions. He knew he had her, and he let her know it with the subtle shifting of his body closer to hers. She strained away from him. He held her effortlessly with one hand while with the other he extracted a wetsuit from his backpack, clearly meant for her. "Toilet. .. I need to go . . . desperately,” she said. His breath was heavy with impatience. Jaw hard, his eyes dead ahead, he bundled her towards the bathroom. Mercifully, he turned his back while she made quick work of her business, bunching down her panties with her bound wrists. When she was finished, she glanced at his broad back, his profile limned in the light from the porthole. There was no way she would go with him. All she had to do was yell, throw something at his head - that water glass on the sink. Trembling, all too aware of her near nakedness and growing vulnerability, she grabbed the glass and opened her mouth to scream. Her first mistake. The man was as sharply tuned as the finest seismograph. Before she could make a sound he'd dragged her flush against him, his hand clamping over her mouth. The glass tumbler fell to the floor without breaking as she shoved against his chest trying to break the contact. He lifted her off her feet and carried her back to the bedroom. She was pushed to the edge of the bed while he covered her thrashing limbs with his torso. She tried to knee him in the groin but, anticipating the move, he deftly shifted aside.

He was strong, too strong, positioning his body over hers, pinning her bound hands over her head with one arm. He lowered his face to hers, the blue of his eyes more vivid than the cerulean of the fresco overhead. "I trusted you," he whispered a fraction from her mouth, removing his hand. "I'm not going to hurt you if you do as I say." "I don't want to go with you," she hissed the words. "Leave me . .." She tried to scramble away but it was impossible. His breath was hot against her skin, the scent of ocean and something else, a searing shock of physical attraction that sent her bucking beneath him, sending the wetsuit intended for her to the floor. She saw his eyes darken a second. Her heart beat like a jackhammer doing triple time. He held her with his eyes, looking for her submission. She didn't make a sound. Slowly he relinquished her bound hands. Then he lifted his hips and balanced his weight on his knees, still keeping her prisoner. His expression darkened when he saw the purpling on her abdomen. Alexa sucked in her breath, watching as, with the utmost gentleness, he traced the outlines of the bruise, his fingers lingering, sending darts of heat to her core, the gesture more shocking than the wildest violence. She just lay there, her eyes searching his with a wariness shot through with distrust. For him and, most of all, for herself. Who was he? A rival of Hunter's? The wetsuit intended for her meant that he wanted her off this boat. Without glancing at the porthole, she imagined the swell of the ocean outside. She stared at his profile above her, his sinewy forearms balanced over her.

The weight above her eased. With an economy of movement she was already becoming accustomed to, he pushed off the bed and picked up her wetsuit, motioning her to put it on. At the moment, she had little choice. This time he didn't turn his back as she struggled into the tight material. Coolly efficient now, he helped her zip up the suit and, gathering her thick hair in a fist, pushed it underneath her cap until only her eyes and lips were visible. Her feet remained bare. He took her arm and pulled her towards the doorway. Opening it a fraction, he peered outside before edging them both through. The corridor was deserted, the pitch of the sea making it difficult to wind their way down the hallway and up a flight of stairs. She estimated the ship was eighty or ninety feet long, far smaller than the Gabriella. Their bare feet made no sounds on the carpeting as they passed several cabin doors. They were closing in on the deck, the tang of sea air stronger now. She studied the broad back in front of her, not sure when she'd make her move. This she did know for sure - she wasn't going with him. She had waited half a lifetime to get close to Hunter, the man that haunted her nightmares, and she wasn't about to be stopped now. He shrugged open the door with his shoulder and a gust of wind nearly pushed her back inside. Propelled to the deck with a strong wrench on her arm, she stood on the sodden floor, slippery with salt water, confronting the cresting waves crashing against the boat, at least eight feet worth of swells. No land in sight, only endless horizon that blended with an overcast sky.

The metallic taste of terror closed her throat. The rail of the ship came to her waist and every few seconds the vessel heeled on a precarious angle, swells rolling into the hull. No use even guessing where they might be, but it still looked like the Atlantic, grey and dead cold. She would never survive. Which is what her new captor probably intended. She would have preferred a bullet to her head. She watched as he opened a bulkhead and quickly drew out two tanks, two regulators and a facemask. She stared in horror. "I can't swim." The words that slipped out were barely audible over the crash of the waves. "It doesn't matter. Let's go." "You're insane." He didn't bother to respond but took another quick look up and down the deck before strapping a tank to her back, securing the weight belt and quickly checking the regulator. The mask snapped into place, covering her eyes and nose, swallowing her protests. 'You really can't swim?" He was pulling on his own equipment as though it was second nature to him. The terror in her eyes was his answer. "We'll have to improvise," he said grimly. She shouldn't have revealed her fear. Just let him go first, give him a good push and then run screaming from the deck. She thought quickly about the two Mexicans who might interpret this scenario as a display of loyalty on her part. She'd handle the tough questions. Her mind worked quickly.

But his body moved even faster. Before she could complete her last thought, he had leaped the rail, grabbed her around the waist and hauled her, like the lightest buoy, overboard. The horizon tilted on its side and, for a nauseating second, all she knew was the cold embrace of the ocean flying towards her. A drumming in her ears, the pressure excruciating. Alexa couldn't see, couldn't breathe, her arms flailing against the strong body that held her securely. For a moment she struggled, wanting to get loose, to rise to the surface of the water before her lungs would burst. The body beside hers grabbed her arms, shaking to get her attention. Frozen with panic, she blinked several times, surprised that she could see anything at all. The dark-green water swirled around them and all she could make out were hard blue eyes, trying to communicate with her. He tapped on her regulator, which at some point he must have shoved in her mouth, his broad chest mimicking the rhythm of deep, controlled breaths. Breathe, breathe. How many times had she repeated those words, a mantra that helped her evade customs, the border police, a nervous teenager, his hand trembling from the weight of a Glock. Miraculously now, she became aware of air filling her lungs with each breath she took. His arm still around her waist, he read her expression, looking for signs that her terror was under control. They began to float, swim, she as stiff as a board clutching the shoulder at her side as he held on to the oxygen tank on her back. She didn't dare think where they were going, her hold on sanity as tenuous as a silk thread. Green kelp swayed beneath them as though buffeted by a gentle

ocean breeze and, if she looked up, she pretended that she could see daylight break the top surface of the water. One breath at a time, she forced herself to calm, fingering her mouthpiece just to make sure it was still there. After what she estimated was half an hour, she realized they were going in circles. A rendezvous point. She glanced at her captor who was effortlessly spinning them around in wide circles. They were waiting fora boat-that was the only explanation. But then what? Even through her wetsuit, she was beginning to feel the cold, a weakening in her legs that even she knew was a bad sign. They were moving with a deceptive buoyancy, and she worried about how much oxygen they had left in their tanks. He glanced at the bulky watch on his wrist. A sudden exhalation of breath and bubbles danced above his head, startling her. Her eyes strained to see through the saltwater murk, distracted by the vigorous frothing overhead. Then she saw him. A diver materializing from behind an outcrop of rock. His knife glinted like lost treasure in the gloom as he dug the blade into her captor's lifeline, the pump that connected the register to his tank. Compressed air leaked into the sea water, releasing a trail of useless oxygen. Paralysed, she watched the surreal display, absorbing the slow motion into her body as her captor pushed her away. The taller of the two men, he spun around to face his assailant, first grabbing and then hanging fast to his tank and weight belt. The struggle was a slow dance, keeping time with the swaying vegetation below.

Alexa kicked at the water, frantically mimicking the moves she'd learned moments before, going against her instincts, towards the two grappling men. The taller one thrashed, choking as his attacker grabbed his dive mask and refused to let go. Her consciousness began to flicker and she wondered whether she was running out of oxygen. She kicked down towards the blurred images, towards the taller, leaner man. He was weakening, his head sinking to his chest, losing awareness. Seconds, maybe a minute passed. His assailant was feeling confident, peering into the taller man's mask ready to leave him for dead. The body slackened, the head bobbed, the precious bubbles of oxygen subsiding. The lone diver turned towards her. A quick jerk of his flippers and he was there. She kicked hard against him, against the water, anything to propel herself away from this creature and to the surface. She was no match for either his experience or his strength but could only grab hold of the slick rubber covering his face. From someplace deep inside, waves of anger replaced terror and she wrenched away, clawing at his mask like an animal in a cage. Then the air bubbles, a halo around his head. Resurrected, emerging from the gloom, her captor floated behind the other diver. His knife twisted and slashed into the smaller man's oxygen hose, ripping his mask from his head. Dark spots flickered before Alexa's eyes and she thought she saw the shorter man reach for the knife at his

belt. Without thinking, she grabbed the weapon with cold, stiff hands - only to have it wrenched from her grasp a second later. A fresh wave of horror. Her captor - without precious air- worked the knife she'd held moments before and slashed efficiently at the chest of the diver. Blood poured from the wound, a sinuous plume discolouring the murky water. It didn't take long. The smaller man convulsed like a wind-up toy, jerking fitfully in a macabre ballet. He stilled and then descended into the aqueous shadows. Less than two minutes had passed. How long could her captor survive without oxygen? She watched as he struggled to cut loose the weight belts dangling from his waist. Maybe because he was her only hope right now, she wanted to see this man breathe, to see him suck sweet oxygen into his deprived lungs. To live. She wasn't thinking clearly. Her hand shaking, she removed the register from her mouth and offered it to him. Instead of the panicked breaths she expected, he took short gasps, inhaling rhythmically for a few seconds before handing her back the register. With frozen fingers, her lungs already bursting, she followed suit. When she'd had her fill of the precious elixir, she motioned to him with the register but he shook his head and grabbed her tank again. He kicked powerfully and they ascended a few feet towards a dark shadow in the water above them. A cylinder, maybe twenty feet in length and eight feet in height, emerged from the green shadows. It looked like a small plane with a tether attached and a miniature, silent propeller spinning in the rear.

A small enclosed space, fathoms deep beneath the ocean. Despite the oxygen flowing to her lungs, her throat constricted. He must have seen the change in her expression because he was ready when she began shoving away from him. He slipped under her and pushed her towards the submersible, remaining below her body, solid, unshakeable as a dam. She twisted wildly, churning the water, a heavy blanket of disorientation beginning to take over. The ocean floor beckoned, anything, anything to get away from the suffocation of the enclosed space, the box, the coffin in front of her. Hands grabbed her waist, pushing her on to a solid platform. Her head thrashed back and forth, her eyes closed in denial. All she saw was Danni’s face.

Four Ripe opium buds smell fresh, like wet grass. Not unlike the wet grass of the perfectly manicured lawns on his estate in Kent. Although looking at the landscape from inside the Jeep, Daoud knew the scene was as far away from the United Kingdom as heaven from hell. These denuded hills were brick red, not a scrub brush marring the harsh contours that folded into flat planes of brightly nodding flowers. The Jeep turned a corner sharply. Impossible to avoid the ruts in the roads pockmarked with mortar shells. NATO forces climbed like rats all over these provinces. He swallowed a curse. Opium jihad. Smack, china white, horse, black tar - he knew all the names that were used for heroin in the West. And he also knew how the

by-product of a simple flower was converted into one of the most addictive drugs known to man. Inhaled, ingested or injected, heroin created an instantaneous rush that lasted only a few seconds. Then the heavy drowsiness, followed by a sense of contentment and detachment from the world. And then the addiction, since tolerance was inevitable, leading the user to increase the dose to create a high. Sometimes four times a day. The most powerful weapon in the universe. A gift from Allah. He looked out the window, the scene of Afghanistan's endless war. In a playing field in the centre of what was left of a neighbourhood, rested a Soviet tank, an abandoned relic captured by the mujahideen years ago. The Jeep ascended to craggy, barren mountains, negotiating steep climbs, descents and hairpin curves along a narrow road. The terrain was familiar, etched by his childhood, with its cluster of small red hills, smooth mushroom-shaped rocks fusing into neat concentric lines. Rugged, unwelcoming, another range of grey, forbidding stone hills came into view. The Jeep slowed to a halt in front of a small granite building in the middle of a field sheltered by two walls of rock. Daoud signalled his driver to wait and watched his bodyguards emerge from two trucks, one in front and one behind. They quickly secured the building. Daoud stepped into the bright morning air, breathing deeply, letting down his guard. The Taliban controlled this part of Helmand province in western Afghanistan, the population of poppy farmers thriving in a chaos that funded the jihad. Every poppy lanced for its opium unleashed a flow of black-market dollars conveniently taxed by the virtual government of the

Taliban. Beautiful, just beautiful. Daoud smiled, imaging the thousands of tons of opium from this year’s harvest being processed, heroin that was about to flood the streets of the West, all the while stuffing the pockets of drug lords like himself. It would be forever so. He would see to it. With the help of Rafael Hunter. After the bright light of day, the interior of the small building was dark. All he could smell was earth until his eyes adjusted and he saw the two men in the corner. "Salaam." Daoud approached and knelt down on to the cushion on the dirt floor. To his right was Nazir Ghalib, a local farmer with thousands of acres under his operation. In between his flowing robes, on his lap, he held a clay pot. Just before reaching maturity, the poppy plant produces a flower. After a week, the petals fall off, leaving a capsule. Raw opium gum is harvested from this capsule, about a hundred of which nestled in the earthenware container Ghalib cradled between his hands. Ibrahim Azhar, with a full beard and flowing robes, nodded approvingly. His dark eyes glistened as he listened to Ghalib with the attention he would have given the prophet Mohammed. How close was Azhar to Mullah Omar, Emir of Afghanistan and head of the Taliban? Daoud knewit was useless to speculate. Instead, he made sure to demonstrate his obeisance by focusing on Ghalib's words. He nodded gravely. Nothing he didn't already know. But the success of the jihad rested in the hands of these poor farmers who used opium as their

currency, selling or trading it for the basics like food, clothing and tools. Azhar stroked his beard, leaning forwards to invite the Ghalib's further confidence. "We need help, money, supplies to refine . . ." He ran his fingers carefully through the buds like they were the finest jewels. Daoud knew first-hand how raw opium could clear out an airport terminal with its strong odour. All the more reason it had to be converted into a morphine base before it could leave Afghanistan. "So what do you need - more money?” he asked, shifting from the cushion to the hard dirt floor. "Chand afghaniy?" How much? Ghalib raised his eyes expectantly. "Qimat ast." If s expensive. "Expensive” to these poor farmers meant throwing a few more dollars their way. 'You'll have it,” he said patting the older man on the back under the watchful eyes of Azhar. "You do the work of Allah, salam aleikom." Peace be upon you. Azhar was generous in his praise. He leaned closer towards Daoud. "How soon will you have the money?" he asked in surprisingly good English. Daoud gritted his teeth. "I have always been faithful, with Allah's help. And I will not turn away now.” Ghalib watched the exchange, raisin eyes glinting in his sunburned face. "Have you developed new ways of getting the material out of Afghanistan? The shipments have been slowed in recent months and we

can't delay with the infidel at our gates.” Daoud bit back a reply, resenting the simple world view these men lived with. Smuggling heroin wasn't as effortless as loading it on a donkey's back and humping it over a few mountain ranges. Customs was becoming smarter and jumpier than a junkie looking for his next fix. Just a few shipments ago he was having couriers swallow bags of heroin, cross the border and wait for the bags to run their digestive course. He'd also tried hiding bags in gas tanks and tyres of cars or mixed with garbage. He'd even heard of a border patrol unit in Texas finding millions worth of narcotics stuffed in human body parts - the legs, arms and intestines - that had been stolen from a hospital. "Leave it to me," he said simply. It was time to assert some control. He rose from the floor and signalled to Ghalib that the meeting was over. The older man shuffled to his feet, still cradling the bowl, bowing to Azhar although there was a set to his shoulders that was anything but respectful. Desperately poor, ravaged by years of war, these tribes didn't know loyalty. So as long as the Taliban paid... Azhar watched as Ghalib left, then he motioned Daoud to return to the cushions on the floor. He spat off to the side and wiped the corner of his mouth as though what he had to say was particularly dissatisfying. "You know how important this is? How without the support of these farmers and their crops we cannot rise up and defeat the infidel?" Azhar didn't trust him, didn't trust his loyalty. "I know better than anyone, Ibrahim." Azhar flicked his gaze over Daoud's robes, knowing full well the Europe

an -style trousers and shirt that lay beneath. His gaze held disdain. "It is this woman who will guarantee our future - the only way to preserve our future and fulfil Allah's will. This is but the first step towards the complete and final devastation of the West." Daoud's spine tingled though not from the cold. "So you have heard from the American." Settling his hands on his thighs, Azhar looked to the east, his expression impenetrable. "Ensa allah, God willing, it will all come to pass." "And I am to know no more?" In the distance, two explosions. Mines going off. They lay like ticking time bombs across the length and breadth of the country. Azhar's answer was simple. "Just bring her." he paused in acknowledgement of the sin he was about to commit. Yosuf Daoud knew the meeting was over. Leaving the darkness of the concrete building, he couldn't ignore the shrapnel and bullet marks decorating the doorway like some kind of a frieze, courtesy of American-led forces and their B-52S, smart bombs and daisy-cutters. Would the woman present a problem? There were ways to ensure the highest levels of cooperation, all the way through Washington, DC. He looked to the horizon, which was enshrouded by the smoke and dust of war, and smiled. No, he didn't think Alexa Stoppard would present a problem at all.

Five

Life was a crap shoot. And lately all that was coming up were snake eyes. He watched the woman sleep, lost in the queen-sized bed, her hair a dark-honey cloud spread on the pillow, her breathing shallow. Alexa Stoppard had been out cold for eight hours now, an improvement from the catatonic state she'd entered just before he'd pulled her aboard the submarine. He didn't shock easily but a lifetime of experience had still not prepared him for the blind terror in her eyes, a meltdown that kicked the shit out of anything he'd ever seen in the faces of the most desperate men - men belly-down in the jungle, men with electrodes attached to their balls, men forced to kiss the business end of a Glock. In the green gloom of the Atlantic, Alexa Stoppard had disappeared and shrank into a dark corner of her soul. The tightness across his shoulders was like a straitjacket and he flexed his muscles willing the tension to ease. Deliberately facing away from the woman on the bed, he moved to look out the porthole with its expansive horizon of blue. But he still saw her face, the wide grey eyes closed to him like a prison door, the generous mouth, controlling her panic as she fought against him. He allowed himself a grim smile at the memory of the softness of her skin, the taste and feel of her. And that dancer's body, slender and strong, struggling beneath him. The rapidly reddening bruise on her taut abdomen. A harbinger of things to come. Once he got his hands on her, once he got what he wanted, Daoud would kill Alexa Stoppard. Michael concentrated on a single seagull, alone and free, skimming the water's surface. Of course like so many before her, Stoppard was ultimately

expendable and, if Michael were in Daoud's situation, he'd do the same thing. It was just good fucking business practice. The seagull soared, the glint of a fish in its bill, disappearing into the faint line of the horizon. He didn't believe in luck, never had, and it raised every godforsaken instinct in his neural system that this scenario was all too convenient. Alexa Stoppard had been choreographed off the yacht with the kind of ostentatious violence that raised the profile of the business in ways it couldn't afford. Christ, the favours he'd had to call in to clean up the mess. Something made him turn around, his senses tuned to the tiniest change in the room's atmosphere. Although her eyes were still closed, he knew that Alexa Stoppard was awake. “You're

going to have to look at me sometime.” Michael remained

standing a few feet from the bed when slowly her eyes opened, as clear as a winter sky. He remembered that she had saved his life, hours ago in the cold, green depths of the ocean, sharing her precious oxygen with him. It must have gone against her every instinct. 'You're hungry." The banality of the words was a good defence, heading off his dangerous thoughts. This woman did something to him and he didn't like it. Without moving, she stared at him, memorizing every detail of his appearance for later use. A few more awkward seconds, and she shook her head, sitting up tentatively. She clutched the sheet to her chest, her hair a tumble around the fragile bones of her shoulders. "I was on a boat. You came into my cabin ..."

Her voice hit him straight in the gut. He remembered she was all but naked under that thin sheet. To head off the throbbing blood in his groin, he turned his attention to the tray that had been left by the door. Small sandwiches covered in cellophane and a glass of iced tea. "Eat something before we talk,” he said picking up the tray and setting it by her bed. Alexa glanced at him warily before eyeing the tea and then carefully reaching to raise the glass to her lips. He watched the vulnerable line of her throat, as she first sipped the liquid and then more thirstily drained the glass. Maybe she really didn't want to talk or maybe she was really hungry. He didn't say anything but just watched, wondering how the hell to begin setting this thing up. Using people was what he did best, and right now he needed to get a clearer read on Alexa Stoppard. "Something happened down there in the water. Do you remember?” "That's what happens when you're thrown overboard." "That's not what I'm talking about.” "Isn't it?" Strength had returned to her voice, her shoulders above the white sheet straightening. He dragged a chair to the foot of the bed and sat down so they were at eye level. "I'm talking about the fact that you went into a catatonic state. You've been out of it for eight hours." She shifted underneath the covers, offering him an outline of slender

legs, which he tried to ignore. "I was in shock. I told you that I've a terrifying fear of water." He knew she was lying. There were people that were far better at interrogation than he was but, Jesus, he didn't want to think about that now. She'd never last. A trace of colour had returned to her skin, a soft flush of pink over her high cheekbones. "I'd like to get up, please." "So you can try and hit me over the head with a water glass?" "I learn quickly. It didn't work the first time," she said. The wide grey eyes transmitted a sharp acuity as she made to rise, first carefully bundling the sheet under her arms and then sitting at the edge of the bed. She looked as innocent as a woodland nymph though God only knew he wouldn't recognize one if he'd shot it between the eyes. He pushed back his chair and moved to her side. She froze, her hands clutching the sheet. "I can do this myself.” “Must

in case you feel like keeling over.” She stiffened but the skin

of her arm felt like warm cream under his calloused palm. "The bathroom's to your left. And there should be clothing in there as well.” "Thank you.” She deftly detached herself from his grasp and disappeared into the bathroom. He tried not to follow the gentle sway of her hips but stood waiting with his back to the door until a few minutes later she emerged, dressed in a pair of khakis which revealed fine-boned ankles and feet in a pair of plastic flip-flops and a sweatshirt at least three sizes too big. She'd washed her face, and

strands of damp hair framed the sides of her cheeks. Glancing briefly out of the porthole, she sat opposite him on a small bench covered in sleek butterscotch leather. With her knees set demurely together and her bare feet, she looked like a schoolgirl. But the voice was low, direct and damned adult. "Where are we?” He grabbed the end of the chair and straddled it, facing her. "Last time I checked with the log, we were 25 degrees east off Cape Hatteras.” "And where are we going?” "That all depends.” She kicked off the flip-flops and curled her toes into the softness of the carpet. "Look- I don't know who you are but it's probably best that you let me off at the next available port. This has been some horrific mistake.” 'You know the man who owns that yacht?" "Yes, and I assume you do as well.” She quieted her hands on her lap. "The question is - who or what were you looking for after the attack on the Gabriella?" "What do you think?” Lying was easy, living a lie even easier once you got used to the fit. It took her less time to respond than he'd bargained for. "You work for him” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. 'You mean Rafael Hunter? And why are you looking for him?"

Her eyes challenged him, the set of her mouth mutinous. "Does it matter?" He'd bet half the opium output of Afghanistan that Alexa Stoppard had something to hide. Something big. And he didn't want it coming back to bite him in the ass. "What do you think?” "Why did he send you after me?” He shrugged, lying fluently. "Nobody likes loose cannons. Something had to be done.” "And you were reluctant to leave me with your competitors, the Mexican contingent.” "I'd say the cavalry arrived just in time." "I would have managed something.” "Just be glad you didn't have to." Michael's tone was harsh. "I'm obviously of some value to you, otherwise you would have left me on the boat or at the bottom of the ocean.” "I didn't say you weren't.” Her eagerness scared the shit out of him. He shifted in his chair, awkwardness like he hadn't felt in two decades washing over him. "It all depends what you're willing to do for us.” The words sounded like profanity, even to his ears. She licked her lips, the gesture totally unselfconscious. "I think I understand.”

like hell she did. "Is he on board?" He rose from the chair. "Who?" "Rafael Hunter." She was standing now, outlined by the golden light of dusk on the ocean. He paused a heartbeat before answering. "This business is about letting somebody else do the dirty work for you. Does that answer your question?" "Do I at least get a name - your name?" There was the slightest hesitation. Then he said, "Michael." Alexa followed Michael into the elevator and they were once again in the atrium of the ship. The debris created by the AK-47S had been swept away as if by magic. The Renoir, Miro and Goya hung peaceably in place, the spiral staircase with its onyx and silver handrail shining as though nothing had ever marred its glowing perfection. Up on deck the pool sparkled in the early evening light next to a table for two that was set for dinner with a bottle of wine and two glasses. The wind was slight, the air a warm caress and the North Star had made its appearance, glittering mockingly overhead. It was as if they were the only two people on this ghost ship in the middle of the ocean. Alexa felt him behind her. The height of him, the breadth, the harshness of his features were broken only by those striking blue

eyes, an incongruity she couldn't hope to reconcile. She should know better than anyone else the difference between good and evil all too often came in shades of grey. When it came to this man, it shouldn't matter because he was only a stepping stone that would lead to Hunter's ruin. She turned to face him. "How many people on board with us?" "As few as possible and just enough to keep the ship running." He ran a hand through his thick hair, hair the colour of old gold. Who was he, and how had he found himself playing for a man as evil as Hunter? She watched as he pushed away from the rail and moved over to the table to pour two glasses of wine. He was expecting her to say something. But she couldn't, the words stuck in her throat. "Are you all right?”The man missed nothing as he pushed a glass of wine into her hand. She took a sip. She couldn't afford any weakness but, before she could protest, he had propelled them both over to the sofa by the bar. She sank into suede the colour and feel of butter. She pulled away from him, all too aware of the strength of his body next to hers. With all the discipline she could manage, she slammed the door on her thoughts. "I'm fine, absolutely fine. Simply not hungry." Alexa could read nothing on his face, nothing in his eyes. He was just waiting’ waiting for her to screw up, make a mistake. 'You're in pretty deep, Alexa."

Night had fallen and lights wreathed the deck in subtle shadows. "I understand," she said quietly, thinking of Danni. He moved in closer until she could reach out and touch him if she wanted to. For the first time, she noticed the small scar on the side of his mouth. A fall from his bicycle when he was six? She doubted it. More like the remnants of a knife attack, the pattern as familiar to her as the impasto of an artist's brush. He watched her with an unnerving stillness. 'You realize this has nothing to do with trust. You don't trust me and I sure as hell don't trust you. The only reason you're here is because we want you here." We. Us. He meant Rafael Hunter. "And it's my job to make sure our association pays off." His warm breath, spiced with wine, assailed her senses. "All you have to know is that once you're in, there's no going back. Do I make myself clear?" What was he doing, giving her a way out? Mesmerized by the deep velvet of his voice, Alexa couldn't hide from the truth. She was crazy to think she would survive this, let alone bring Hunter to his knees, the leader of one of the world's most dangerous and complex drug cartels. And now this man. With his sensual mouth and the hard, beautiful eyes that missed nothing. "Very clear," she said. His voice came low and quiet. "If you want to say no, say it now - and not when I ask you to do the impossible, to surrender the last shreds of your conscience or to give up the people closest to you." His eyes flickered over her shoulder, surveying the deck. Then he lifted his hand and drew it

across her cheek to her chin, tipping her head towards his. "Now or not at all." Alexa didn't know what she was saying yes to. Her breathing came faster and she was powerless to slow it. He was trying to seduce her’ this was part of the game. To see how far she would go to sell her soul. And yet all she could think about was his intense blue gaze. The particular slant of his brows. And that he smelled of soap and sun. "Yes," she said. For a long moment, he held her gaze. Then his hand slid down her arms to her wrists, tracing her racing pulse. The pads of his fingers moved slowly over the thin skin and she bit her lip as he wrapped his hand around her wrist. Like a manacle, shackling her as much to her past as to her future. She should pull away but didn't. And it was as if he knew, the corner of that wide mouth lifting in an almost smile. "Scared? You should be." He lowered his lips to hers. He kissed her hard and deep, sending her a message with his thrusting tongue. Alexa moaned into his mouth, her body shivering with a combination of dread and desire. Hot, urgent, demanding, his arms were around her. She felt his power as he held her, his arm locked around her waist, his thick erection grinding against her pelvis. She shuddered, mind and body, fear and desire, warring inside her. His hair was thick beneath her hands although she didn't know when she had reached for him. She didn't care. This was a fight she didn't dare lose, a fight to the finish. And it had begun the moment he'd entered the stateroom on the Mexican yacht and pinned her to the bed.

Retreat was not an option, never had been. So she clung to him as his tongue thrust and thrust again, stroking her mouth, skimming her lips. One of his hands cupped her breast, bare beneath the voluminous sweatshirt, and desire tore through her. "God, you taste sweet." His voice was rough and urgent, his shoulders blocking her view as his hand slid to her other breast. The craving was deep, almost painful. Her stomach muscles tightened as his hand skimmed the bare skin of her midriff, slowly bunching the material around her torso. She arched her back as he ran his hands over her distended nipples still covered by the fabric. Easing her back into the buttery cushions, he slid his mouth over the sensitive nerve endings of her stomach. Butterfly kisses suddenly gentle on her bruised skin. "Take off your sweatshirt for me, Alexa." The voice was a low, soft contradiction to the hard gaze. She couldn't say no to him, didn't want to. Lifting shaking hands, she gathered the fabric in her fists, first removing her arms and then pulling the material over her head to sweep it aside. His jaw clenched and she felt the warm ocean air and those blue eyes on her naked breasts. "Beautiful," he said, his own breathing short and rapid. He trailed his lips up her waist to the underside of abreast. She closed her eyes at the hard pull of his mouth, the sensual lick of his tongue, sending bolts of pleasure low in her body. As though she had been taken over by another being, her hips rocked and her arms wrapped around his shoulders, so hard and warm beneath the

thin T-shirt. Suddenly, she couldn't get enough of touching him, losing herself in the rhythm of his mouth on her breasts, desperate, hungry, aggressive. Her voice shook. "Please, please." Her heart beat so hard she could hear it in her ears, feel it in the tips of her fingers. She felt his lips leave her skin as he brought his mouth close to hers. "What do you want? Tell me. And don't lie." She met his dark gaze, scared by the power of her own need, afraid to analyse its source, petrified that she could never turn back. She closed her eyes, unwilling to say the words. She didn't want to look at him. She didn't want to think. Everything drew up tight inside her, a place where the past, present and future didn't exist. Her body was everything, wanting too much, wanting him. Looking into the night sky, the world became a cascade of shooting stars. A shout rose from the yacht's bridge. Alexa started, the feel of hard muscle beneath her hands reassuring. Just then a burst from a rifle exploded into the silence. Cool air on her bare skin. He was on his feet, eyes skimming the deck and bridge. "Get dressed. Now." Alexa threw on her sweatshirt as Michael hauled her to her feet and pushed her towards the stairs leading to the atrium. "Stay out of sight and keep quiet until I give you the heads up," he whispered so softly she could barely hear him. His expression gave nothing away. "Go!"

Another ricochet of bullets. Alexa turned and ran down the stairs. The atrium was dimly lit, her eyes darting around the room: chairs, a settee, a coffee table, a closet, the fireplace, a door in the corner -leading to where exactly? Suddenly it was quiet. The ocean calmed at night and the familiar groans of the hull stilled. Her ears strained for the slightest sound. It didn't take long. A thunder of footsteps coming down from the bridge. Now they sounded like they were on the main deck. "Drop the gun or he goes overboard." Alexa slipped up the spiral staircase, the carpeting muffling her footsteps. She reached the halfway point and stopped. "Doesn't work for me." Michael's voice. Cold as ice. Taking three more steps, she flattened herself next to the doorway and took a breath of ocean air. Framed by the entrance was Michael, a Glock steady in his hand. Three men had their AK-4S turned on him while a fourth held somebody that looked like the ship's captain, epaulets dangling on what remained of his jacket. The face of the captain was fading from white to ash, his eyes bulging with terror. "A bit of persuasion is in order." The man spoke English with a Middle Eastern accent. He tightened his hold around the captain's neck then signalled something with the jerk of his chin. One of his men produced a green garbage bag. A tidal wave of stink from fish blood and guts drenched the atmosphere. Alexa forced back a gag. "Your methods are as crude as ever, Daoud," said Michael.

Daoud narrowed his eyes. "Don't you want to know what's in here and what we're going to use it for?" Michael shrugged like it didn't matter either way. "Do what you must, gentlemen." "A pleasure," said Daoud. "I'm actually looking forward to this." Alexa choked when she saw the green garbage bag dragged to the yacht's railing. "What do you think?" Daoud asked his men. "Should we throw the captain overboard first?" He twisted the captain's neck for emphasis, as though asking for his opinion. "And then baptize him with the fish blood I have here? That should bring the sharks circling." Alexa thought she was going to black out, dark spots dancing before her eyes. Through the haze she saw Michael, not moving, not giving in. She squeezed her eyes shut, heard the screams ripping through the night and then the splash of the body hitting the pitiless surface of the ocean. Nausea soured the back of her throat. "Cold-blooded bastard, aren't you?" Daoud gestured to Michael. "Now that's done, I’ll ask again. Where is she? We know you have her." 'You're surprisingly sure of yourselves." Michael's low voice was calm and steady. "I told you she's not onboard." "Amazing how many people want Alexa Stoppard, isn't it?" Her pulse notched up several beats until all she could hear was a pounding in her head. Sweat trickled down her back and a fresh roll of nausea settled in her belly, self-loathing dark and thick. She stopped breathing, expecting the worst. And it came.

Michael lunged at Daoud, grabbing his gun, bullets spraying the other three men, caught unaware in the split second between life and death. They collapsed to the floor amid an ear-splitting series of blasts, screams, and crumbling bodies. Michael went for Daoud's throat, grabbing handfuls of his shirt and his hair. Throwing him down on to his knees, he tightened his arm around his neck, his foot knifing his back, grinding into his spine. The bodies of the three men lay twitching around them, like a macabre tableau. "You son of a bitch, Daoud.” Michael exhaled the words. "Who sent you? I won't ask again." "Fuck you." "I'm not a patient man." Michael tightened the grip around Daoud's neck, the action speaking louder than words. Alexa watched as Daoud clawed ineffectively at Michael's face, struggling like a fish on a hook, his face purpling as he gasped for oxygen. "For the last time." Michael buried the muzzle of his gun in the man's ear. "Tell me who sent you." His eyes bulged. "Coombs." The name was wrenched from his lips. "Zachary Coombs." Alexa swayed in the dark. Impossible. The man she had trusted most of her adult life. The man who had been her husband's closest friend. Impossible... Spittle formed around Daoud's mouth. "Coombs keeps the routes

open for us, the veins of opium flowing through the West. You should know - better than anybody." It made no sense. None. Zachary was at the forefront of the war on drugs. Michael's grip loosened infinitesiinally, his foot still on Daoud's back. 'You're doing a good job. Keep talking." "Not just the war on drugs he wants to continue," Daoud gasped, "but the war in Afghanistan. Where he makes his money.” Bile rose in Alexa's throat. Her mind reeled, unable to grasp the fact that an esteemed Supreme Court judge would be in the pay of both drug lords and arms dealers. "He's the one who sent you after Alexa Stoppard. Why?" Daoud's face glistened with sweat. "Because she knows. From when she was a kid. Coombs wanted her out of the way-in case she remembered.” "Remembered what?” In the darkness Alexa prayed, a prayer she had learned in the orphanage so many years ago. Prayed not because she expected divine intervention but because the rhythm of the words had, more than once, kept her from going insane. "Her foster parents used her as a mule, to move drugs.” Sweat beaded Daoud's brow. "She saw things, including her own sister killed.” The pain was suffocating. She remembered being shut into the container, with her little sister. Danni’s white face, the staring eyes ... Daoud was no longer trying to escape, his body limp. "She saw things," he

repeated. "People.” Her past yawned wide open. She was about to step into the chasm. "And she'd remember you." Alexa heard a buzzing in her ears. "Rafael Hunter.” She stopped breathing. And in the dimness, she knew. Like a wild and heedless animal, she climbed the last two stairs and stepped into the carnage, the acrid trail of smoke biting her nostrils. Rafael Hunter turned towards her, his eyes now blue black as he dared her to back down. Not Michael. Rafael Hunter. She saw his lips move but she couldn't hear what he said over the thunderous storm in her head. Desperately, her eyes searched his face, looking for the features that had been burned into her memory. The man who had killed her little sister, Danni, now stood before her, as remote and unfeeling as the weapon in his hand. Turning away, she leaned over the ship's rail, the cool air on her face, the ocean's roil reflecting her own torment. What was wrong with her? She was lying to herself, denying that Hunter was the man in whose arms she had lain only moments before. Her skin crawled with loathing. In the background, sirens, bright lights, a flotilla of small boats surrounding the Gabriella. Dear God, she didn't have much time. The back of her neck burned. Hunter was watching her. Slowly, she moved from the railing, eyeing the discarded weapons on the deck, lying between them.

"You want to kill me.” He said the words slowly. Unable to look directly at him, she shook her head, her voice strangled. "I didn't let Daoud have you.” His voice was steady. "When it would have been so easy." In the background, men boarded the ship, moving like shadows. Bodies were dragged away, Daoud among them. Alexa's confusion thickened. "Don't you want to know why?” Even Coombs had been involved. Releasing the files, knowing that she would go after Hunter. She couldn't think of that now. It was time to look up. Look into the face that was responsible for all the horrors of her childhood and beyond. The cool wind caressed her face. His eyes were darker than the blue of the ocean. "You don't recognize me as Hunter, do you?" It was true. She couldn't remember. Or didn't want to remember? He might have changed his appearance to remain unrecognizable in a dangerous world. "Face your demons, Alexa." She couldn't weaken now. Her throat closed but she forced the words from her lips. "When the time came, I thought. .." She paused and swallowed hard. "I thought that I would remember. Recognize you ... him” Except that I don't.

Images bloomed in her mind's eye. Michael's gentle hands on her bruised abdomen. Their escape from the Mexican ship. Michael refusing to give her up to Daoud. The moments under the night sky. She'd responded to him like a flare going off in the dark. And he'd saved her life, not just once. Who was this man, truly? "You're not. Can't be—" He took a step towards her. "My name is Michael." No hesitation. "Michael Burke. You're the first person to know my true identity in five years." He waited for her to speak. She pulled her arms around her body, looking again at the ocean, rather than at him. His face was light and shadows. "I don't know what to think," she said finally, softly. "The men boarding this ship, they're DEA and they will tell you, if you don't believe me," he said, taking another step closer. "Rafael Hunter was taken into custody four years ago and I was put in his place." Her head snapped up. Then silence, as she absorbed his words. Pieces dropping into place like the tumblers of a lock. "You wanted to find who in North America was behind Hunter's operation," she said, her voice hoarse. "Only to find Zachary Coombs," she finished silently. Behind her, the gentle lap of the ocean, the wind warming her body. She let her arms drop and moved towards him, her past flying out, leaving her. He leaned forwards to meet her, pressing his mouth lightly against her forehead. His lips were cool from the night air.

Michael Burke sighed, and then breathed her in. "I believe you," she whispered against his chest. "You can get all the proof, all the debriefing you want once we get back to Washington." Alexa began to pull back, but he wasn't about to allow her to move away. "And we can prosecute Hunter and everybody else connected with him, from North America to Afghanistan.” And Danni would rest in peace. Finally. Her voice seemed to come from far away. "It's done. Over," she said simply. His arms looped around her firmly. 'You believe me." He smiled for the first time, a beautiful smile. And she did. "I do," she said. His grin broadened. "That's everything I need." "Where do we go from here?” she asked, not without some fear. ''Forwards,” he promised her, "with no regard for the past. Yours or mine. Afresh start." Alexa took a long breath and exhaled, summoning courage. His arms gathered her closer, blotting out the night sky, his lips claiming hers.

A Kept Man Shannon K. Butcher

The pounding on John Augustine's front door was loud enough to wake the sweet little old deaf lady across the street. He glanced at the red numbers glowing on his alarm clock, blinking several times to clear the grit of notenough-sleep from his eyes. Two in the morning. Pounding at two in the morning was never a good thing unless it involved a hot woman and a loose headboard. The banging started again, more frantic this time. John let out a resigned sigh, flipped the covers back, grabbed his plaid robe and slid it over his naked body as he headed for the front door. The old oak planks beneath his bare feet were cool, the air even colder. Another front must have blown through last night, taking the fragile warmth of spring with it. The leaded glass window in his front door vibrated as his late-night visitor pounded again. "Hurry up!" The muffled, distinctly feminine demand slid through the solid wood, and every hair on John's body stood at attention. He knew that voice. He’d dreamed about it often enough that for a split second he thought maybe he still was in his bed, dreaming all of this. Brooke Stuart showing up on his front porch in the middle of the night

begging to come in was definitely dream worthy. Wet-dream worthy. John hurried the last few steps to the door and wrenched it open. Sure enough, Brooke stood there, bathed in his porch light, her pale skin glowing like a dream. Her strawberry-blonde hair was swept up in a complicated, elegant style that left a few delicate tendrils loose to caress her cheek. The twilight-blue evening gown she wore shimmered with startling glints of silver, matching her eyes exactly. A long slit in the fabric showed off the sinful curve of her thigh, and two thin straps were all that held up the daring neckline of her gown. Right now, the only thing John wanted more than a taste of her sweet mouth was a sharp pair of scissors. Two snips and he’d see firsthand what he ’d been imagining for more years than he was comfortable admitting. "Brooke?" he finally found the sense to ask. "What are you doing here?" "I need a gun." This was not how his dream was supposed to go. She was supposed to step inside, wrap her slender arms around his neck and kiss him. In those heels she wore, he was sure she'd be able to reach his mouth, and if not gentleman that he was - he'd just slide his hands under the perfect curve of her ass and give her a boost. Brooke stepped forwards and pushed past him, brushing her breasts against his arm. John checked the tie on his robe to make sure it was firmly in place and that his instant erection wasn't too obvious,

"I know you have one. You always had one. I need it." His sleep-deprived brain was having trouble catching up. He was still thinking about his hard-on, and she was talking about needing it. Those two wires crossed, and the sparks created skittered over his skin. Suddenly, the air was no longer cool enough to keep the beads of sweat from forming along his spine. He watched as she went through his house, flipping on lights as she searched for something. "Slow down, Brooke. Start over." She whirled on him, and the look of utter ferocity on her dainty features startled the hell out of him. If this had been a dream, that expression would have woken him for sure. She didn't look like a woman here for a few hours of fun, she looked like she was ready to kill. And she wanted a gun. Brooke grabbed the front of John's robe in her fist and gave him a shake. The beaded surface of her evening bag clutched in one hand sparkled under his living room lights, matching the angry shards of silver glinting in her eyes. "There's no time. They have Uncle Charles. I need a gun." Shock rattled him, and his sleep-deprived brain tried to make sense of her words. "Who has your uncle?" "I don't know. I don't care. All I care about is getting him back. I got the money, but it may not be enough." Her voice broke as if she was going to start crying, but she pressed a shaking hand to her mouth and seemed to pull herself together. "I need an insurance policy."

Seeing her mad was one thing, seeing her afraid was simply unacceptable. It made him want to find what had scared her and beat the hell out of it. Twice. Even though he'd promised himself years ago he'd never touch her, John broke that promise now. He wrapped his fingers around her naked arms to get her to focus on him. The feel of her warm skin against his palms made him shudder, but he hid his inappropriate reaction and tried not to think about how many rules he was breaking right now. Brooke was off limits. Way off. Not only was she way too young for him, she was practically the daughter of a former client. Six years ago, an injury had forced him out of the SEALs and, after a few months of recovery, he had taken a job as a bodyguard for a scientific genius working for the government - her uncle. Keeping his distance from Brooke had been easy then. She'd been a kid fresh out of high school, headed for college. He hadn't even been tempted to look her way twice. And then, five years later, she'd come back home, looking like a woman, acting like a woman. One who wanted him. John had left the same day. He couldn't risk any more inviting smiles or accidental touches. He'd turned in his resignation a year ago and never looked back. He didn't dare. He'd walked away, his reputation and honour intact. All it had cost him was a small slice of his sanity. And here she was again. In his home. Practically in his arms. All grown up and elegant, dressed like his own personal wet dream. He steered her towards his couch and eased her down. "Start at the

beginning. Tell me what's going on." Brooke swallowed, nodded. "I was at an awards banquet for Uncle Charles tonight. He got his award, gave his speech, and I expected him to come back and sit at our table again, but he never did. I wasn't worried. I assumed he'd met a colleague backstage and got wrapped up in conversation." That sounded like Dr Charles York - easily distracted. "OK. I'm with you so far." "The waiters brought out dessert. I was chatting with a woman next to me, so I didn't notice." "Didn't notice what?" "There was a note sticking out from under my plate of cheesecake. A ransom note." John was officially awake now. "Do you have it?" She nodded, and pulled a folded piece of paper out of the bodice of her gown. John knew he shouldn't touch it, that he might mess up evidence, but he did anyway. The need to help Brooke was nearly uncontrollable. And she'd probably already messed up whatever evidence might remain. He unfolded it, touching it as little as possible and read the typed text. Empty your uncle's safe and bring the contents to me if you want to see him alive again. I will call with details to arrange the trade. Tell no one. I have informants on the police force. I'm watching you.

John felt a chill slide over his skin. Whoever had Dr York meant business, and knew well enough to connect Brooke to him, even though she hadn't lived with him for several years. Chances were they also knew she'd have no means of defending herself. Clearly, so did she, which was why she wanted a gun. "We need to call the police," he said. "No. It was dangerous enough for me to come here. I don't think I was followed, but I'm not about to take a chance that he's telling the truth about being connected to the police. All I want from you is a gun. And your silence." John shook his head. "Not a fuckin' chance.” Brooke had clearly made a mistake coming here. She knew better, yet the urge to run to the one man who had always made her feel safe was too strong to resist. John Augustine had been her one weakness since she'd been eighteen years old and he'd come to work for her uncle, and now that weakness might get her uncle killed. She grabbed the note from his hands and stood. "I'm sorry I woke you." She was almost to the front door before he looped one thick arm around her ribs, stopping her. "Oh, no, you don't. I'm not letting you run off in the middle of the night to deal with this alone and unarmed.” Brooke felt him at her back, warm and hard. She'd never been this close to him before, and despite the mess she was in, every cell in her body was

vibrating with acute awareness of John's touch. Her stomach fluttered with a mixture of fear and excitement until she was sure he could feel it beneath the thin satin of her gown. "Does that mean you'll give me a gun?” "No. It means we're going to talk.” "There's nothing to talk about. I need to go. I have a lot of cash and a bag of loose diamonds in my car. I don't want to leave them unattended for long.” His grip tightened slightly, and she couldn't help but cover his bare arm with her fingers. Prising him away would have been an exercise in futility - he was too strong for that - so she simply wrapped her fingers around the hard curve of his forearm and enjoyed the feel of his bare skin. "How much cash?” he asked. "I don't know. I didn't count it." She couldn't care less how much it was as long as it was enough to buy her uncle's safety. "We need to call the police.” "No. You read what he said. He'll know if we do." "Fine, then the FBI.” "No," she forced the word out strongly, when, inside, she felt like a mushy puddle of fear. "I'm not taking the chance." He gripped her waist and turned her around to face him. Brooke tipped her head back to look him in the eye. He had such nice eyes - dark like his hair - and they tilted down slightly at the corners, making him look sad.

As a girl, she'd wanted so much to find a way to make him happy. As a woman, she'd never had the chance. He'd walked away, taking all her girlish fantasies with him. Brooke had always known she wasn't woman enough to attract a man like him. She'd been painfully thin and flat-chested all her life. Boys her own age never looked at her - at least not until the boob fairy had come to visit her junior year of college. It was like a switch had been flipped, and her childish body had morphed into that of a woman almost overnight. After that, male attention was easy to come by. She'd been sure when she went home for the summer that, as soon as John saw her, he'd stop looking through her and see how much she wanted him, but she'd been wrong. Oh, he'd seen her all right. He'd looked right at her from the top of her ponytail to the bottom of her Skechers and back again. Then he'd turned on his heel, marched into her uncle's office and turned in his resignation. Brooke hadn't seen him since, and if it weren't for the listing in her uncle's address book, she would never have known where to find him. "Have you told anyone?" he asked. "No, and, clearly, I shouldn't have told you either." 'You did the right thing coming here. We'll sort this all out." "All I need is a gun," she said. "Do you even know how to use one?" She nodded, unable to speak a lie while he was looking her in the eye like that - like he could see inside her head.

"Who taught you? What type of weapons have you been trained to use? Handgun? Shotgun? Rifle?" Brooke lifted her chin. In for a penny ... "All of them." ''Which do you prefer?" “A handgun."

"What type?" There were different types? "The biggest one you have." The corner of his mouth kicked up a quarter-inch. "You are such a bad liar." Yes. She was. The jerk. "Fine. Show me how to use one then. How hard can it be?" He shook his head. "Not going to happen. I won't be responsible for arming you when you're clearly distraught." "Distraught? I'm pissed off, scared to death and worried as hell." "And I'm not adding armed to that list." The crushing weight of disappointment bore down on her, making her feel trapped and helpless. She was going to have to take her chances that whoever had kidnapped her uncle had enough honour to uphold his end of the deal. She had nowhere else to turn, and she didn't think wielding a tyre iron or golf club was going to intimidate anyone. Her body deflated, and she gave John a resigned nod. "Thanks anyway. If I don't call you tomorrow, feel free to call the police and tell them what happened."

"Like hell," said John. "If you think I'm going to let you walk out of here, you're crazy." She gave him a glare that told him she meant business. "I won't let you stop me." 'You say that like you have a choice." "Of course I do." "And I have handcuffs. I’ll chain you up before “I let you leave." Anger slid through her, momentarily brushing aside her fear for her uncle. "Kinky is fun, but well have to play later, John. I've got plans tonight."

Two Kinky is fun. John's brain sputtered as it revolved around that phrase, trapped by all the lovely things it suggested. His good intentions were swirling round, too, ready to be sucked down the drain along with all the wasted will power he'd expended to keep his distance and his hands off Brooke. Until now. His hands were definitely on her now, gripping her waist, pressing into her flesh while he tried to imagine how good she'd feel without so much fabric between them. He really needed to get her out of that dress. The thought made all the others grind to a screeching halt. Brooke was off limits. John ripped his fingers away from her and took a long step back. Far

enough that he couldn't reach her, but not so far that he couldn't still smell the warmth of her skin and a hint of sweet perfume. "Enough," he said. "We need a plan. Whoever has your uncle is supposed to call you, right?" "Right." "Where's your phone?" She nodded towards the beaded evening bag tucked under her arm. John took it, pushed aside a tube of lipstick and retrieved the phone. He checked to make sure it had plenty of juice and that it was set to ring as loudly as possible. Then he shoved it into his robe's pocket. No way was she leaving without it. Better than handcuffs - at least that's what he tried to tell himself. "Hey, what are you doing?" she asked, reaching for the phone. John dodged her hands. "Helping. First, I'm going get dressed. Then, I'm going to make some phone calls." He walked towards his bedroom, and she was right on his heels. "I'm not letting you call the police." "I'm not going to call the police, or the FBI." Even though that was probably the smartest bet, he didn't know who he was dealing with or how deep their influence might go. Until he did, he was going to prepare for the worst and hope it was overkill. He'd been trained to deal with this, so deal with it he would. "Then who are you going to call?" She followed him into his room and stood in the doorway with her hands on her lovely hips. The blue satin flowed over her curves, glowing silver around the edges of her silhouette where the fabric caught and held the light.

After so many years of thinking of her as forbidden fruit, John couldn't believe he'd been lucky enough to get away with laying his hands on her without losing them. He could still feel the smoothness of her gown against his fingertips, warm from her body. As good as it was, it couldn't hold a candle to the silken perfection of her bare arms. He needed to get her out of sight, just for a few minutes. Maybe then he could think straight. Adding another layer of clothes was a good idea, too. He needed some sturdy denim to keep his cock in check. ''Friends,” he said and pushed the door shut, signalling an end to their conversation. He was alone for all of two seconds when the door flew open again. Apparently, Brooke didn't read signals so well. "No one else can know," she told him. "I don't want you calling anyone.” Tough. You shouldn't have come here if you didn't want my help.” "I wanted your gun. That was all. Now give me back my phone and we'll pretend I didn't come at all." "Nope. Too late for that. And if you don't want to see me naked, I suggest you leave the room.” She crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. "The robe is coming off, Brooke.” "It's nothing I haven't seen before, John."

As much as he hated admitting it to himself, John despised knowing that. He didn't want to think about the other guys she'd been with, or how they might stack up to him. "Fine." He turned his back, shrugged out of the robe, and dressed as quickly as possible. As soon as her phone was back in his pocket, he shrugged his shoulder holster on, slid his .45 home and covered everything with a leather jacket. When he turned back around, Brooke was still watching him, but her militant posture had changed. Her lips were parted, her cheeks were flushed, her breathing had sped, and her nipples were tight under the shimmery dress. She was turned on just from watching him dress, and the knowledge was enough to make John's blood pressure spike. Women weren't supposed to be so easily aroused, especially women who were off limits. It wasn't fair. Before he did something stupid and shoved her down on the already mussed bed to see what else aroused her, John backed away from her. He'd taken three steps when the phone in his pocket started to sing. The colour in her cheeks disappeared and her mouth flattened in panic. "Give me the phone." John fished it out of his pocket, but he didn't hand it over. Instead, he leaned close to her so they could both hear, then flipped it open. "H-hello?" she said. The man on the other end of the line said, "Did you empty the safe?" "Yes."

"Good. I'll call again soon with directions to the meeting location.” 'Wait! Can I talk to Uncle Charles, please?” John didn't hear anything, and almost wondered if the man had hung up, then a scratching sound came over the line followed by Charles York's voice. "Brooke?" Beside him, Brooke started to shake. "Uncle Charles? Are you OK?" "Yes. You need to call the police. Don't cooperate with—” "Listen to him if you'd like this to be the last time you ever speak to him,” said the man. "Otherwise, get in your car and tell no one.” Brooke felt like a leaf caught in a hurricane. After the phone call, John took over, sweeping her along with him for the ride. He didn't give her much of a chance to argue, not that she would have. She needed his help. This whole mess was way too big for her to handle on her own, and the stakes were way too high. If she messed up, the man who'd taken her in after her parents died, the man who'd taken care of her from the time she was twelve, would die. Maybe it made her a coward, but she was glad John was here. She trusted him not to let anything happen to Uncle Charles. She trusted John, period. When her uncle's kidnapper called back, John listened to the directions, made a flurry of phone calls to his military buddies, and formed a plan. Now, thirty minutes later, she was sitting in her car at the designated meeting spot, waiting to see whether or not her world was going to come to

a crashing halt. She couldn't lose Uncle Charles. She couldn't be alone again. John reached over and settled his hand on her knee. The warm comfort of his touch slid easily through the thin fabric of her gown, reminding her she wasn't alone yet. He was right here with her. "If he sees you in the car with me, he's going to—" "No," said John, cutting her off. "He's not. Dr York will be fine. Besides, there's only one road leading to this site. My friends are watching, and will call as soon as anyone gets near. We'll have five minutes warning for me to slip out and cover your back, just like we planned." "There was no 'we' doing the planning. It was all you." She stared out the window at the area that had recently been turned from farmland into a building site. There were no houses here yet, but the lots had been staked off, some of the roads outlined and there were open trenches indicating where sewer lines would soon lie. Heavy machinery crouched in the darkness, casting deep shadows over the moonlit landscape. "I'm glad you came to me tonight," he said. "I can't stand the thought of you sitting out here all alone, waiting for some greedy asshole." Brooke stifled a shiver that had nothing to do with being cold. 'I’mglad I found you, too. What I don't understand is why you left like you did." She felt his body stiffen and he pulled his hand away from her knee. "I had another job offer.” "You're lying. You liked working for my uncle. I know he paid you well."

"Not well enough to sell my soul.” "What's that supposed to mean?” "It means I had to leave before I did something stupid." She turned in her seat to look at him. There wasn't much light, but she could see his jaw bunch, see the shadows play over his mouth as it twisted into a sneer of self-loathing. "Stupid?" "You know what I mean. You had to know. Every man you meet wants you. Did you think I'd be any different?" He wanted her? Something powerful rose up inside her, surging in victory. John wanted her. She could work with that. "I didn't think you'd run because I had a crush on you." She still had one, but she wasn't admitting it. She didn't want him running now. "It wasn't your crush that scared me. I’d been fine with that for years. It was the fact that I started wanting you, too. That scared me." "You act like it would have been some great sins for us to have gotten together." "It would have been." "Why? I'm twenty-four, single and completely free to make up my own mind about who I date." "You're eleven years younger than me. And I don't date the family members of clients." "Uncle Charles isn't your client anymore."

Shadows moved over his throat as he swallowed. "I know." And yet he didn't move. He sat there, stoic and noble, unwilling to overlook something as petty as age when she knew how good they'd be together. Brooke could love a man like John, given half the chance - something he clearly wasn't willing to give her. And in that moment, it occurred to her that if they were ever going to get past his groundless worries, she was going to have to be the one to make it happen. She checked the clock. It was nearly four in the morning, and the man who held her uncle wasn't due until four thirty. She could either sit here, waiting, worrying about her uncle until she burned a hole through her stomach, or she could pass the time in a more pleasant way. One that could eventually lead her to the possibility of seeing John Augustine naked again. The memory of that one brief moment between when he'd dropped his robe and pulled his boxers over his hips was enough to fuel her fantasies for years to come. He was all lean muscles and hard planes. The way the shadows had moved over his back as he'd covered his tight butt had nearly brought tears to her eyes. He was a beautiful man, made to give a woman pleasure, and Brooke had wanted him for years. It was time to take what she wanted. She hiked up her gown, and manoeuvred herself over the console to the passenger's seat until she was straddling John's lap. In this position, she was nearly at eye level with him, and could see the panic flashing in those dark, sad eyes.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked. "Distracting myself." "On my lap?" "Best distraction I could find." He opened his mouth to say something else, but Brooke stopped him with a kiss. He jerked as if she'd hit him, and his whole body went tense. His lips were hard under hers, but she didn't give up. She'd keep on kissing him for as long as it took. She slid her tongue along his bottom lip until she felt him yield. A deep, raw groan of surrender poured from his chest, and his big hands moved to cup her face. He held her there, kissing her back like he'd been dying to do just that for years. Maybe he had. Maybe she'd seen things all wrong and he had left because he wanted her, but none of that mattered now. She was here, now, in this moment, with the taste of John on her tongue and the smell of his rapidly heating skin in her lungs. His kiss deepened, becoming more ferocious and needy as the seconds passed. In the quiet of the car, all she could hear was the sound of their rapid breathing and the pounding of her own rejoicing heart. John's hands slid down over her ribs until they settled on her hips. He pulled her forwards, pressing her against his obvious erection, hitting just the right spot to make something low and deep inside her melt. She let out a sigh and wiggled to make it happen again. Lights flashed behind her eyelids, and, this time, John was the one sighing in pleasure. It was the kind of sound that a woman was lucky to hear once in her lifetime

- a sound so pure and perfect and utterly right that it changed her life. John was her man. And she was keeping him. She pulled back from their kiss long enough to look into his handsome face. She wasn't sure if he was aware of how the course of his life had now changed, and she hoped that her decision to keep him wasn't glowing in her eyes. She didn't want to scare the poor man to death. Brooke had other plans for him right now. Plans that involved getting him naked again. He still wore his leather jacket and shoulder holster, but she managed to snake her fingers up under the hem of his shirt to feel the hard planes of his abs and chest. She dug her fingers into him, feeling his tight muscles. A swirling wave of need rose up in her, taking her breath away. Not that she minded. Breathing was superfluous right now. All she needed was John, deep and hard inside her. She reached down to undo his belt, needing to feel the smooth heat of him filling her grip, but he brushed her hand aside. "Me first. Once my jeans are off, I'm not going to be far behind.” Brooke wasn't sure exactly what he meant until she felt his fingers slide up her thigh, shoving the hem of her gown up a few more inches. She'd worn a thong tonight to avoid the awkward combination of panty lines and shiny satin, so there wasn't a whole lot of fabric to serve as an obstacle to John's seeking fingers. She felt a tentative touch, a slight brush of one finger over the scrap of silk, then that touch slipped under the silk, and met slick skin.

He groaned as if in pain. "You're wet." "I can't help it when I'm around you. You make me want." John's freehand cupped the nape of her neck, and he tugged her forwards for another kiss. Brooke let him do it. Now that he was no longer tense and resistant, she got an idea of the level of skill the man had with his tongue. She could hardly wait to see what else he could do with it. His clever fingers stroked her until she was frenzied with the need for more. Those gentle, grazing touches were not nearly enough. "I want you inside me," she panted. He groaned again and, this time, there was a hint of pain reverberating in that deep sound. "Bad timing," he said. She couldn't think of any time that had ever been better than this one right now. She opened her mouth to tell him so, and, just then, his cell phone rang. "Shit." And then his hand was gone, and her body was quaking from the loss of his touch, protesting the emptiness grating inside her. He answered his phone. "Yeah?" In the quiet of the car, she could hear a man on the phone say, "Stop necking and get out. Our guy's here." Brooke's body locked up as a tidal wave of fear came crashing back down on her. Her mind had trouble sorting out the fear and lust, and it all kind of jumbled together in her stomach, making her feel sick. John hung up, lifted Brooke from his lap and helped her squeeze back

behind the wheel. "Sorry, Brooke. Showtime." She nodded, but couldn't speak. He stroked the side of her face and cupped it in his palm. "Do you remember the plan?" he asked. "Yeah." "You gonna be OK?" "I think so." He leaned over and kissed her, lingering for only a moment. 'You'll do great. This will all be over soon." John moved away, but Brooke grabbed his arm, desperate to keep him near for just one more minute. "When this is over, Fm not going to let you forget where we left off." He gave her a crooked smile and a wink. "You won't need to work very hard to remind me." A second later, he eased out of the car and disappeared into the darkness. Brooke couldn't see the vehicle of the man who'd abducted her uncle yet, but she could feel him getting closer.

Three John's head was not in the game. It was still back there with Brooke, feeling the satin warmth of her skin under his fingers. The sweet wetness of her desire for him. The intoxicating scent of her need for him. I want you inside me. John was never going to get overhearing those words’ never forget the

dark arousal shadowing her eyes as she spoke, or the way the words came out desperate and perfect. He had no idea what he'd done to deserve even that brief moment with her, but he thanked God he'd had it. There was no way he was going to forget where they left off, despite her worries. In fact, he was going to be remembering the last few minutes for a very long time to come. The hard part was going to be forgetting them long enough to do his job. And he had to do his job. If anything happened to Charles York, he'd never be able to look Brooke in the eye again. Then again, maybe never looking at her again was the best thing he could offer her. Either way, it was time to shrug off the lust and get to work. Saving Dr York was his priority. His dick was just going to have to wait. From his position behind a bulldozer, he saw headlights glowing in the distance, signalling the approach of Dr York's abductor. John's body was pulled tight, hating every second that Brooke was out there alone, dealing with the greedy asshole. The Bluetooth headset stuck in his ear buzzed with the voice of one of his buddies, Abe. "I see only one guy in the van." It didn't necessarily mean there was only one, but it was better than seeing two. "Got the plates?" asked John. "And blocked the exit. The only way he's getting out of here is on foot.

The ground's too rough for off-roading in that van." The van pulled up in front of Brooke, spilling light on to her car, and over the precious shape of her face. John was never going to get tired of looking at her. How the hell was he going to find the strength to walk away? She held her hand up to shield her eyes then slowly got out of her vehicle. So did the man in the van. He was armed, and though he wasn't pointing the revolver at her, he had it in hand. "Show me the diamonds,” he ordered. Brooke held up a grocery sack. "Not good enough. I want to see them." Brooke's hands shook as she reached in the sack and pulled out a small velvet pouch. "Open it." She did, then turned the pouch upside down as if to spill the diamonds into her hand. Only, as they'd planned, she spilled them on to the pavement. "Shit!" growled the kidnapper. "Oh, I'm sorry," said Brooke as she bent down to pick them up -below the line of any possible gunfire. The man stepped forwards, his entire attention focused on those loose diamonds. That was all the distraction John needed. He slipped silently behind the man, disarmed him with one hard blow

to his wrist, and sent the gun skittering across the pavement. The man balled up his fist to punch, but John saw it coming. He blocked the strike and countered with one of his own, shoving his fist into the man's pudgy stomach. The give of soft flesh followed by a grunt of pain made John grin. The man kicked, landing a decent blow on John's shin, but he didn't feel any pain. Not now, when his adrenaline was running hot and his body was thrumming with the need to protect Brooke and her uncle. Abe's voice sounded from a few feet away. "We got the doctor, John. He's safe. You can stop playing with the guy and finish him off." With pleasure. John swept his foot under the man's legs, knocking him to the ground with one easy move. The guy's head bounced once, making a satisfying thud on the hard pavement, then his eyes fluttered shut. Three seconds later, John's two buddies appeared from behind the van, supporting a wobbly Dr York between them. "We're clear. The van was empty." John finished restraining the man with flex-cuffs so he wouldn't get back up. Brooke sprinted by him, the skirt of her fancy dress now wrinkled and dusty as it flew out behind her. She grabbed her uncle in a tight hug and he held her close, telling her over and over he was fine. From the sound of her sobs, John figured it would be a while before she believed it. Strangely enough, he wanted to be the man who was right there with her,

convincing her. However long it took. However wrong it might be. John asked his friend, "Did you call the police?” "Yeah, and Liam's moving his truck so they can get in here. We're going to hit the road before the questions start so we can get in a couple hours' sleep before work, OK?" John nodded. "Sure. Thanks, guys. I owe you." “

We won't forget," said Abe as he sauntered off.

It took a while to satisfy the police and answer all their questions. By the time the paramedics had cleared Dr York and taken the kidnapper to the hospital, it was well past dawn. Brook stood beside her uncle, huddled under his arm. Her mascara was smeared, her dress was a wrinkled mess and her hair was a wild flurry of tangles. Still, she was more beautiful to him than any other woman he'd ever seen. Too bad they could never be together. She saw him watching her and left her uncle's side. Her walk was a bit unsteady in those heels, with pieces of gravel and clumped mud dotting the pavement. John hurried to her to keep her from twisting her ankle. She placed her hand on his chest and looked up at him, her dark-blue eyes glowing with gratitude. "Thank you." He shrugged. "No problem." "I'm taking Uncle Charles home, but I was hoping I could come over later, when he's resting. Maybe tonight?"

John shook his head. "It's not a good idea." "No, what's not a good idea is you avoiding me." He let out a long sigh of regret. 'You and I can never work." "We were working fine a few hours ago." "That was sex." A slow smile warmed her mouth. "Not quite, but we were getting there." He wanted to kiss her so bad it was making him shake. "Brooke, please don't make this more difficult than it has to be." He wasn't sure if he had the strength to walk away right now, much less to do it again if she hunted him down. She went on tiptoe to place a kiss on his lips. She patted his cheek in a placating gesture. "I'm coming over to your house tonight." "Fine, then I won't be there." "Fine," she countered. "Then I'll simply break in and wait for you until you comeback. I just want you to know that I plan to wait for yon in bed. Naked.”

Four Naked. Brooke. John made a quick stop at home to secure his weapon, then avoided his house for the rest of the day. He went to a buddy's apartment for a nap, but that beautiful image of naked Brooke was in his dreams, haunting him, leaving him unable to rest. Her threat to wait for him had left him

sweating, his dick hard. He swore he could still feel her skin against his palms, the slickness of her arousal on his fingertips. The scent of her was in his head, refusing to leave. That was the problem with forbidden fruit: once you tasted it, you always wanted another bite. All the blood that fuelled rational thought must have gone to his groin, because by late evening, he found himself walking through his front door. It was unlocked, the way he'd left it. He knew it had been tempting fate, but when it came to Brooke, he was unable to resist temptation. Besides, it probably wasn't going to matter, anyway. She was just thankful he'd helped save her uncle. Once she got over the shock and fear of the night, once her adrenaline was no longer running hot, she'd calm down and see reason. She was too smart to tangle herself up with him when she was thinking straight. Exhausted from lack of sleep and a constant state of arousal, John headed straight for bed. He wasn't sure if he'd actually sleep, but it was worth a shot. He walked into his bedroom holding his breath, praying she wasn't there even as he hoped she was. It was dark. He couldn't see, but he swore he could smell the sweet scent of her perfume and the womanly warmth of her skin. It made his mouth water for just one more taste of her lips, though he had to admit he had been dreaming about tasking a lot more than simply

her mouth. Just the idea of going down on her was enough to make him hard for a week. "Brooke?" he whispered, calling himself ten kinds of fool for allowing himself to have even one sliver of hope she'd be here. Her voice was soft in the darkness, rich with promise. "Right in front of you." The click of the lamp seemed as loud as a shot in the quiet of the room, light flared, bathing Brooke, showing John just why he'd spent so many sleepless nights fantasizing about her. She was perfect. Naked, just as she'd promised. Stretched out on his bed, propped up on his pillows, burrowing her way into his brain so deep he'd never be able to get this one single moment of perfection out of his mind. Not that he'd try. Her skin glowed with health. She wasn't very tall, but her proportions were perfect, her limbs sleek and shaped with feminine strength. Her strawberry-blonde hair fell over her slim shoulders, curling slightly at the ends. It was just long enough to caress the tops of her breasts in a way that made John jealous. Her dark-pink nipples were tight, reaching out towards him. The slim curve of her waist flared out to womanly hips and a flat, smooth belly. The hair between her thighs was a darker blonde, and John wanted nothing more than to see if it was as soft as it looked. She was still wearing all her jewellery, including a dainty ring around one toe. Silver hoops dangled from her ears and a flash of light caught the ring in her navel. Too damn sexy. Too damn young.

"I can't do this," he said, more in an effort to convince himself. She slid from the bed, all sinuous grace and confidence. She didn't try to hide herself from him. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing or not. Maybe if she covered up he'd have some hope of walking away without her making any mistakes she'd regret later. Brooke got closer, and John tried to turn away and run. He really did. But it was a lost cause. He could no more have turned his back on her now than he could have last night, when she came to him afraid and angry. She'd needed him and he'd been there. He was afraid that the same would be true tonight, only the need would be different. "Sure you can. I'll show you how." She slid her hands under his T-shirt, pushing it up until she could press her naked breasts against his ribs. The soft heat of her skin sank into him, forcing a groan of pleasure from his chest. He hadn't intended to help her, but somehow, his shirt was off now. She couldn't have gotten it off without his cooperation, could she? John couldn't think straight, and he sure as hell wasn't up to any logic puzzles right now. Standing up on his own was about as much as he could reasonably expect of himself at this point. "Why are you doing this?" he asked. Her fingers dug into his chest, her nails biting in just enough to make his nerve endings dance. ''Because I want you," she said. "Because you want me, too. We're going to be so good together. You'll see." Oh, he had no doubt about that. They'd be hot. Explosive. "But what

about after?" She gave him a smile only a real woman could wear. It was full of confidence and the hint of a challenge. "You're not going to have to worn1 about that for a long time. It's going to be a while until I'm finished with you. At least a few days." Days? Lord, have mercy. He wouldn't survive. John grabbed her bare arms, thinking that if he could rip her away, he might have a chance of talking some sense into her, but as soon as his skin met hers, he forgot everything but the feel of her under his palms. He'd touched plenty of women in his life, but never one quite so soft and smooth and warm as Brooke. He had no idea how she did it. Her hands moved up over his shoulders around to the back of his head. Her fingers speared through his hair, cupping the back of his skull. She tugged on his head, trying to pull him down for a kiss. John resisted, knowing that if his mouth touched hers again, he'd be just as lost as he had been in the car. Hell, armed kidnappers had been coming for her then and her kiss had nearly made him forget the danger. Without any other life-threatening events going down, he was a goner for sure. "Afraid?" she asked, daring him with a half-smile. "Hell, yes. If I kiss you, I'm going to fuck you." "That was kinda what I was going for here. I thought I was being fairly obvious." John closed his eyes, blocking out the sight of her mouth. It didn't help. He could still smell her. He could still feel her fingers warm against his

scalp, pulling him down. He stood there, frozen, unable to let her do this. His body shook with the effort of remaining still, but he managed to use every bit of his military training to hang tough. And then she kissed him. Her warm lips pressed against his collarbone, the side of his neck. Her hot little tongue swept out over his skin, making him shiver. With each movement of her mouth, John lost a bit more of his good intentions. His heart was pounding, slamming wave after wave of flaming blood through his veins. He was hard, thick and eager for her. Hell, he had been all day. It took a monumental amount of will power to keep from pinning her down on the bed and mounting her like a rutting animal. As soon as her teeth grazed his flesh, closing against him enough to leave a wicked sting, he knew he had lost. Surrender. That was the only course of action left. Sex with Brooke was no longer a question, it was a mission. "You win," he whispered as he dipped his head and took her mouth in a kiss. He could feel her smile of victory shaping her lips, but he didn't care. He was too lost in the taste of her, the slippery glide of her tongue. She kissed him back with abandon, sucking at his tongue and nipping his bottom lip with her teeth. Every sweet sting drove him crazier, until the only thought going through his head was how he could get his jeans off without taking his hands from her body. The slim lines of her back felt too good under his palms to let go. He gripped her hips, hoping he could push her away enough to shed his clothes, but he couldn't seem to do it. Instead, he pulled her closer,

grinding his erection against her belly. Brooke let out a sweet moan of need, and her fingers went to his fly. She squeezed her hand between their bodies and rubbed him through the denim. It wasn't enough. He wanted to feel her hands on him, pumping him nice and slow. Of course, he would probably blow his load the second she wrapped those pretty fingers around him. Too many years and too many wet dreams had done nothing to prepare him for this moment. She tugged at the button, releasing it, then eased the zipper over his cock. She pushed his jeans and boxers down enough to give her room to work, then took a hold of him, gripping him tight but not moving. John sucked in a long breath, hoping it would help him hold back. "You're close, aren't you?" she asked. He could hear satisfaction in her voice. "I could go down on my knees right now and suck you off in no time flat, I bet." His mouth went dry and his throat closed up. Words were not going to happen for him. Not now. Actions were much better. He may have let her win the battle and convince him to sleep with her, but she sure as hell wasn't going to win the war. She thought she had the upper hand. She thought that because he was a man and easy to turn on that she could call the shots. She was wrong. John backed her up until she hit the edge of the bed, then kept pushing.

She toppled back, landing in a delicious sprawl of slim arms and legs. He followed her, crawling on to the bed, straddling her, keeping her pinned. She inched back towards the headboard, smiling, her eyes dark with passion, her breasts jiggling with each sinuous movement. John stared at the motion, as entranced as any red-blooded man would be by the sight of naked breasts, though he had to admit that hers were possibly the finest he'd ever seen. Smooth, firm, jutting just enough to convince him she was all woman. All his, at least for tonight. She'd moved back far enough to make room for what he intended, so he pressed her shoulders down on the bed with his body. Beneath him, she was sleek and warm, with womanly curves that mated exactly with the harsher planes of his body. Her breasts pressed into his chest and he could feel the hard buds of her nipples beckoning him to touch and tease. His hand eased down her flank, his fingers curling into her flesh, staking a claim on every inch as he went. He pushed himself up, watching as she stared at the powerful moment of his arms and shoulders, her eyes dilating. She liked what she saw, which worked for him. Whatever got her off - he was all for it. Brooke wriggled and arched to bring her breasts closer to him. John knew how to take a hint. He bent down and sucked one nipple into his mouth. Her skin tasted of woman and the salty sheen of lust. Under his tongue, her nipple tightened as he suckled her. His fingers fanned over her other breast, gently pinching her nipple between two fingers. Brooke let out a keening cry and her whole body went taut, nearly vibrating. Under him, her body writhed and her legs parted enough to

allow his thigh to press between them. John's leg muscles clenched and the iron hardness of his thigh ground against the softness between hers, making Brooke gasp. Her eyes opened, heavy-lidded and sparking with eager passion. She looked as if she wanted to say something, but her month worked incoherently, letting nothing more than a soft moan past her lips. Her soft body squirmed under his. With each supple movement of her body, John's erection became painful. Without remorse, he forced her to rub her mound against him. He knew he was going too fast, but, by God, she would be hot and ready for him if it killed him. John was pretty sure it might do just that. He kissed and licked her breasts, as he stroked his hands over her body, keeping her on the edge, strung tight with need. He could feel her wetness soaking into his jeans, and knowing he could do that to her nearly blew the top of his head off. His hand slid down her pale stomach and he parted the tight curls with his lingers and delved between slick, petal soft folds of skin. She was wet. Hot. Ready. John forgot to breathe. A wave of dizziness washed over him, forcing him to pull in a strangled breath. He carefully pushed one finger inside Brooke, the narrow path eased by her arousal. She moaned, a deep, husky sound that vibrated through her entire body, tickling his fingertip. She was tight, but her body accepted the invasion. John pulled back and slid a second finger alongside the first. She tensed and he bent his head down to her straining nipples, suckling on her to keep her flying high. He

wasn't a huge man, but he wasn't small, either. The fit was going to be tight even after his fingers worked to stretch her and make her ready to take him. Sweat beaded on John's forehead and slid down the groove of his spine. All he wanted was to spread her thighs and finish it. But that's not what John wanted for Brooke. He wanted her melting with pleasure, screaming out with it. Preferably his name. The thought pushed him that much closer to the edge. His body drew tighter, more insistent. He needed release, but not as much as he needed to taste her. He pushed her thighs wide. The scent of her desire was on his hands, in the air between them, making him drunk and dizzy from wanting to be inside her. With almost feral intensity, her lowered his mouth to her sensitive flesh, parted the folds with his thumbs and found the knot of her clitoris. He wanted her panting and senseless with pleasure when he entered her. He wanted her writhing beneath him, clawing at his back, exploding until she milked every last drop of semen from his body. Brooke moved as if she was going to sit up. Ruthlessly, John pushed her down and wrapped his hands around her thighs to hold her legs high and open - completely at his mercy. He was only going to have this one time with her, and he was determined to get out of it everything he'd ever fanaticized about out. She wasn't going to rob him of one single pleasure, including making her come with his mouth. His tongue moved, flicking over her. She held her breath. Her body was

flushed pink and her nipples were tight, distended and glistening from his mouth. John's fingers curled around her thighs, leaving slight indentations. Maybe he was holding onto her too hard, but he couldn't find the room in his brain to give a fuck. If she didn't like it, she could push him away. Her breathy gasping sighs started to rise in pitch, becoming more intense. John knew she was close and he smiled against her sweet, hot flesh even as he pleasured her. She tasted so good, he almost didn't want it to end. If it weren't for the demanding throbbing of his cock, he could have loved her like this for hours, savouring every lick of his tongue over her silken flesh. The room fell silent, then Brooke let out a husky, deep moan that came all the way from her toes. Her fingers clenched in his hair and her shoulders came up off the mattress. She let out cry after cry of pleasure, each one making John feel like a god. Watching her come left John on the edge of release, quivering, barely able to keep himself under control. While Brooke was still dazed, her breath coming in gulps, John shucked his jeans and rolled on a condom. He knelt between her spread thighs. Her skin was flushed, swollen and shiny from his mouth. He stared, memorizing the stunning sight of her, knowing he'd be seeing it in his dreams for years to come. John covered her body with his own, kissing his way up her neck, over her cheek to her mouth, trying to convey to her the jumbled mess of need swirling in his gut. The foremost of which was the need to be inside her. Brooke responded eagerly, her tongue lunging into his mouth, sharing the taste of her still lingering on his tongue. Her body moved beneath him, twisting and squirming to bring them

closer together. Her hands pulled at his buttocks, urging him forwards to meet her open, waiting flesh. Sweat slid down John's ribs as he resisted the urge to plunge fully into her. With small rocking motions that would ease him in without hurting her, John slowly slid into her. His hips pulled back and Brooke's fingernails dug into his shoulder. "More," she breathed. Hell, yes, there'd be more. As he surged forwards, he lifted his head and watched her face as he filled her. Her slick passion eased his path and soon he found a slow, easy rhythm that had them both on the edge in a matter of minutes. John felt his climax building at the base of his cock, but he held back a moment longer. "Look at me," he demanded, his voice harsh. Brooke managed to raise her lids slightly, catching John's gaze. "I want to see your eyes when you come, when I come inside you."

Five Brooke was lost. She was dying inside, so close to the edge of another orgasm she knew it would kill her if he didn't give her what she needed soon. He stretched her in a delicious way no other man ever had. He filled her up, leaving none of the hollowness behind she was used to feeling when she slept with a man. It was more than just physical, though it was

definitely that. John was everything she'd ever wanted. Everything she needed. She stared up into his face. He was so roughly handsome. His jaw was set, clenched hard as he moved over her. Sweat slid down his temple. His skin was flushed, the cords in his neck strung tight, his muscles bunched in a powerful display. He shifted his hips, moving so he hit that perfect spot and Brooke's world exploded into shards of pleasure. Her body clenched involuntarily, milking his erection, and a second later, she felt him swell and throb inside her as he came. A rough moan rumbled from his chest, vibrating her nipples, sending her higher for one last peak before she settled slowly back to reality. He collapsed on top of her, but she revelled in his weight, in the feel of his racing heart pounding against her. She held on to him tightly, refusing to let him go. "If you don't let me go, the condom's going to leak." The thought didn't bother her nearly as much as it should have. She didn't mind the idea of having his baby. Part of her liked it. But she couldn't trap him like that. He was too honourable to walk away from her if she got pregnant, and she didn't want him out of obligation. Brooke relaxed her hold and John rolled off her. He got up, went into the bathroom, took care of the condom, then came back a minute later. She watched him move, enjoying the powerful slide of his muscles under his skin. Even though she'd just had the most mind-blowing orgasm of her life, her body began to heat as she watched him, wanting more. He gave her a dark smile. 'You keep looking at me like that and neither

one of us is going to get any sleep." "I'm not tired." He pulled the blankets up over her. "No? I figured with all the excitement last night, you'd be worn out." "I slept some today." Suddenly, she was feeling insecure, like she didn't know what to do next. Part of her wanted to get up and leave so she wouldn't do anything to mess up tonight, but the rest of her wanted to stay and make sure he knew she wanted this night to be the first of many. He lay on his side, his head propped on his hand. He wasn't touching her. Maybe he wanted her to leave. "What's going through your head, huh? Did I do something wrong? Hurt you?" "No." His mouth tightened with anger and he flopped back on to the pillow. "I knew it. You're already regretting it, aren't you? Shit." He moved to get up, but Brooke grabbed his arm before he could leave. "I don't want you to ever think that. I don't regret a thing. Except maybe what you're going to say next." "And what's that?" "That you want me to leave.” "I don't want it. I just know it's for the best." "Why? Because of our age difference?” "Yeah, that's part of it." "Well, that's not enough for me. I’ve loved you for too long to let

something that shallow bother me." As she said the words aloud, they felt good. Right. She did love him, though the revelation surprised her almost as much as it did him. "Loved?” he asked, going completely still. "You had a crush on me. You're old enough now to know the difference.” Tm glad you give me at least that much credit. I do know the difference, and I stand by what I said." 'You can't love me,” he said, incredulous. "I think about you every day. Whenever something good happens to me, I have to fight the need to pick up the phone and call you. Whenever something bad happens, I have to keep myself from driving over here and throwing myself into your arms. No matter how many men I date, how many I sleep with, none of them compare to you.” "That's because you've got some idealized version of me in your head. When you were a kid, you saw me as some kind of hero and your imagination filled in the gaps the way you wanted." She let out a scoffing laugh. "So, you're not honourable and selfless? You haven't risked your life countless times for people you don't even know? You didn't protect the man I love like a father for years, giving up your own life to take care of a quirky old man? You didn't turn away the awkward advances of a young woman for her own good?" His mouth opened then closed again. She knew he'd done those things. And more. Probably more than she'd ever know. She wasn't going to give up on him. This was too important to her. "Maybe we haven't spent enough time together to decide we want to get

married, but I know I've spent enough time with you to want to spend more. Why give up something that might be really good because you're afraid?" "I'm not afraid for myself, I'm afraid for you.y She went up on to her knees and pressed her hand over his heart. "And that, in a nutshell, is why I love you." This could not be happening. John had no idea how to handle something like this. She loved him? She had to be wrong. Mixed up. But she looked certain. Her gaze was steady and unwavering, making him hope for things he had no right hoping for. A future. With Brooke. It seemed too good to be true. "We can't rush it," he told her. "You need time to think about this." I’ve been thinking about it for six years. I’mdone thinking. It's time to act." She was still naked. Gloriously flushed and glowing from his loving. He couldn't think straight when she was naked. He got off the bed and tossed her his robe, hoping she'd take the hint. She slid the fabric over her arms, wrapping it around herself and bringing it to her nose as if she could smell him in the cloth. And just like that, John was hard again. He pulled his jeans on, not taking the time to find where his underwear had landed. "We should go out. Somewhere public." Where he wouldn't

feel quite so tempted to lay her down and make love to her again. And again. This was supposed to be a one-time thing. He'd only let himself think about doing it once. Brooke was offering more. What he saw in her eyes was a promise of a lifetime. The two of them together, for ever. John had never even let himself think about something so tempting, not even in the depths of his deepest dreams. A life with someone as sweet and smart and courageous as Brooke was more than he had any right to ask for. "I don't want to leave," she said. "I don't want to go anywhere where you can blow me off again and pretend I don't exist." Pretend she didn't exist? Was she nuts? Outrage pounded through him. He crossed to the bed and wrapped his hands around her arms. They were slim and delicate in his grip, reminding him to be gentle. "I've been trying for a long time to get you out of my head. It never once worked." "Then why fight it? Why not give us a chance?" "A chance for what?" "A life together. Happiness. Maybe even marriage one day down the road. Babies." Oh, God. The images she put in his head were too tempting. He could see them together so easily, making their lives together. Creating a home and a family. Just the thought of her having his baby was enough to drive

him to his knees and make him shake with need. "Why are you doing this to me?" "Doing what?" "Tempting me like this. Making me want things I know I shouldn't have." "If not you, then who?" she asked. "Who should I give my life to? I sure as hell haven't found anyone more deserving." John had never been a possessive man, but he felt that in him now - a dark, secret need to slam his fists into any man who dared to touch her. "I can see it in your face," she said. "You don't like the idea of me being with another man." "No. I don't." A sweet smile warmed her mouth. "Then stop pushing me away. Give us a chance. Maybe it won't work, but maybe it will. Maybe well be really happy together." John shook his head. "How can you be so sure?" "How can you not?" He had no answers. All the reasons he'd given himself over the years the reasons why he should stay away from her - seemed stupid and petty now. She wasn't a child. She was a strong, brave woman. One who clearly knew what she wanted. "You seem so sure of this," he said. She slid her finger over his cheek and tapped him on the nose. "I am sure, because you, John Augustine, are mine. You always have been." John blinked in surprise. That was not an answer he had expected.

"Yours?" "Yes. You're mine and I'm keeping you." A warm sense of satisfaction swelled up inside of him. His future opened up, glowing bright for the first time since he'd had to leave the military. He had a new mission in life now. Making Brooke happy and building a life with her would be his greatest achievement ever. He gave her a smile, holding back nothing. Not anymore. From now on he was going to let himself love her. No more denying either of them anything. "I've never been a kept man before." "Don't worry," she said. 'You'll get used to it." About that, John had no doubt.

Russian Roulette A Red Letter Days story Rachel Caine

The hardest thing about the situation- it was easier thinking of it that way, as the situation instead of being taken prisoner - was that Lucia Garza knew she'd screwed up. She'd made the choices, and she'd brought this on herself. It hadn't been a huge mistake, nothing that would have even been noticed by non-professionals’ she'd gotten too comfortable in her

cover, forgotten to check her tail and she'd been seen talking to the wrong person. Once. Even then, it could have been missed. One mistake. One time. It only took one mistake to get you dead and in an unmarked grave’ one mistake to earn you an anonymous star on a wall back at Langley. What bugged her most was that they hadn't hurt her. Hadn't questioned her. Hadn't done anything, yet, except ask her to come quietly, brought her to an upstairs room of a very secure building, and left her to think about things. It wasn't even an uncomfortable room, apart from having no windows and a steel door with a code key lock. There were a couple of armchairs, a sofa, a coffee table. No reading material, which was unfortunate, and no coffee or tea, which was even more unfortunate, but all in all, not the most unpleasant captivity she'd ever experienced. That was what bothered her most. Lucia sat in one of the armchairs, legs crossed, relaxed. They'd caught her early this morning, but at least she'd been dressed - a bonus, because she typically slept in the raw - and she knew she looked well put together. A sharp designer pantsuit, a silk shirt the colour of Baltic amber, a delicate gold cross necklace. Designer shoes with lethally thin heels. It helped that she had the looks to sell the package’ Lucia had no particular pride in that, but she understood it was an asset, and she cultivated it religiously. She was, by nature, an early riser, which was why she'd been taken prisoner looking as if she might be on her way to a magazine photo shoot, instead of - as they'd likely expected - terrified, messy and unprepared. They'd taken all her weapons, except the shoes, but she wasn't

especially worried. Not about that, at least. Her problems were not going to be solved by shooting her way out. There was a slight, metallic clunk, and the air pressure in the room changed, ever so slightly, as the far steel door swung open. The first man through was a guard, who did a thorough, professional job of checking behind the door and scanning the room, paying special attention to her. When he was convinced all was well, he took up a post, looking as if he was prepared to kill to eliminate any hint of a threat. He wasn't the type to have doubts or recriminations. It would be a straight line, eyes to trigger, with no interference from whatever morals he might theoretically possess. Lucia didn't move. The next man through the door was tall, thin, with a pale face and a shock of thick, dark, unruly hair. He had cultivated a moustache and goatee. Stock villain styling or not, Lucia had to admit that it looked good on him. He was wearing an expensively tailored black suit, a creamy white shirt that looked, to her expert eye, to be Egyptian cotton, and a very expensive tie. The shoes were Italian. Handmade. He crossed the room with a decisive stride, hazel eyes fixed on her, lips curled into a warm smile of welcome. He extended a hand to her. "Gregory Valentin Ivanovich," he said. He had nice hands, well cared for, with buffed, clean nails. She shook, because there was no point in refusing, and he sank into the armchair across from her. "I'm delighted to meet you, Miss—?" "Smith," she said. It wasn't even close to her cover name, but they were well past all that now in any case. It was all games now. "Mary Smith." Gregory Valentin Ivanovich - somehow, she had no doubt that was his

real name - clucked his tongue and shook his head. "Oh, dovogoi. that won't do. Your name is Lucia Garza, and you are in the employ of the Central Intelligence Agency of the United States of America." She didn't react by so much as a flicker. "Finding out who you are is nothing, the work of a computer expert on his coffee break. I’mnot here because of who you are, my dear. I've been employed to find out what you know," he said, and leaned forwards, elbows on knees, looking very earnest. Very honest. "You are a lovely woman. I would very much like to keep this civilized. May we?" "Of course," Lucia said. This part of the role play was all scripted, all predictable. Her mind was racing on, examining possibilities. Ivanovich was, no doubt, armed, but the guard was too far away, and although she was a good shot, the fact was that the time it would take her to kill Ivanovich would allow the guard to take her down, one way or the other. No help there. Take him hostage? Possible, but she was sure they had contingencies. Ivanovich was too relaxed. Too sure of himself. And then there was the problem of the door, and the fact that she could be completely certain they were being closely monitored. Lucia sat back and smiled. "Since we're being so civilized, may we have tea?" "Ah! Excellent idea. I shall have some brought in." He made no gesture, gave no orders. The guard didn't move. Proof positive - not that she needed it - that someone was watching and listening to every word. "What brings you to Prague, Miss Anna Luisa Ortiz, office manager of Halwell Industries?”

"I came to open an office,” she said. "I've been obtaining real-estate licences, setting up utilities, buying equipment and supplies. As I'm sure you know.” "And along the way, you have been seeing a man named Marko Czerny. A known terrorist." "I met a man in a bar. That's not a crime.” The far door opened, and the guard performed a due diligence check of the woman earning the tea set, and then he carried out the same check on the tray, cups, saucers, milk and sugar. The woman serving the tea was plain, heavyset, with dark square-cut hair and a bland, forgettable look. Probably one of their better agents. She set out the tea things on the table and turned to go, without a word. "Shall I pour?” Ivanovich asked, before the woman had reached the door. Lucia nodded. Her instincts were telling her that this was the moment, the one glimmer of confusion in their ranks she was likely to get, but she also knew that it was a setup. The woman was an agent, not some hapless secretary thrust into the middle of things - she was moving at a deliberately slow pace, giving Lucia time to make a move. They wanted to test her capabilities. She sat quietly while Ivanovich poured tea and handed it over in an eggshell-thin porcelain cup and saucer. Beautiful china. Probably left over from some previous dictator's regime. As they sipped their oh-so-civilized tea, the woman exited the room, the door sealed again with a thickly metallic sound, and Lucia revised her

opinion of Gregory Valentin Ivanovich. He's cool. He's very cool, to sit here and sip tea and wait for me to try to kill him. She didn't like that. She'd have preferred someone less ... competent. 'You met a man at a bar," Ivanovich said, taking up the questions again. "How did it happen?" She gave him a blinding smile, with all the charm she could muster. "How do such things usually happen? I was sitting alone. He asked if he could buy me a drink. It happens." "What were you drinking?” "White wine.” "And what was he drinking?” "I have no idea. Why? Is it important?" Ivanovich shrugged. "Perhaps it isn't. And this man, how did he give his name?” "Paolo Tranconi." The man sitting across from her stared steadily, not a flicker of emotion on his face that wasn't preplanned, designed to evoke a response. Lucia allowed herself a smile - a long, slow, promising one. "I'm more interested in talking about you, Gregory Valentin Ivanovich. You seem very ... interesting.” "Do I?" A measured, empty response, although she'd seen the hint of appreciation in his eyes when he'd first taken a look at her. Ivanovich wasn't the type to be played, even if it did amuse him. "Did you pay Marko Czerny - forgive me, Paolo Tranconi - to procure black market

nuclear material on behalf of Iran?" She laughed. "I don't work for Iran." "I know you don't. That wasn't my question.” "No. I did not pay Marko Czerny - or Paolo Tranconi - to procure black market nuclear material on behalf of Iran. Or, in fact, any nation or group. Is that clear enough?" Gregory Ivanovich sipped his drink, then carefully put the cup and saucer aside. She felt the gravity in the room shift, and put her empty teacup aside as well. He stood up, walked to her, and - without even a flash of warning in his expression or body language -slapped her so hard her head snapped to one side, and her ears set up a loud, high ringing. Lucia's first emotion was stunned amazement, but that melted like frost before the fast-following burn of fury. She sat up straight and faced him, determined to let him see none of her discomfort. "That the best you've got, Gregory?" she asked, in the same pleasant tone as before, though her heart was starting to pound as her body woke up to its very real danger. The body was always the problem in situations such as this. It was hard-wired to take control, and she couldn't allow that to happen. "No," he said. "I assure you it is not." And then he hit her, closed fist. It was a starburst of red and white, blanking her out for a few precious seconds’ she felt herself tumbling from her chair, and barely had the presence of mind to put out her hands to break

the fall. Time slipped away, as she struggled to push aside the fog. She felt herself being picked up, carried from the room, and those few seconds of confusion cost her dearly. By the time she had shaken it off, she was on her face on a stone floor, and someone was tying her hands and ankles. Someone who was not Ivanovich. He stood within her blurry field of vision, watching with those implacable hazel eyes. "I'm going to kill you," she mumbled, through what felt like a broken jaw. "No doubt you'll try. I’mcertainly going to give you ample reasons," he assured her, and looked past her to whoever was tying her hands. "Make sure she's secure, then take her clothes." She'd known that was coming, but she still felt the primal, bitter shock of it when a knife hissed through the back and arms of her jacket and shirt, sliced her bra straps, and slit her pants from waist down to ankles. Her underwear followed. The reasons were twofold: first, to leave her disoriented and naked, which was always a plus in interrogation’ second, even if by some miracle she burst free of her bonds, killed Ivanovich and his men, and escaped, she would have to escape naked, in a Prague winter, unless she was able to strip the bodies of those she took down. Which she would do, given a fraction of a chance. Not that they were likely to give her that fraction of a chance. They knew who she was, and they didn't seem to be in the habit of making mistakes. It only takes one, she told herself. You made one. They will make one. The floor was freezing, and Lucia felt her body heat leaving her in a river, soaking into the cold stones. She was already shivering. Ivanovich wouldn't let her freeze to death, but he would certainly let her suffer

intensely. It would do half his work for him. Torture was a sweat-intensive business, and those who were good at it knew how to let fear, weariness and pain work in their favour. Lucia rose into a kneeling position. It exposed her nudity to Ivanovich's absolutely level gaze, but that was less important now than preserving body heat. Anger would keep her warm, for a while, but anger would fade, and fear would draw blood into the core of the body, to protect the vital organs. She needed to make the most of her slender advantages while she still could. "Leave us," Ivanovich said to his aide, the faceless man who'd so efficiently stripped her. She still hadn't caught a glimpse of the man's face, other than a blurred profile’ nothing special, like the woman who'd brought the tea. A professional spy, almost certainly. He left without a backwards glance, shutting a thick old steel door behind him. She heard the sound of locks engaging. The hinges of the door were on the outside. Of course. Ivanovich's voice turned gentle. "Lucia, there is no need for this. All you need to do is honestly answer a single, vital question: where is Marko Czerny?" "I have no idea what you're talking about." In fact, of course, she did. Marko Czerny was in an unmarked grave, below a fresh pour of concrete in a warehouse development on the outskirts of Prague. She'd taken care of him herself, stripped the body, and buried him. No point, these days, in the old precautions of destroying the face or taking the hands so that the body

wouldn't be identified. DNA had rendered all that moot. So she'd simply ensured that Marko Czerny had disappeared without a trace, and by the time he might be discovered, it would be a matter for archaeologists to puzzle over. "My employers," Ivanovich said, "would very much like to know the whereabouts of Marko Czerny. He has quite a lot of their money, and they are not people who flinch from using harsh methods to recover what they've lost. Therefore, since they are paying me, their methods and priorities must be mine. Are we understood, dorogoi?' "How about you?" Lucia asked. "Do you flinch?" "Not noticeably. But I would truly hate to see such beauty wasted unnecessarily." He seemed to mean it, but then she didn't kid herself that Gregory Ivanovich ever told the whole truth. He was a master liar. It took one to know one. She was starting to really shiver now, uncontrollable spasms as her body tried to generate more heat to replace what was swiftly bleeding away in the frigid air. She could actually see wisps of escaping heat rising from her skin into the icy stillness. Ivanovich suddenly crouched down, putting them on a level, and stared directly into her eyes. That move was a shock, one that almost made her flinch - and she imagined she did that as rarely as Ivanovich himself. They seemed professionally well matched. "Listen to me," he said, very softly. "I can help you. Let me help you. I am a businessman, not a barbarian. You give me what I need, my clients are content, you go on your way. Your people need never know you told me a word. We can make

this a private business, quickly finished. I would prefer it to be so." Of course he would. Money for nothing. “Why is Marko Czerny so important?” "I told you, my clients have lost a great deal of capital—” Lucia smiled. "I wasn't born yesterday, Gregory Ivanovich." He considered her for a long moment, then cocked his head slightly as if puzzled. "No, I see that,” he said. "Marko Czerny had, on his person, something that my employers want back. If you killed him and put him somewhere secure to avoid detection, then all you need do is give me the location so I can retrieve what my employers wish to have. If you have it well, that will be a slightly different conversation, but I'm certain we can come to an arrangement.” There hadn't been anything on Czerny that could fit what Ivanovich was talking about. Nothing in his pockets, only a wallet with a few bills and coins, a false ID . . . not even a cell phone. Granted, she hadn't performed a cavity search - that had seemed over the top, all things considered - but she was relatively sure that she'd found everything Czerny had been earning. Which was nothing. That was bad news. If whatever Marko was supposed to have been carrying were missing, Ivanovich would have no choice but to assume she had it. And she didn't have it. Which meant that if she told the truth, he'd assume she was lying. If she lied, she'd have nothing to back it up and, once again, that would lead to

more questions. Painful ones. All in all, not the most wonderful position to be put in, with a man whom she already knew to be a serious professional about his work. One who didn't flinch. Lucia decided to try honesty. "I killed him,” she said. "He's buried under the new warehouse development near the airport. I can show you a grid reference so you don't waste time looking. But he had nothing on him when I put him down, or when I disposed of him. I checked. Whatever you're looking for, it isn't there, I don't have it and I can't give it to you." For a moment he didn't move’ she saw his mind race, saw him consider all the possibilities. Discard each one as not feasible. Finally, he said, "I hope, for your sake, that you are lying to me, zolotoi. It will be most unfortunate if you're not. I think you know that already.” "Yes," she said. "That's why I just told you the truth. I can't give you what you want because I don't have it, and I have no idea where it is, whatever if is. So there's no reason to hurt me, Gregory. I know you're not a sadist. There's no benefit in this for you, just brutality. And failure, in the end. Which isn't optimal for you, is it?” "No. But in any case, knowing that I am going to fail only means that it is even more important I make a good showing of trying to reach my goal. You understand this.” He looked away from her, the first sign she'd seen of real emotion, even if it was only the avoidance of it. "Sometimes the choice isn't mine. Or yours. Lucia, I am sorry. Prepare yourself. We'll begin soon, I will of course have the unfortunate Marko

exhumed, but if what we're looking for isn't buried with him, you and I will be getting to know each other far too well." "No offence," Lucia said, shivering hard now, teeth chattering, "but I really hope I never have to know you at all. I don't even like what I know about you so far." "No offence taken." Ivanovich rose to his feet and walked to the door. It opened for him without a visible signal. Electronic? She didn't know, and it was hard to think about it now, cold and afraid as she was. The fear was mounting, the sense of nightmarish helplessness. There's nothing with Marko, she thought. He'll be back. And when he comes ... When he comes, I'll have to be ready. To endure. To survive. To not become that anonymous, tragic, star on the wall. Only Gregory didn't come back. She sat alone in the dark, cold and getting colder, until her world narrowed to the torturous business of survival. Lucia was, by nature, a neat, orderly person, and kneeling in a filthy basement room, tied and helpless and naked, was difficult. She focused on her breathing, her heartbeat, achieving a kind of meditative calm as she tried to ignore the pain of her cold, cold flesh. After a while the burning sensation faded, replaced by a blessed numbness that she knew, on an intellectual level, wasn't an improvement. It meant the nerves had given up their fight. Frostbite was setting in. She tried working her numbed fingers, moving to the limited extent her bonds allowed, but she knew it wouldn't really help. Already, she felt drugged

and slowed by the harsh conditions. She might have fallen asleep for a while. Time ceased to have any observable meaning. With no warning the door spilled open in a shocking blaze of light, and she almost toppled over as adrenaline slammed through her body, temporarily blocking the insidious slide of cold. The light blinded her, and she blinked away shadows and halos. By the time her eyes adjusted, she saw that there was only one man who'd come inside. He locked the door behind him. The harsh overhead light stayed on, and in its glow Lucia could see that her skin had taken on a pale, cold tinge, like something left for dead. The man who'd entered wasn't Gregory. This man was a professional, but of another type altogether. He had a normal sort of face, heavy jawline, deep-set eyes -but there was something about his expression that made Lucia's breath come quicker. This man was empty. Empty of everything. He was the sort of man employed to do the dirtiest jobs, because there would be little consequence to it’ he'd wash the blood from his hands, hum a little tune and sit down to dinner without a qualm. This man, unlike Ivanovich, was a true sociopath. She tried a smile. It went nowhere. He stared at her as if she were of no more significance to him than the stone floor or the walls. "I will ask some questions,” he said. ''Some of them will not matter. You will answer them all or I will hurt you. Do you understand?” "Yes," she said. Her teeth were chattering. She tried to stop it, to stop this

minor show of weakness, but she knew that ultimately it wasn't going to matter. She might as well be weak now. Might as well let the tears that burned in her eyes fall. Because this man would not stop, not until he was called off by his superiors. "Then we will begin." He hurt her, and he hurt her a lot, but never to the point of compromising her ability to survive. Soft tissue damage, delivered with medical, methodical efficiency. She was not too proud to scream, to cry, to beg him to stop. She answered all of his questions. Some of them- most of them- she lied. By the end of it, she was lying on her side, gasping for breath, weeping in helpless, silent convulsions. She hated showing weakness, but she also knew that there was no point in being brave. It meant nothing to him, and it was no shame to her. He never spoke a word to her. At the end, he threw something over her a blanket, a cheap microfibre fleece throw that covered her in blessed warmth. Lucia curled up beneath it, shivering, beaten, unable to order her thoughts until the warmth eased some of the pain from her body. Then, she began to wonder why. Why send the man in to soften her up? Gregory must have known she was telling him the truth. There was no point to this. Was this his due diligence? Or something else? She had the instinct that something was wrong. It was difficult, but she forced herself up to her hands and knees

awkwardly, and began a methodical shuffle around the room, inching in a square, searching for anything at all that might be of any use. In the far corner, behind a broken shelf, she found a jagged piece of glass - not large, and not as sharp as she'd have preferred, but better than she'd expected to find. Lucia rolled herself back in the blanket and began to carefully, carefully saw at the bonds that held her hands together. It was very difficult. Her fingers were numb and awkward, and she lost count of how many times she dropped the tiny piece of glass and had to conduct a weary search for it. Pieces of it flaked away. She was terrified that it would completely disintegrate before it could serve its purpose. She was starting to feel the ropes giving way when the door opened again, the lights blazed on, and Gregory Valentin Ivanovich came inside. Alone. Lucia froze. She looked up at him, and saw actual emotion flicker across his face: surprise. He looked at her for a long moment, started to speak, stopped and shook his head. "Someone brought you a blanket," he said. "Ah. That's good." He didn't know. "We found the unfortunate Marko exactly where you said we would," he continued. "And as you predicted, there was nothing of interest on his body. Which brings us back to the same problem, Lushenka - I have no other suspects, no other clues. And my employers will not accept failure . . ." His voice trailed off as the implications of the blanket, and whatever was showing in her expression,

began to become clear to him. Ivanovich suddenly crouched down, reached out and pulled the blanket away from her, revealing the cuts and bruises, the damage done. He looked at her for a long moment, and she saw muscles tightening in his face, in his shoulders. No mistaking what that was. Surprise, and fury. He was not quite good enough to mask it. Or he didn't care to, at this moment. Gregory put the blanket back around her with surprising gentleness. "I did not authorize this," he said. "You understand.” "Doesn't matter to me whether you did or not," she said. Her voice sounded rusty, damaged, exhausted. "It doesn't make it all go away." "I know." He reached out and eased dark, sweaty hair back from her face, and the warm, gentle touch of his fingers was almost worse than the torture before. She couldn't afford to trust him, not for an instant. "I assure you, I will find out who took matters into their own hands in my absence." "Management problems," she said. "How boring. Do you think I care about your discipline problems?" "Lucia." He leaned closer, eyes intent now. Alight with utter sincerity, or a brilliant approximation of it. "Please. Give me what I need and, I swear to you, I will see that you walk out of here, alive and free. My word on it." "Because you're such a gentleman." She almost laughed, but she was too tired, too wounded. "Gregory. Don't bother. I'm not some scared little comrade, and I know how this works. Don't good cop/bad cop me." 'I’mnot," he said. "I am employed, my lovely one, and the more I discover of my employers, the less I like the work. The team is

subcontracted. I now begin to suspect some work directly for my employers, and not for me. I also begin to suspect that perhaps I am seen as . . . replaceable. I want us both to survive this. That is the truth." It might even actually be the truth, Lucia realized. Which meant she really didn't understand the full extent of things yet. "What do you know?" she whispered. Gregory said, "I know that what they're seeking are the codes to a lockbox. In the lockbox is something very deadly, which may or may not be this nuclear material that was described to me. Do you have these codes?" She shook her head. It was all starting to become surreal now. She knew what Ivanovich was talking about’ it was the thing she'd been sent to Prague to stop: Marko Czerny, terrorist and supplier of terrorists, had been rumoured to possess a supply of weaponized haemorrhagic feyer. Marburg, possibly. Maybe even Ebola. In any case, deadly dangerous stuff. The prototype for a worldwide epidemic of shocking proportions, intended for the hands of fanatics who believed their faith would protect them. She'd disrupted the sale, but the buyers still wanted the merchandise. Desperately. 'You're on the wrong side,” she told Gregory. "You know that." A faint twitch of his lips, not quite a smile. "I am on the side of money, as I always am. But you do tempt me to virtue, zolotoi” "I don't have any codes," she said. "So let's get on with it. Bring in the second team again’ he was good at his job. All this talking is boring, and I'm

cold. A little pain will warm me up." He touched her cheek. Warm, gentle, a lover's touch. "You're not a stranger to me, Lucia," he said. "I've studied you for a long time, you know. Such strength and beauty. Such skill. It distresses me that you've been caught up in this. We are professionals." "Well, you can always just let me go," she said. "But wait. You won't. Because we are professionals." "Exactly. I can't," he admitted. "Not unless I intend to put a gun to my own head in the process. And as much as I enjoy you, my dear, I enjoy my own life more." His voice grew softer. "You're freezing." Her teeth were chattering again, and Lucia couldn't stop shivering, even huddled under the blanket. She didn't answer. Gregon'rose, stripped off his black leather jacket, and draped it around her shoulders. It was heavy, animal-warm, andit smelled richly of his skin and cologne. "Thanks," she whispered. She hated herself for it. Every courtesy she accepted, every act of kindness, was another thing she'd regret later when he turned on her. It was how the game was played. She was a fool to think otherwise. Lucia tested her bonds, and felt a strand of rope part with a sudden snap. She froze, hoping he hadn't heard, but Gregory was pacing now, body language tense and agitated. "There's no purpose to this," he said. "You won't tell me, even if you know, and to be honest, I doubt you know. And killing you serves no good purpose, either. There must be another way." "Let me go," she said.

1 can't." "Then help me." "I did!” he snapped. 'You're still alive. Still breathing, if not breathing comfortably. Believe me, my Lucia, much worse could have been done to you already." He paced more, still agitated. She pulled on her bonds again, and distinctly felt the ropes loosen. One more good pull... Gregory made a decision of some kind. He altered course towards her, reached down and pulled her up to her feet. She staggered, uncertain of her balance’ she'd lost feeling in her legs hours before. Gregory held her steady. This is it, she thought, in a moment of cold clarity. He's going to kill me to save me. Wonderful. While he was distracted, she tensed the muscles in her arms and shoulders, and pulled. The rope around her wrists parted and, in the same motion, she brought the thin shard of glass up, arcing towards Gregory's eyes. Under normal circumstances, she'd never have missed, but she was cold and slow, aching, and Gregory had felt the muscles tensing and jerked his head back. Not much, just enough. The glass dug a bloody furrow along his high cheekbone. Gregory slapped the sharp edge out of her hand and shoved her down, off balance’ she fell on his black leather jacket and pushed herself up immediately, trying to get up, snatch at whatever advantage she'd gained... She froze at the sound of a round being chambered, and then Gregory's gun pressed hard against the side of her head. He was breathing hard, and

his hazel eyes were narrow and hot. Blood was sliding down his cheek. She'd stopped trembling. He'd just begun. It took him a long moment to master himself enough to say, "Dorogoi, you must still have fight left in you, if you can do that. Good. You will need it." Then he took the gun away from her head, reached behind his back, and came out with a short-bladed knife - wickedly sharp. He sliced through the bonds on her ankles. "Up. Get up." She stared at him, confused, convinced for a second that this was merely another manoeuvre from a clever opponent. But he held out his hand to her, and there was, in that moment, some connection forged between them, strong as iron. She took his fingers and let him lift her to her feet. His arms steadied her and, for a moment, one moment, she let herself collapse against his warm, solid body. His breath left him in a slow, regretful sigh as he combed his fingers gently through her hair. "The lockbox was destroyed," he whispered, lips close to her ear. "I found it. I put it, and its contents, through a commercial incinerator. It's a heap of slag that will never be identified, much less found. The codes are meaningless. Tell me where to find them." "I don't know. I never did." That was, in fact, the truth. She'd killed Czerny because she knew for a fact that the only place the codes existed was in his head, and that the lockbox - wherever he'd hidden it -couldn't be opened without the codes or the contents would be destroyed. It had been the best of a set of bad choices. "Kill me or let me go, Gregory." He'd already turned against his employers - a deadly position to be in, with these people. She hoped he'd covered his tracks sufficiently. It was

extremely dangerous to tell her what he'd done, and she automatically assumed he was lying. But if he was telling the truth ... "Why?" He knew what she was asking. "Perhaps even I flinch, from time to time," he said. ''Perhaps you do, as well." Gregory Valentin Ivanovich was Russian, through and through - cold, controlled, perfectly professional, but also emotional, when something touched him through that reserve. Somehow, she had touched him. And, to be truthful, he had touched her, too - there was something illogically comforting about being held by him. She turned her head, and they were suddenly looking at each other from the distance of mere inches, their faces intimately close. He kissed her. She gasped, surprised by the sudden, bright warmth of his mouth seeking hers, surprised by the promise of a connection she didn't think either of them had looked for, or truly wanted. Complications. There were always complications to seeing each other as merely ...human. He was a very good kisser. Even exhausted, weary and in pain as she was, she felt a whisper of something inside. If things were different... But they weren't different. They were, in fact, just getting more dangerous. "You can't let me go," she said. She still tasted him on her lips, warm and musky sweet, and she wanted to taste him again, deeply. She could see that same light in his eyes, that need for connection in the cold, hard world that both of them shared. "Gregory, they'll kill you if you don't deliver. You said so." "They'll kill you no matter what I do," he said. "I am a brilliant liar,

zolotoi. but I can't seem to lie well to you. So when I tell you that I cannot see you hurt any longer, you may take that as the truth. There is no point to it. I've walked away many times, but this time- no. I won't let them have you." She swallowed and nodded. "Then what?" "You escape," he said. "But you will need to be fast, and ruthless. Do you understand me?" She nodded. She put her arms through the sleeves of his jacket, and wrapped the blanket around her waist as best she could. He handed her his gun. She gripped the warm weight of it reflexively, startled, and looked into his eyes again. He pulled her hand forwards, positioned the gun where he wanted it, and said, "Shoot." His voice was soft, husky and gentle. She didn't hesitate. The noise of the shot was deafening in the empty room, and the kick of the pistol rocked through Lucia's body and woke agony in damaged muscles. Gregory was still standing. His eyes remained open, but they were vague, unfocused, and he put a hand over the small hole in his side. Blood was starting to show on his expensive white shirt. He reached behind his back and pulled out another handgun - a match for the one she had in her hand. He didn't raise it. Instead, he leaned forwards, put his lips close to her ear, and whispered, "Very good. Now, run for your life." He staggered and collapsed to his knees.

She didn't have time to say she was sorry’ it was illogical to even think about it. She slammed her shoulders against the wall to one side of the door just as it opened. She fired, not waiting to see who was on the other side’ no one here, beyond Gregory, had been her friend or ally. It was the plain woman, the one who'd brought the tea about a century ago. Lucia shot, killing her in a messy red spray. The woman stayed standing for a moment, staring blankly, and then her eyes turned up, whites showing, and she went down. Lucia jumped over the woman's body and kept running. Bullets followed her, from a guard station down the hall’ she engaged in broken-field running - or, more accurately, stumbling, considering the devastatingly numb conditions of her legs and feet. She was trying to avoid presenting a clear target, and as she passed doorways she yanked them open behind her to cover her trail. It worked. The air was shattering from the noise of the guns barking behind her, but she got nothing worse than a graze. She hit the end of the hall, and an exit door, and stumbled out into the ice-cold Prague night - into a chill that took away what little breath she had left in a ragged plume of white. Stars glittered overhead. Beyond the door was a shattered landscape of wreckage - a building that had either been brought down, or fallen of its own accord. Bricks and metal and timber, all tangled and heaped. Lucia looked around quickly, but the other options were worse - open ground, bright lights, no traffic or streets within sight. No other standing buildings close enough to serve as cover. It was the best cover she could hope for, but as she ran forwards she lost

the blanket on a ragged edge of rebar, and her feet began to bleed from the sharp bite of masonry and metal. None of that mattered. It was her only hope, and small wounds could be endured. Had to be endured. Her breath came fast and broken as she clambered over the piles of bricks and twisted metal, and there was only one thought left to her: survive. Bullets flew over her head, and sparked on concrete near her body. She risked a glance back. A man had come out of the door with a rifle, and he was sighting down on her back. She heard the flat snap of a shot and waited for the end. Instead, she clearly saw the snipers body fall. Gregory. He came out of the door, put another bullet in the back of the sniper's head, and looked up towards her, where she was silhouetted by the starlight, staring back. It seemed to last a long time, that stare, although it couldn't have been more than a few seconds at most. He wouldn't have risked it. Gregory lifted his gun and began firing methodically, carefully, bullets ringing off the metal and stone around her. Missing her. She wished she could have said something to him. Something like thank you. She could see that half his shirt was soaked with blood now, black in the moonlight. She didn't know how he would survive this night. He'd broken so many rules, and was still breaking them. She didn't know how she would survive, either. Only that she would.

She saved her breath, turned, and ran as the rest of his team boiled out of the warehouse behind him. The last she saw, as she crested the rubble and began to descend the other side, was Gregory holding up his hand to halt their progress, and then collapsing. Some gathered around him. Others came after her. She ran hard, for her life. It was a long, terrible night, a surreal blur of pain, cold, confusion, and when she was finally spotted by the local police - embarrassment, because she'd completely forgotten her state of nakedness. Gregory's leather coat was all that saved her from being completely nude. The police - not unreasonably - assumed she had been attacked, and took her to the hospital, where her injuries were treated. She half expected Gregory to pop out of the shadows at any turn, for the nightmare to begin again, but there was no sign of him, or any of his team. No doubt they'd be monitoring the hospitals and police frequencies, though. She knew she didn't have much time. She called her section chief from the emergency room before she allowed them to start treating her. Ten minutes later, two black sedans pulled up outside the hospital's entrance, and six men got out - two she knew, including her section chief, Danny Miller. He was young for his position, not much older than her, but Danny had a streak of useful ruthlessness that made her seem tame. He looked her over in her hospital gown for the space of about two seconds, "Clothes are in the car. Can you walk?"

Shock had set in, and she wasn't sure she could, really, but pride made her stand. She took Gregory's black leather jacket and draped it over her shoulders, and walked under her own power out of the hospital, in the tight company of the other agents. Danny stayed to talk to the doctors and police. It only took a few seconds. She slid into the back seat of the sedan. Danny Miller got in next to her, and two of the others took the front. The rest went to the second car. "How bad are you?" Danny asked. “I’ll

live," she said. "Some of the cuts are pretty deep. I'll need stitches."

He turned and looked her in the face. His brown eyes were bleak and unreadable. "No," he said. "How bad are you, Lucia?" She was still shaking. Couldn't stop shaking. She thought about Gregory, collapsed on the open ground, left behind, left to be pulled apart by either his own team, or his employers. His choice. She felt sick. "I don't know," she said. "I think I'm pretty bad." He nodded. "That's what I thought." He leaned forwards and tapped the driver on the shoulder. "Airport." "Danny-" "You're going home," he said. 'You're of no use to me right now. Get your head together. Get healed. Then we’ll see." Going home. That seemed . .. unreal. Like someone else's fantasy, not her own. She couldn't remember what home was. What it was like. She was so cold.

She wondered if she would ever seen Gregory Valentin Ivanovich again, and if so, if they would kiss, or kill each other. Or both. Onboard the agency's private jet, Lucia wrapped his black leather jacket more firmly around her shoulders and closed her eyes against the throb of the engines. She buried her hands in the pockets, and for the first time felt the crisp rustle of paper against her fingers. She pulled out a blank white card, on which was written a phone number. No name. Nothing to indicate what it was, or why it was there. She smiled He'd called her zolotoi. Russians didn't use the same endearments as Americans; it wasn't my sweet or honey. It meant gold. He'd been calling her my treasure. "Until later, my enemy," she whispered, in Russian. "Until later." She hoped that was true.

VeriSEAL Marliss Melton

One Dr Libby Granger, Professor of English Literature, moved down the dark, echoing hallway towards her office, grateful for the quiet. Winter break had begun three hours ago when the last student in Victorian Lit. relinquished

her exam. The corridor, usually jammed with college students, stood dim and empty, as someone had extinguished the lights in anticipation of the holiday. Libby was the last professor to leave. Why hurry home when her older brother Daren was out at sea this Christmas? As executive officer of the USS Monterey, he had obligations that his only living relative had to live with. As she turned the corner to her office, her breath caught to see a dark shape standing by her door. "Who's there?” she called, hoping wildly that her brother had come ashore earlier than expected. But then the silhouette detached itself from the wall and, with disappointment, she recognized her visitor as the graduate assistant from the history department. "Mr Kimball," she said, reaching for her keys. "What are you doing here?" "Waiting for you." The unexpected answer had her searching his face for a motive, but in the gloomy hallway, she couldn't read his expression. She knew that he was young and handsome, a favourite among the coeds, who discussed him with giggles and rolling eyes. According to his introduction to the staff that fall, he had been a Navy SEAL. "What can I do for you?" The realization that they were alone in a dark, locked building stitched through her thoughts, drawing her in tightly. "I was wondering if you had a copy of the faculty handbook." His bland request mocked her overzealous imagination. "Of course,” she murmured, fumbling for her keys.

What else would a man like Kimball want with her, anyway? As the lock gave, she groped for the light switch, only to leave the lights off as an afterthought. Halogen lighting was anything but complimentary to a woman her age- not that she was old at thirty-four, but she was certainly older than he was. The cold grey light pouring through her office window would suffice. Depositing test booklets on her desk, she crossed to her bookshelf to locate the handbook, all the while aware that Mr Kimball was storing at her. What was his impression? She was slim, with unruly auburn hair she kept pinned in a loose knot, held with bobby pins she could never keep track of. Thick but stylish glasses concealed her best feature: moss-green eyes identical to her older brother's, only he had twenty-twenty vision. "Here you are," she said, handing him the booklet, expecting him to leave. Instead, he moved right past her, towards the window, to take advantage of the muted sunlight. Snow flurries bumped into the windowpane as he flipped through the pages. "Can I help you find something?" Her lack of contact with the opposite sex was so telling. Here she was, alone in the building with the best-looking single young man on campus and she couldn't wait to get rid of him. "I'll find it," he said, in no apparent hurry to leave. Turning towards her desk, Libby began to pack her briefcase with ungraded exams and her grade book. All the while, she studied him covertly, waiting awkwardly for him to finish. Kimball was an inch or so taller than her brother who stood an inch over

six feet. Broad shoulders and a trim waist gave testament to his military training. His light-brown hair had grown out of the flat-top he'd first arrived in. A crooked nose suggested it had once been broken. With full lips and smouldering grey eyes, she could see why the co-eds were so taken with him. He reminded her of Heathcliff, she decided, from Emily Bronte's Wuthering Heights. There was something brooding and unpredictable about him, something that kept a woman breathless. Glancing up suddenly, he caught her studying him. "Thank you," he said as she flushed self-consciously. He closed the book, stepped closer, and handed it back, brushing her fingers with his in the trade off. Libby's ears began to ring - from alarm or sexual awareness? It had been so long, she'd forgotten how to flirt. His cologne, rakish and subtle, stole into her nostrils. "You're very pretty behind those glasses," he remarked, shocking her into silence. Pleasure bubbled in her breast like a geyser, moving up her neck to heat into her cheeks. "Green eyes," he added, on an inscrutable note. "Of course." Was he flirting with her? Befuddlement kept her paralysed. "But not much to say," he added, flashing strong but crowded teeth as he smiled at her reticence. Libby pushed the glasses higher on her freckled nose and broke away. "Have a good vacation, Mr Kimball," she managed, moving pointedly towards the door.

With his smile still in place, he followed her out. "I will. You do the same." He raked her with a lingering look then walked away. Libby suffered sudden ambivalence. What was she doing dismissing a man who'd actually paid her a compliment? Not only was he virile and intelligent, he was a former Navy SEAL. "MrRimball!" she called. Halfway down the hall, he turned back, his smile returning. "Call me Bruce," he invited rather smugly. "Bruce," she repeated, half-regretting her impulse. What if he laughed at her presumption or called her an old maid? "Are you ... heading anywhere for Christmas?" "No." His eyes seemed to gleam as he waited patiently for her to continue. "Me neither," she said with an awkward shrug. She grappled wildly for words to suggest they should get together. Abruptly, he retraced his footsteps. The soles of his shoes barely squeaked on the marbled floor as he approached. Libby held her ground as her former wariness resurfaced. His cologne floated out to meet her as he stopped about a yard away. "Would you like to go out?" he asked, sparing her the humility of asking. Excitement shimmered through her. "Oh. You mean to dinner, or ...?" "A movie," he corrected, still smiling. "That would be nice," she agreed, both elated and terrified. "OK. I'll pick you up tomorrow at seven." She blinked. They hadn't even discussed what they would like to see.

"Pick me up where?" she asked in confusion. "At your house." His gaze dropped briefly to her lips then he turned and walked away a second time. The shadows began to envelope him. "Wait," called Libby. "You don't know where I live!" Without a backwards glance, he rounded the corner to the stairwell and disappeared. With a worried sigh, she gripped the door jam. What have I gotten myself into? He hadn't exactly taken her thoughts into consideration. But then she couldn't afford to be choosy if she wanted an honest-to-God date in this calendar year. Her brother would be pleased to learn she hadn't spent the holidays completely alone. Maybe Bruce was the prince she'd been holding out for.

Four months later Libby approached the modest office building on leaden feet. It was her brother who'd convinced her to come here. At first she'd resisted. After all, why look a gift horse in the mouth? She'd seen substantial evidence proving Bruce a war hero. She had traced the scar on his shoulder, sustained while saving a fallen teammate. He'd let her hold his Bronze Star, issued by the Commander-in-Chief himself. But somewhere in the back of her mind lurked a certain cynicism. If Bruce was so young, so brave, so decorated, then what was he doing going out with her? The sign on the office door read VERISEAL. According to her brother, it was staffed by members of the military who maintained the Naval Special Warfare Archives. Not only did they perform background checks on phonies

claiming to be Navy SEALs, but they publicly denounced them on their "Wall of Shame". Hauling the heavy door open, Libby edged into an empty waiting room and stood there, uncommitted. The scent of fresh coffee and the cosy seating area drew her one step deeper. Suddenly, a closed door opened and a man poked his head and shoulders out. "Can I help you?" he asked, looking surprised. "I... I don't have an appointment," she stammered. "You must be busy." He let the door fall shut behind him. Shorter than Bruce and more darkly complexioned, he was nonetheless fit and clean shaven. "Not presently," he countered with a rueful smile. That smile, paired with his dark-as-night eyes made him suddenly appealing. As they flickered over her, she was certain he'd noticed every detail from her practical teaching shoes to the way she clutched her purse ready to flee. "What can I do for you?" he repeated. Libby drew a deep breath. "Well, I've come to check up on a . . . a colleague," she finished, wondering why she didn't just say boyfriend. "He says he was a decorated Navy SEAL, and I'm sure he's telling the truth, but —"

She laughed to conceal her awkwardness. But sometimes I'm not so

sure. "Ma'am, for every real Navy SEAL there are 350 men who claim to be one," the man pointed out. "That's what my brother said," she admitted. But Bruce was the real deal. He had to be.

"Commander Todd Lawson." Seeing the stranger's hand extended, Libby took it. The tempered strength of his warm fingers brought her sharply to the present. He smelled of soap and ironing starch. His white collared shirt had been loosened at the neck, his tie discarded. He looked rumpled and approachable. "Elizabeth Granger," she replied. He had to be older than he looked with a title like Commander. "What do you do, Miss Granger?" he asked with interest. She realized she could see her reflection in his dark eyes. "I teach British literature at the college." "Doctor Granger?" he amended, surprised. She acknowledged her degree with a shrug. "Yes, well, I'm book smart but not always practical." Her comment drew a quizzical look. "And your colleague? He also teaches?" "Oh, no. He's a graduate assistant in the history department." A younger man. "I see. Have a seat, doctor,” he invited. "I'm going to grab my laptop.” In the blink of an eye, he disappeared, his stealth reminding her of Bruce's. Libby settled into a wingback chair and waited. She was glad now that she had come. Soon her doubts and worries would be gone. She would deepen her relationship with Bruce and, by the time Daren pulled in port, who knew what kind of news she'd have to share?

As Todd Lawson re-emerged, she flushed at the direction of her thoughts, not that he could possibly know them. He placed the laptop on the coffee table then lowered his lean, compact frame on to the settee next to her. With a glance in her direction, he opened up the computer and toggled a key. "Let's start with your colleague's name,” he suggested. "Kimball,” she supplied, suddenly uneasy that Bruce might discover what she'd done. "Bruce Kimball. Will he know I've been here?” she added anxiously. "Not unless you tell him,” Lawson said. Aware of his sidelong glance, she bit her lower lip and nodded. "Has Bruce Kimball told you the number of his BUD/s graduating class?” "Yes. Class 232." Twisting her hands in her lap, she watched Todd Lawson enter the information in his laptop. His features were unremarkable, but pleasant to look at, she decided. Certainly, his straight nose had never been broken. Those dark eyes, rimmed with even darker lashes, were mesmerizing, really. He turned them on her now. "Has Kimball told you something that made you doubt his authenticity?” "Well, I'd like to know if he really earned a Bronze Star,” she answered honestly. "What has he told you?” "That he saved a teammate's life in Fallujah,” she cited, "about a year ago." She'd heard the story half a dozen times, each version more elaborate

than the last, making her wonder how much Bruce recalled of the event or whether he had possibly just made it up. Lawson's brow furrowed as he listened intently. "He was shot in the shoulder,” she added. "And that's why he quit the Teams.” "The marines have safeguarded Fallujah for the past several years,” the commander commented carefully. "I don't recall any SEALs operating there recently.” "Maybe it was somewhere else,” she decided, unwilling to accept his implication. "Maybe I'm remembering wrong.” Lawson looked back at his laptop, which had stopped clicking and processing. His face hardened as he skimmed the information available to him and Libby's stomach clenched. When he looked up to intercept her gaze, she knew the news was troubling. "We have a problem,” he informed her gravely. "What?" she breathed, bracing herself. "Bruce Kimball of Class 232 died in a helicopter crash over the Hindu Kush in 2007." Libby’s mouth went dry. The blood rushed from her face to her thudding heart, leaving her light-headed. "What?" she cried. "That's what the archives say," he added, gently. "They wouldn't be wrong about this." "But they have to be wrong," she insisted. "Bruce was injured. Maybe

they just thought he was dead." There was pity in his dark gaze as he turned his attention once more to his laptop, typed a few more words, then turned it so that she could see the scanned image of an obituary: "Navy SEAL Bruce Kimball one of six to perish in helicopter crash." Libby sucked in a sharp breath and the room seemed to spin. "This isn't right," she insisted. "Maybe there are two Bruce Kimballs." "Not in class 232," Commander Lawson assured her. He clicked a button taking him to a related link. "Or in any other graduating class," he added on a measured note. A chill breeze blew through Libby's mind. She stared at the VeriSEAL representative, struck dumb by his certainty, her tongue in knots. Apparently, her magic carpet ride was over. It ended right here. Lawson's gaze flicked to the fist she held against her abdomen. "Is Bruce Kimball more than a colleague, Dr Granger?" he asked gently. Visions of Bruce undressing her, whispering his intentions, brought heat flooding back into her face. "He's my boyfriend," she admitted, chagrined. How could he have lied to her - to everyone so cavalierly? "Was my boyfriend," she amended, feeling nauseated. Why would he have gone to such great lengths, even taken someone else's name? Lawson's hand, both a comfort and a distraction, touched her shoulder briefly. "Let's not make any assumptions just yet," he advised. "I need to do more research." "I don't understand," she lamented, thinking back over the last four months with Bruce. Their romance had been sporadic, unpredictable, yet

so intoxicating. "I've seen his Bronze Star." It was one of the first things he'd shown her. "You can buy them on eBay for twenty dollars," Lawson pointed out. She didn't want to hear that. "But he has the scar on his shoulder," she persisted, recalling how she'd often traced it as a reminder of his heroism. "I have to go," she exclaimed, reaching blindly for her purse. He put a hand on her shoulder, keeping her from rising. "Have some coffee first," he recommended with a worried look. "You shouldn't leave like this." She sank back down, deflated. He was right, of course. She'd be a liability on the road. "Cream or sugar?" The mundane question steadied her. "Both, please," she replied, and he rose to fetch a cup. She rubbed her forehead with trembling fingers. Thank heavens she'd acted on her brother's advice and double-checked Bruce's story. But who would have predicted he'd stolen a dead man's identity. Why? Had the Navy SEAL story been his ticket into graduate school? Or did he use it to pick up women? God knew, she'd believed his lies so willingly. How pathetic that she'd been so desperate for Mr Right, she could no longer discern Mr Wrong. "Here you go." Lawson stood before her holding out a steaming cup. She took it gratefully, blinking back the tears that blinded her. "Don't be so hard on yourself, doctor." Lawson's deep voice held the

power to soothe. ''Posers can be very convincing. They've found their way into positions of prestige, even senators* seats. Most of the time, people accept their stories blindly. You, at least, had the sense to check first." Unable to look at him, she took a bracing sip of her coffee. "With your permission," he added, "I'd like to find out who Bruce Kimball really is." Her heartbeat accelerated. "You mean investigate him?" she asked, picturing Bruce hauled off in handcuffs. "Yes," he said. "So you'll tell the police?" "VeriSEAL works with the FBI," he clarified. “I’mconfused,"

she admitted, recalling his title. "Are you military or

civilian?" "I'm a reservist," he clarified, "with SEAL Team 17." "You're a Navy SEAL?" "Part-time." His dark eyes glinted at her astonishment, but there was no boasting, Libby noted. No recounting acts of heroism. His demeanour was humble, even modest. I should have come to VeriSEAL four months ago, she thought. "Go ahead. Investigate him," she agreed, her heart heavy with bitterness. "I hope he goes to jail for lying," she added thickly. "If he's assumed a dead man's identity then he might. A federal grand jury could indict him under Title 18," Lawson assured her. "But if his name is really Bruce Kimball, and all he's done is lie about being a Navy SEAL,

there's no law against that. I can list his name on the "Wall of Shame". The college might dismiss him, but he won't go to jail for lying." Appalled, Libby placed her cup on the table. "How is it not against the law to impersonate a Navy SEAL?" 'Talk is just talk," he explained. "Unless you've forged military documents, display medals or insignia in public, you can lie all you want. And even those crimes carry just a six-month sentence." He sent her an apologetic grimace. Obviously the limits of the law did not please him. "So, what do I do?" she asked, reeling. "How do I talk to him, knowing he's lied to me?" His expression sobered as his gaze rested on her. "You're better off pretending we never had this conversation," he told her gravely. She gave an incredulous laugh. "What?" How could she possibly treat Bruce the same, knowing everything he'd ever said had been a lie? "Elizabeth—"The sound of her first name focused her thoughts abruptly. "May I call you Elizabeth?" The question made her sharply aware of herself as a woman, him as a man. "My friends call me Libby," she admitted, as unexpected pleasure simmered inside her. "libby." His dark gaze enjoined her cooperation. "You need to know that posers sometimes react violently when they're called on the carpet.” It was all too easy to envision Bruce blowing up at being called a liar. "So I pretend I don't know," she finished, breaking into a clammy sweat. "I don't know if I can do this," she added fearfully. “I’ve never been a good

liar, Commander Lawson." "Todd," he insisted, his dark eyes captivating. Her chest seemed to expand. "Todd," she acknowledged, with a tiny smile. He slipped deft fingers into his shirt pocket and withdrew a business card. "Take this." As their fingers brushed, an electrical current tingled up her arm. "Keep my number close," he instructed. "If you feel endangered in any way, at any time, I want you to call me," he added encouragingly. "Thank you," she murmured, wondering if he took this kind of care with all his clients. "I also need your number," he reminded her, taking his cell phone off his hip. "So I can tell you what I've learned," he added. His tone was steady, impersonal. He's just doing his job, she decided, disappointed. She watched his deft fingers enter her number among his contacts. "Forty-eight hours," he assured her, putting his phone away. His gaze returned to hers. "I promise you'll hear from me then." She dreaded the intervening hours when she would have to face Bruce and not betray her knowledge. With a heavy heart, she reached for her purse and stood. "Thank you," she murmured, for pulling the wool from my eyes. Suddenly she saw Bruce Kimball in a whole new light, and the vision was both bewildering and scary. Todd trailed her to the door, reaching around her to push it open on to a

balmy April afternoon. "Be careful," he cautioned. She glanced up at him, snared by his midnight gaze. "You, too," she answered, then looked away, chagrined. Why would he need to be careful? "Goodbye." Beating a quick retreat, she headed to the parking lot. Sitting in her sun-warmed car, she lingered a moment, allowing tears of self-pity to brim in her eyes. Daren would be outraged to hear that Bruce had turned out to be a fraud. Herself, she was crushed. For a few brief months, she'd believed she had found the one. Only, this fairy tale had been written backwards. Her prince turned out to be a frog.

Two Aside from the chilling fact that Bruce Kimball was living in a dead man's shoes, he appeared, on the surface of things, to be an upstanding citizen. From his records at the DMV to his social security number, Bruce appeared perfectly legit. Only he hadn't paid taxes since 2007, when he was buried in his hometown of Little Rock, Arkansas. Who, then, was the Bruce Kimball impersonating him? Todd was determined to find that out before the forty-eight hours was up. He didn't want to have to call Libby Granger without any answers. He didn't know why, but he wanted to make a good impression on her. "So we dig a little deeper," recommended Special Agent Belli, the FBI's contribution to VeriSEAL. Todd and Belli had worked together in previous cases. But there'd never been a case as perplexing as this one. They'd been following paper trails since yesterday, hoping one of them led back to Kimball's true identity.

Their present effort had them standing in the rental office that leased Bruce Kimball's condo - the property7 he'd listed as his address. "Here's the lease agreement," said the office lady, sliding it across her desk to conceal the fact that her fingers were shaking. Todd had sensed her nervousness from the moment Belli flashed his badge. Skimming the stapled pages, he noted, to his surprise, that there were two designated renters - Mark Earnest and Bruce Kimball. He flipped to the last page where both men had signed the lease. Bruce Kimball had a roommate? "Could you identify both these men?" Todd asked the woman. Her right eyelid twitched. "Of course." "In a line-up?" he pressed watching with interest as she blanched, glancing back and forth between them. "I don't know that I’ve actually ever seen Mark Earnest," she admitted. "Bruce Kimball didn't have a rental history. Earnest did, so we used his." "I see. We'll take a copy of this," Todd informed her, handing it back to be photocopied. "You wanna bet they're one in the same?" Belli murmured as she moved away. On their way out of the office, Todd glanced at his watch. He couldn't wait to talk to Libby Granger. But first he needed to follow his only lead and hope that it took him somewhere. Libby's office door swung open without warning. Startled, she looked up from her monitor, dismayed to see Bruce filling the threshold, his posture

defiant. Well, hello, liar. "Why haven't you returned my calls?" he demanded irately. "I called you six times last night." She had always admired his fashion sense but today the silver shirt and matching tie struck her as overblown. She found she preferred Commander Lawson's rumpled look. "I'm sorry. Did you call?" she answered. He huffed his incredulity, "Of course I called. I always call. I wanted to tell you that the USS Monterey is pulling into port a week early. I saw it on the news last night." "Really?” Well, that was good news. She was relieved to hear her brother would come home sooner than previously thought. She needed him now more than ever. "That's wonderful.” "I knew you'd be happy to hear it,” he commented. A smile curled the edges of his mouth. "Yes, I am. Thank you.” She refocused her attention on her monitor, praying he would take her cue that she was busy and go away. Only he didn't. He stood there watching her. “What are you doing?" he finally asked. "Writing my exams.” ''Exams are two weeks out,” he said in a neutral voice. The voice made her nervous. He'd already sensed a change in her

attitude. "Yes, well, I don't want to have to do it when my brother gets back,” she hurriedly explained. Wariness spiked as he stepped into her office, moving around behind her. She searched her peripheral vision, wondering what he was doing checking her work? Suddenly, her screen went dark and the computer hummed a descending scale. She realized Bruce had powered it off. "What did you do?” she protested. "I just lost my work." Heavy hands settled on her shoulders. She flinched then cringed as he slid them lower to palm her breasts. His voice sounded seductively in her ear as leaned over, cloaking her in his scent. "All work and no play makes Libs a dull girl,” he canted. The sing-song voice sent a shudder up her spine. He spun her chair around abruptly and reached for her hands. "Come on. Let's get out of here." With a forcefulness she used to find intoxicating, he tried to pull her to her feet. "And go where?” She grabbed the arms of the chair, resisting. "On a road trip.” Her imagination shot into overdrive. "Why?" "To see your favourite lighthouse, silly,” he retorted. "I was going to surprise you but apparently I can't keep a secret." Oh. really? It took all of her will power to let the comment pass. "I never told you my favourite lighthouse,” she realized suddenly. He gave a dark chuckle. "You didn't have to, Libs. I know you better than you know yourself.” His possessive gaze dropped to her neckline.

She wondered if he could see her heart palpitating under her thin sweater. ''Cape Hatteras is your favourite,” he announced. She mentally recoiled. How did he know that? Between her framed watercolours and the lighthouse figurines on her mantle, it could be any one of a dozen. "I'm right, aren't I?" He smiled like a Cheshire cat. "You're always right,” she agreed, pretending admiration. "OK, so let's go." He gestured to the door. Libby glanced at the clock on her wall. Todd Lawson would be calling her cell this afternoon. She had spent the last two days thinking about him, recollecting the calm, low timbre of his voice. What would he advise her to do? To behave with Bruce as she always had? That meant behaving submissively, allowing him to whisk her anywhere his heart desired. "OK, fine," she agreed, hiding her reluctance. "Let me get my purse." "I can't believe it," Todd muttered, skimming the records he'd found in VeriSEAL's archives. "What?" Belli prompted. They sat back to back in Todd's miniscule office, with Todd buried in his archives and Belli working on a laptop plugged into the FBI's mainframe. "Mark Earnest was an active duty lieutenant in the US Navy." "No shit," Belli exclaimed. 'There's more. He enrolled in BUD/s in August of '07. After the fourth week, he dropped upon request and was sent back to his assigned ship, the

USS Monterey.." "Don't tell me he was in the same BUD/s class as the real Bruce Rimball." "Yes, he was. Class 232," Todd confirmed. "Only Earnest rang the bell and Kimball graduated.” He drummed his fingers on the top of his desk. "I need to call Coronado," he determined. Five minutes later, he ended a conversation with a Navy SEAL instructor. "We're on to something,” he told his partner. He could feel the certainty building inside him, along with a rising uneasiness. "Kimball and Earnest were room-mates at BUD/s. According to their instructor, they even looked alike.” "So jealousy's the motivation,” Belli deduced, scraping the silvery bristles on his five o'clock shadow. It was only 2 p.m. "He would have had access to Rimball's belongings,” Todd continued, thinking out loud. "He must have stolen Rimball's military ID, which he used later to impersonate him." "Makes sense,” Belli agreed. 'Yeah but there's something else,” Todd intuited. "Something we're not seeing." They shared a long, thoughtful look. Then Todd glanced at his watch. His time was up. He owed Libby Granger a phone call, only he couldn't bring himself to call her when he didn't know the full story yet. "Follow his career path," he instructed, swivelling back around. "What did he do after he dropped upon request?" Libby Granger deserved better than a shot in

the dark. "Well, well," Belli commented, fifteen minutes later, "would you look at this?" Todd swung around and squinted at the document on Belli's screen. He realized he was looking at a DDG-214 - Mark Earnest's military discharge papers. Belli pointed a beefy finger at a line near the top. "Check it out. He was dishonourably discharged from the navy." The news yanked Todd's scalp tight. "When was this?" "Ten months ago." A month before Bruce Kimball had been Interviewed by the college. “What'd he do to get kicked out?"

Belli hit a button that forwarded him to another page. "He was courtmartialled." Worse and worse, thought Todd. "What for?" "Attacking a senior officer. Says here, 'Lt Mark Earnest and Lt Cmdr Daren Granger engaged in a verbal altercation that later exploded into violence. Granger allegedly announced at muster that Earnest had returned to the ship from BUD/s, having dropped on request. Claiming he had been publically humiliated, Earnest attacked Granger with a steak knife while dining in the officers' mess. Granger, who is skilled in hapkido. defended himself and stabbed Earnest in the shoulder. Earnest was court-martialled and discharged. Witnesses testified on Granger's behalf and he was absolved of any wrongdoing.”

Granger. Todd felt suddenly like a trapdoor had opened up under his feet. Jesus. "Check to see if Granger is related to Elizabeth Granger,” he ordered, hoarsely. "I've got to make a phone call." Libby's cell phone chimed the theme song from Monty Python. Kicking herself for not turning it off, she kept her gaze fixed straight ahead, out the front window of Bruce's Jeep, praying he couldn't hear it, what with the top off the Jeep and the wind howling in their ears. He loved driving that way, making her hair slip from its knot and whip wildly around her face. But his sharp sidelong glance assured her he'd heard it, anyway. Feigning puzzlement, she dug in her purse and pulled out her phone. Sure enough, Todd Lawson was calling her. Adrenaline mixed with pleasure and burning curiosity goaded her to take the call, but she didn't dare, not with Bruce listening in. "Who is it?" he demanded. "My brother," she lied, naming the first male acquaintance to jump into her thoughts. "The ship must be close enough to shore for his cell to work.” That same enigmatic smile curled Bruce's lips. "Go ahead," he said. "Call him back." "No, it's too hard to talk when the top's down,” she replied, stuffing her phone out of sight. "I'll try him later.” Turning her face away, she pretended interest in the passing scenery. Two minutes later, Bruce exited the highway to find a gas station. Wind-chapped, with her hair in disarray, Libby slipped into the convenience store to return Lawson's call. Forprivacy, she locked herself in

the ladies' room. He answered on the first ring. "Where are you?" he asked in the same deep voice she'd found so soothing, only this time it was tinged with urgency. "I'm with Bruce,” she admitted. "I didn't want to go with him, but I thought he'd be suspicious if I didn't.” “

Go where?” Todd asked.

"To the Cape Hatteras lighthouse." A heavy pause followed. "Are you there now?" "No, we just left the college. We're about to take the expressway off Interstate 64." She stared wide-eyed at her wind-blown reflection. "Why? What did you find out?" "Listen, I want you to distance yourself from him." His phone was breaking up. She wasn't certain she had heard him right. "What did you say?" "His real name is Mark Earnest. He attempted SEAL training in 2007 but he dropped upon request after—” His voice cut off suddenly. "Are you still there?” she asked, reaching for the sink as the floor seemed to shift. "He went back into the regular navy, serving aboard the USS Monterey." Todd's voice came to her distinctly this time. "Monterey? That's my brother's ship,” she said with surprise. 'Yes. Earnest worked with your brother.”

"My brother knows Bruce - I mean, Mark?” The name change was confusing, "He's been seeing you for the wrong reasons, Libby." The words echoed unpleasantly in her mind. "What do you mean? What reasons?" "Just try to get— Call me back when you—” Frustrated that his voice was cutting in and out, Libby glanced at the bars on her phone. Maybe the problem was on her end. A sharp knock at the door startled her, and the phone clattered to the floor, its battery falling out. "Just a minute!” she called, scrambling to put it back together. "Hurry up, Libs. We don't have all day.” It was Bruce - make that Mark. He sounded edgy. “I’mcoming,"

she called, her voice strained. She felt as if she were

standing on shifting sands. Everything she'd assumed to be true about him had proven a total fabrication. With trembling fingers, she put her phone back together and dropped it in her purse. Exiting the bathroom, she stumbled headlong into Bruce Mark - a man who'd supposedly worked alongside her brother yet had never admitted to it. "Something wrong?” he asked. With a lock of hair falling over one eye, he seemed so impossibly young and handsome. He was all veneer and no substance, she realized, a strange man with an even stranger agenda. Thank God she had learned all this before he could mess up her life any more than he already had.

"I don't know,” she said, thinking of Todd's advice. "I'm not feeling too well. I think we should go back.” "After we've come this far?” he said incredulously. "Not likely." And with the same determination he'd demonstrated in her office, he seized her elbow and marched her back outside to his Jeep. Libby cast an uncomfortable glance around them, but no one seemed to notice her reticence as Mark trundled her into his Jeep and took off. She figured she might as well get this road trip over with. The sooner they saw the lighthouse, the sooner he would take her home, the sooner she'd be done with him. "Can't this Crown Victoria go any faster?” Todd complained, wiping his clammy palms on his jeans. For reasons he couldn't explain, he'd started sweating bullets over Libby Granger's safety. On cue, Belli floored it. They screamed down the interstate at ninety miles an hour, flashing blue lights to warn adjacent drivers. "What makes you so sure Mark Earnest wants vengeance?" Belli asked. "Maybe he just likes Granger's sister." "Right, so he tells her he's a Navy SEAL," Todd mocked. "Lie to the woman. She'll never know the difference." "Maybe he's delusional," Belli argued. "No. He knows exactly what he's doing," Todd refuted. "Everything he's done to this point has been for a reason. He moved to the area, morphed into Bruce Kimball, and went to school near the sister of the man who ruined his career. He's been circling her like a shark." Closing in for the kill.

Belli sent him a startled glance. "You got something for this girl?" he asked. Todd looked sharply out the window. Libby Granger's eyes had reminded him of a pond, hidden in a still, deep wood. "Maybe," he admitted, thinking he would love to explore those woods. "No shit," the agent marvelled. "I thought you were a confirmed bachelor. What are you? Thirty-five? Thirty-six?" "Forty," Todd said, shortly. "You look good," Belli admitted, impressed. "Yeah, well, I don't smoke and I work out. You should try it," Todd retorted, toying with his cell phone. He redialled Libby's number, but she didn't answer. Fuck, he thought, his gut churning. Wasn't this just the way of the world? He'd finally come across a woman he could fall in love with and a psychopath had already beat him to her. "Aw, shit, I forgot my camera," Mark Earnest exclaimed at the base of the lighthouse. It loomed over them, jutting into the sky like a giant phallus. He liked the powerful statement that it made, like a big "fuck you". Its bold barber stripes raped the soft blue sky. "I'll be right back," he promised, chucking Libs under the chin as he raced back to the Jeep. Of course, he'd left the camera on purpose, so he'd have an excuse to run back and check her cell phone. Not that it really mattered that her brother was calling her. There was no way in hell Daren Granger could ever guess who his sister's boyfriend really was, not unless he saw a picture. He

wouldn't learn the truth till it was too late. The stiff breeze caught the driver's door, jerking it open. Mark groped behind his seat, grabbing the camera first then dragging Libby's purse nearer. Finding her phone, he powered it on and waited impatiently for her missed calls to pop up. There were three of them, all from the same number. If this was Daren calling, he was certainly persistent. With his curiosity peaked, Mark hit reply and called the number back, "Libby," said an urgent male voice. "Where are you? Did you get away?" With a jab of his thumb, Mark silenced the voice, powered off the phone and dropped it thoughtfully back in her purse. Had that been Daren's voice? It hadn't sounded like him. And why would he be telling Libby to get away? No one could possibly know of his intentions. But she'd been nervous, he recalled. She'd been feigning a headache, asking to be returned home. Someone had clearly been filling her with doubts. Denial ripped through Mark like shrapnel. Who and how, when he'd been so careful to cover his tracks? The only person who knew he'd changed his name was Sheila, the woman at the rental agency. He'd paid her extra to keep her quiet. Maybe Libby had done it inadvertently. Maybe she'd taken a picture of Bruce with her cell phone and forwarded it to Daren, who'd recognized him.

Either way, the seeds of his revenge had been disturbed. He couldn't risk earning out his plot as planned, in case someone were going to interfere. Turning from the Jeep, Mark Earnest glared across the parking lot to where Libby stood in the shadow of the lighthouse, gripping herself against the blustery chill. Already he'd sensed a change in her, a distancing that made him suspect. Between the phone call and her cool, new demeanour, it became apparent that he needed to move up his timeline. This was not how he'd planned her demise. His gaze slid up the elegant striped shaft of the lighthouse. But there was beauty in the drama he envisioned- not to mention poetic justice. What was the saying he so enjoyed? Ah, yes. There was more than one way to skin a cat. "I don't think I can make it," Libby protested, eying the endless spiral staircase. Over the course of her lifetime, she'd climbed these wroughtiron steps several times, but today her knees trembled weakly and her legs felt leaden. She couldn't shake the cold foreboding that sat like a lump of ice in the pit of her stomach. "Sure you can. FH be right behind you." Bruce's - or rather, Mark's smooth assurance left no room for argument. Surely, with other visitors touring the lighthouse, he wouldn't try something violent, she reasoned. But Todd Lawson's warning to distance herself echoed like a death knell in her mind.

Ahandful of sightseers passed them on their way down. Libby made eye contact, but propriety kept her from speaking her fears. What could she say that wouldn't make her sound like a lunatic. Save me? They would think she'd lost her mind. Yet the closer they came to the wind howling at the exit to the balcony, the more Libby's agitation stirred. "It sounds too windy," she pointed out. "Oh, come on, Libs. Those other people did it. Well just take a couple of pictures and head down." He steered her out the door ahead of him, on to the elevated metal platform, 200 feet off the ground. The wind buffeted her, and she staggered against him. Throwing an arm over her shoulders, he drew her away from a visiting couple and towards the other side of the tower. "Check out the view, Libs." The wind snatched his voice into the sky. She'd seen the view before. As a child she'd sat up here for hours, hoping to glimpse the legendary ghost ship of Diamond Shoals. Today the volatile sky, the craggy treetops and the fitful ocean, a thousand yards distant, struck her as hostile. All she wanted was to head back down. "Stand right here," said Mark, abandoning her at the railing. She seized the cold wrought iron to steady herself. "Let's take some pictures for your brother," he suggested, fiddling with his lens. "Smile, Libs." Considering his words, she sent him a strained smile. He snapped off several shots then slipped his camera back into its casing and looped the strap over his head. As he moved towards her again, a dark glitter entered his eyes. She searched for the second couple, only to realize they had just left.

"Poor Libs," Mark commented, pinning her between the railing and his breadth. Powerful fingers caught her chin and angled her face upwards. "You don't have a clue, do you?" "About what?" Her apprehension abruptly resurfaced. Given the cruel strength in his fingers, he struck her as suddenly ruthless and unpredictable. "You think lighthouses are so romantic. You think I brought you here because I love you," he accused, mocking her naivety. Words that should have hurt her sat like a bitter pill on her tongue. "That's not true," she retorted. "I know more than you think." Instinct urged her to reveal what she knew, to limit his sense of power. "Oh, really?" he derided, his mouth curling with scorn. "Tell me then, Libs. Tell me why I brought you here." He gloated over her helplessness as he gripped her arm. "Let me go," she pleaded, unable to break away from him. "Tell me why first, if you're so smart." "Because of my brother," she guessed. His nostrils flared and his eyes flashed. “What about your brother?" "I know you knew him and you never told me," she admitted, praying someone else would join them and bear witness to his bullying. "I also know your name is really Mark Earnest," she added, tossing it out, praying the truth would sober him to reality. "I know you're not a Navy SEAL." "Shut up!" he snarled, shaking with sudden violence. "You don't know

any more than your brother knew." His eyes narrowed into slits of rage as he pressed her back against the railing. "He discredited me in front of the entire ship's crew," he hissed on a note that raised goose bumps. "He told every sailor at muster that Td washed out of BUD/s." A vein bulged on Mark's forehead. "That was none of their fucking business! The instructors had it out for me, OK? I could have made it. I could've gone back and made it, no problem, if your brother hadn't pissed me off. The son of a bitch ruined my whole fucking life!" "I'm sure he didn't mean to discredit you," she reasoned, terrified of his instability7. "Oh, yes, he did," he insisted. "He tubbed my face in it, Libs. He goaded me so that I'd get kicked out and never have the chance to go back." Releasing one arm, he caught her face again, forcing her to hold his wild, reckless gaze. "Sweet Libs. Daren loves you so much. You were all he ever talked about." Glittering eyes roamed her face, taking in the disgust and terror she couldn't hide from him. "I'll send him the pictures. He'll know I did this. I want him to know he fucked with the wrong guy." With that warning, he snatched her off her feet and set her on the railing. "No!" Libby threw her arms around him, fighting to keep her weight inside the balcony. "Stop! Please," she cried as he steadily prised her fingers loose. "Bruce! Mark! Don't do this!" "Don't fight me," he crooned on a strangely soothing note. "Just let go, Libs, Let go." "Hold it right there!"

Mark's head swivelled. Rage contorted his features as two men appeared on either side of the tower bearing pistols pointed at his chest. With a cry of relief, Libby recognized Todd Lawson. Oh, thank you, God, she silently prayed. Thank God! ''FBI!" shouted the second man. In a glance, she noted he was swarthier and stouter than Todd. It was Todd's dark gaze she clung to like a lifeline. Save me! she silently begged him, her throat too closed with fear to make a sound. "Put the woman down and back away slowly," he commanded. There was an authority in his voice, a focus that stirred her admiration, causing her heart to thunder with hope. He would save her, he would! "The charade's over, Mr Earnest." Todd's black trench coat flapped against his thighs as he drew nearer. "Put the woman down," he repeated, calmly, "and we'll end it here." Her terror was just beginning to subside when Mark turned his glittering gaze on her and smiled. To Libby's horror, she realized exactly what he intended. "No!" she screamed as he jumped over the railing and into thin air, dragging her down in his wake. Three Todd lunged for the rail, reaching for Libby as she fell with a hoarse scream. His extended fingers brushed her clothing but closed over nothing. Too late! Suddenly, with a cry, she stopped falling. She had caught the lip of

a wrought-iron skirt on the outside of the lighthouse. She clung to it, momentarily, her hands white-knuckled as she dangled in the air, Mark Earnest hanging on her waist like a heavy anchor. "Hold on!" Todd cried. Without a thought for his own safety, he hurtled the railing, dropped to a knee on the narrow outer ledge, and reached for her. Don't let go! Libby's face was a reflection of stark horror. He lunged for her, managing to seize her wrist like a manacle. In the next instant, her fingers slipped. Todd's grip tightened reflexively, but the tremendous weight tugging at him was too much. He groaned, knowing he could not sustain it. A triumphant smirk split Earnest's face. The bastard knew he'd won. "Belli, shoot him!" Todd roared, confident of his friend's marksmanship. Crack! Belli fired and Earnest twitched, but did not let go. Libby's cry of terror swelled in Todd's brain. "Again!” he shouted and Belli, shifting to his right, fired another shot. With a strangled cry, Earnest let go, and dropped. Without his weight, Libby seemed suddenly as light as a feather. Confidently, Todd pulled her up next to him. As she clutched the railing, he swung out around her, cradling her from behind to prevent an accidental slip. Together they dragged themselves upright. Then Belli took over, drawing Libby to safety over the railing. With his adrenaline receding, Todd clambered after her. Libby, enfolded in Belli's arms, turned to look at Todd. He realized she had lost her glasses in the tumble. As he stepped forwards, Belli immediately relinquished her.

Todd escorted her into the shelter where they collapsed on the grooved flooring, their backs to the tower wall. Opening his trench coat, he invited her to join him inside it to ward off the chill that left her shuddering. She fell against him. With a silent groan, he revelled in her softness and scent. "It's over," he reassured her. To his dismay, she buried her face in his chest and burst into quiet sobs. "Shhh," he soothed, running a hand up and down her spine as she shuddered against him. She lifted her tear-streaked face to look at him. "You risked your life to save me," she marvelled. Satisfaction surged through him. "I'd do it again, if I had to," he admitted gruffly. With a cry of gratitude, she kissed him, right on the mouth, her lips ice cold but exquisitely soft. "Thank you!" she breathed, and her eyes glimmered with admiration. No one had ever shown him gratitude like that, he thought, wanting nothing more than to warm those lips up. He couldn't have been more pleased when she kissed him again, this time with even more fervour. She was just beginning to warm up in his embrace when she made a sound of need in her throat and parted her lips invitingly. She needed confirmation, he realized - confirmation that she was still flesh and blood, not dead like the body lying in a twisted heap at the base of the lighthouse. Call him an opportunist, but Todd was pleased to give her all the confirmation she needed.

All she had to do was ask. As a piercing nautical whistle signalled its arrival in port, sailors aboard the USS Monterey scurried to secure the CG-61 to its berthing. Squinting against the sun, Libby sought the familiar figure of her older brother standing on the bridge in his dress whites. As the executive officer, he was easy to spot, standing adjacent to the captain, on a deck five full storeys above the marina where Libby stood waving her flag. Sunlight glanced off the ripples of the Elizabeth River, the conduit to Norfolk Naval Base, homeport of the US Atlantic Fleet. With the sky a flawless blue, it was a perfect day for a homecoming. "There he is!" she cried, pointing Daren out to Todd as she leaned lovingly against him. Fluttering her flag with patriotic fervour, she managed to catch Daren's eye a moment later. From a distance, she could see his gaze narrow under the brim of his cap. He studied Todd for a critical moment then inclined his head in a gesture of acceptance and thanks. To think he might have looked down from the bridge and seen a familiar but unwelcome face gloating up at him. Libby shuddered. Daren had been horrified to hear that Mark Earnest, the lieutenant he'd seen ousted from the navy, had plotted an elaborate scheme to avenge himself. A thorough search of Earnest's condo had revealed chilling evidence that he'd intended to murder Libby today, when the USS Monterey pulled into Norfolk. Only, thanks to Todd, Earnest's deceit had been exposed, his plans foiled. Tipping her head back, Libby regarded her prince. To think that a Navy SEAL could seem so deceptively ordinary, she marveled - not too tall, not

too handsome, except in the eye of the beholder. She had learned since Earnest's demise that there were less than 2,500 active duty SEALs in the service, and only 325 reservists like Todd, It made sense that the most heroic men in the world would also be the most rare. Mark Earnest might have looked like a Navy SEAL, but he could never have become one, regardless of how many times he might have attempted BUD/s. His instructors had noted character flaws in him -arrogance and narcissism. They would have ensured his failure, every time. To be a SEAL, you had to be a team player. You had to be humble, open to the idea that there was always more to learn. Evidently, you also had to be an extraordinary lover, Libby mused, with a slow, satisfied smile.

Shoot to Thrill Charlene Teglia

One Gabe was used to the truism that no plan survives contact with the enemy. But no plan surviving contact with a hostage, that was new. "Houston, we have a problem,” he transmitted. He uploaded the digital photo he'd snapped of the slender dark-eyed, light-haired woman who

wasn't supposed to be there, and waited for identification. It didn't take long for the satellite uplink to give him what he needed. Name: Dr Miranda Gray. Missing from an international volunteer relief organization for a month. The doctor specialized in nasty viruses. If she'd been grabbed for her expertise that would explain her presence at his target, a suspected bioterrorism site held by a radical terrorist group deep in Central America. He didn't have to wonder if she'd cooperated. The way she'd just rendered her guard unconscious as he watched said it all. Dr Gray had an interesting bedside manner. The guard outweighed her by probably eighty pounds and had the advantage of both reach and height on her. Her knowledge of anatomy more than compensated. "You're not supposed to take on the bad guys," Gabe muttered, more to himself than to the woman he had under surveillance from his vantage point outside the building. "That's my job." More specifically, his current job was to destroy the target. The doctor's presence threw a very large monkey wrench into the works. He'd have to extract her first, get them both a safe distance away before triggering detonation, and do it all without alerting unfriendlies to his presence. Gabe was running through possible approaches when the doctor's actions demanded his full attention. What was she doing? Running from the now unconscious guard, almost frantic but with hands that stayed rock steady, she seemed to be measuring out and mixing something in a beaker. It looked like charcoal and...

"Tell me that isn't what I think it is," he hissed. Was she insane? If that was black powder, stirring it wrong could blow her sky-high. He hoped to God she wouldn't sneeze. Conclusion: Dr Gray knew exactly what her captors had in mind, and she was hell-bent on stopping them. Getting out alive didn't appear to be part of her plan, either. Then again, the very careful way she mixed the ingredients told him she wasn't suicidal. Just desperate and determined. Gabe abandoned his careful planning and raced into action. Miranda focused on the task at hand with fierce concentration. It was just lab work. She was used to that. She had to be precise and careful, follow protocol. The rules were the rules, whether you were dealing with vaccine samples or blood work. Or mixing gunpowder a step ahead of the goons who were likely planning to dispose of her sometime in the very near future. She'd been safe as long as they needed her. She wasn't safe now. As the days slipped by, she'd given up the slim hope that some embassy official, or reporter or former co-worker was campaigning for her rescue. She'd probably been given up for dead. She might even be dead before the night ended. But it'd be on her terms. Her terms did not include surviving just so she could live with the guilt of countless deaths on her conscience. Deaths she could prevent if she was fast enough, strong enough, brave enough. Careful enough. Monks had killed themselves mixing gunpowder by hand like she was doing. If she blew herself up before she finished her task, it'd be for

nothing. So she was going to be very, very careful. A noise behind her made her body freeze while her heart accelerated and her mind raced ahead. Somebody was suspicious, coming to check in, maybe coming to get some entertainment before killing her. Rage instead of fear nearly choked her. She wasn't finished, the bastards weren't going to win, not when she was so close. Fire was all she needed. The black powder would make sure all the samples were destroyed before the fire could be put out. She would start the fire now and hope for the best if that was all she had time for. "Please don't drop that," an American male voice said behind her. There was a trace of the South in it, a hint of Texas. "Don't be afraid. I didn't mean to scare you. My name is Gabriel Everest and I've been sent here to rescue you." There was a moment of silence, and then Miranda realized he was waiting for her to make the next move. He could probably smell the acrid gunpowder over the must and metal and antiseptic odours that permeated the lab and didn't want to startle her into doing something they'd both regret. "I'm not finished," she said without turning around. She felt his gaze on her back and wanted to draw her shoulders in as if she could make herself a smaller target. But stopping her task might mean not finishing, so she resisted the urge. She was going to do this. "That's OK," Gabriel said, keeping his voice calm and level, soothing. "It's OK to just let it go, gently, and step back. I’m here. I’ll help you.” "You can help me start the fire," Miranda said and finished her job. She

began to pour the powder around the lab, concentrating on the samples stored away in their sealed cases. She didn't look at Gabriel. He wasn't trying to stop her, so he wasn't important right now. Looking at him would mean taking her eyes off the job at hand, breaking focus. You didn't break focus in the middle of an operation, in the middle of surgery. People died if you did that. People would die if she didn't burn it all. "Dr Gray. Miranda," Gabriel said. "Can I call you Miranda?" "If I'm alive an hour from now, you can call me anything you want to," Miranda said absently. But her full name sunk in. He knew who she was. None of them knew; they just called her la doctora. And sometimes laperra. "You really are here to rescue me." "And to make sure the biologicals here don't get used as weapons." "That would be smart," Miranda said. "The tire has to get all of it." She turned to look at him for the first time, and was glad she'd waited. The impact of him rocked her back on her heels. Not just the visuals, but the way he tilled the room with his presence. An air of command and an undercurrent of something waiting to be unleashed. Since the total effect of the man overwhelmed her, Miranda broke him down into smaller pieces. She noted the square jaw, the watchful grey eyes, the dark hair worn in a crew cut that looked regulation. Broad shoulders. Fatigues designed to help camouflage him in this jungle setting but did nothing to disguise the powerful body they covered. Hands that looked very capable gripped a weapon she couldn't begin to identify, but it looked lethal and probably had a loud bang. They sent GI Joe to rescue Dr Barbie, Miranda thought. She hoped he had

his Jeep handy, or some other kind of getaway machine. "What are you burning, exactly?" Miranda blinked and snapped back to the present moment. "Anthrax." "Anthrax?" Gabriel reached out, caught her wrist, and pulled her to his side in what seemed more a reflex than a planned action. "Live?" "Sealed in the cases." She saw him scan the cases and register the fact that there were a lot of them. She was pretty sure if he hadn't been in the middle of rescuing her, he would have said something that took four letters to spell. But his Southern upbringing wouldn't let him say it in front of a lady. "Fire will destroy it," Miranda assured him. He nodded. "Medical advice?" "Don't breathe any in, and don't get any on you." His mouth twitched but he didn't smile. "Right. How'd they get it?" "This is Guatemala,” Miranda said, fighting the urge to scream. They needed to start the fire and run like hell, before they got caught. "It crops up naturally from time to time here. They found it when some guerillas got sick. Then they had to kidnap somebody—” "You," Gabriel interrupted. "Me, yes. I could treat the victims, identify the plague and vaccinate the healthy, while the others cultivated enough to annihilate civilization." "I don't suppose I could talk you into waiting to blow this place to smithereens?”

Miranda shook her head. "This can't get out. They have to be stopped. And they're going to move tomorrow.” "OK, then let's clean house. How fast can you run?" Miranda thought of being caught in the fire, or worse, inhaling the lethal spores. She shuddered. "Fast." Adrenaline would give her a boost and she'd burn every reserve her body had if that's what it took. "All right. Here we go." Gabriel pulled something out of his jacket and slapped it on the counter to pin the centre of the lab. He grabbed her and pulled her to the doorway, glued to his side. He checked the hallway. When he found it clear, he brought them both into the hall and reached down with his free hand to retrieve something from his boot. A remote trigger to get the fire started, Miranda guessed. But before he could activate it, two guards rounded the corner and they found themselves face to face with the bad guys for a silent, heart-stopping, eternal moment. Then somebody shouted and the guards brought their guns up. Gabriel was already moving, pulling her to one side so his body shielded hers. He pushed her down while his hand came up with a weapon in it. He was faster than the guards and he didn't miss. Miranda was still trying to figure out what had just happened when he hauled her back on to her feet and dragged her into a run. He reached for the detonator again. This time he wasn't interrupted. She heard the distinctive crackling sound of fire erupting in the lab. They raced down the corridor together, footsteps accompanied by staccato bangs as gunpowder went up and glass specimen cases shattered. Gabriel burst through the door a beat ahead of her. Miranda stayed on his

heels, the heat from the blaze they'd unleashed pushing at her back like a giant hand. The night air felt damp and cool in contrast. Miranda sucked it deep into grateful lungs and ran faster. They made it out of the clearing and into the jungle before the whole building went up with a whooshing sound.

Two Miranda flopped on to her back like a fish, too spent to care what creatures might be on the jungle floor with her. Besides, if it weren't safe, Gabriel wouldn't have let them stop here. So she let herself rest despite the adrenaline that urged her exhausted form to keep going. She'd sprinted before. She'd just never tried to sprint for more than a mile, and sustaining that impossible pace probably meant her body was going to present her with one hell of a bill in the morning. But, thankfully, one group of lunatics wouldn't be able to cause swaths of horrible deaths now, and that was something. Although most of the band of radicals who'd held her hadn't been in the building that just burned down. Which meant she was going to have to get up again. "How much of a head start do we have on them?" Miranda managed to ask. "Not enough." Gabriel finished his study of their surroundings, slid something back into what she thought of as his "Bat belt" and reached down to take her hand. His fingers closed over hers, warm and strong and

comforting, despite the fact that he was only tmng to get her back up on to her cramping legs. "The plan was to light up the target from a nice, safe distance. Since we jumped the gun, we'll have to evade pursuit, get to the extraction point and wait for pickup." "Right." Miranda let him pull her to her feet. That put her closer to him than the usual rules of personal space dictated. Not that she minded. He was bigger, faster and stronger than she was, and he was keeping her safe from bad guys. She had to fight the impulse to move even closer, as if that would make her safer. "Do you do this sort of thing often?" "It's not just a job. It's an adventure." He delivered the military recruiting motto deadpan. The unexpected humour startled a laugh from her. It sounded a little dry and rusty, but she hadn't had much to laugh about lately. It felt surprisingly good. "Thanks." "For helping you commit arson?" "That, too. But I meant, thanks for the laugh. It's been a while." She realized her hand was still in his and belatedly tugged it free. "And thanks for getting me out of there. I didn't expect to be rescued." "You can thank me for that when you're safely on your way home," Gabriel said. "Right now we're in the middle of nowhere being chased by armed, angry men. This is a rescue in progress." "Still. Thank you." Miranda wrapped her arms around herself for a moment, shivering. "I'd run out of time. And if you hadn't come for me, they would have caught me trying to burn the lab before I got the job done. You saved a lot of lives by showing up. Not just mine." "Let's get you all the way saved." He turned and led the way. Miranda

scrambled to follow, wondering how long it had been since he'd gotten the appreciation he deserved for doing a thankless job. It was clearly something he was uncomfortable with. Then again, how often did her patients or their families appreciate her efforts? No matter what she did, some cases were hopeless. Some jobs you did because it was what you were good at and they needed doing. And some days, knowing you'd done your best was all you had to cling to before falling asleep and waking up to do it all over again. Miranda stumbled on a rut and refocused her mind on the present. Staying on her feet and staying alert took all her concentration as minutes blurred into aeons. Finally Gabriel waved her forwards. "Through there is a small cave. We can hole up and rest." "Rest would be good." Miranda crawled through dense greenery into the rough shelter. Gabriel settled beside her, handed her some kind of snack bar and began to munch one himself. She gnawed hers and shook her head at the taste. "Makes hospital food seem like ambrosia.” 'Your body needs the fuel. Eat your vegetables, doc," "Are there vegetables in this?" Miranda did her best to chew and swallow without tasting. Her body did need the fuel, and hopefully the bar contained some metabolic magic to offset the stores she'd burned. "All the essential nutrients. You could live on these. Not that I recommend it."

They finished their meal in silence. Gabriel offered her a canteen of water. She drank a lot less than she wanted, mindful of the fact that supplies were limited. Dinner over, Gabriel spread out a thin, foil space blanket he'd unfolded from his pocket and arranged it so there was room for them to lie on it and cover themselves. He stretched out and patted the area beside him. "Come on. Sleep if you can. Rest if you can't." "I could probably sleep standing up," Miranda admitted. She crawled into the makeshift bed with him. It pretty much filled the tiny cave, so it wasn't like she had anywhere else to go, anyway. Even if he had had a spare blanket, there wasn't enough room for separate bedrolls. Shetried to keep a little space between their bodies by settling on her side with her back to him. He flipped the cover over her without a word. The silence stretched out. Despite her exhaustion, Miranda couldn't make her mind stop racing. The close call she'd had with those guards. If they'd caught her . . . if she hadn't managed to get away before their plans were in motion and she no longer had any strategic value . . . Nightmare scenarios rolled through her head as she shuddered. "All right over there?" "F-fine." Miranda forced the word out, then shook her head and abruptly flipped over, facing Gabriel. "Actually, no. I'm not all right. I'm jittering like a junkie going cold turkey, my body feels like lead and my brain keeps replaying the worst parts of the last few weeks plus bonus extras of what might have been." She sucked in a breath, expelled it and reached to take off her shirt before she thought better of it. She peeled it up and over her head, then unfastened her pants and began wiggling out of them.

"What are you doing?" "Getting naked." "That's not a good idea." "It's the best one I've got." Miranda finished pulling her feet free of entangling cloth and pressed her nude self up against his fully dressed form. "We've both had a lousy day. Tomorrow might be worse. If they catch me, they're not just going to shoot me. They're going to have fun with me first. I can either lie awake for the rest of the night thinking about that, or I can give myself something a lot more enjoyable to focus on." Gabriel's arms closed around her in a move that might have been intended to hold her still. "You don't have to have sex with me to distract yourself. We can talk." She shook her head. "I don't want to talk. I need to do something. Think of it as stress relief. Or a bonus for a job well done." "Dr Gray." "Nice distancing technique," Miranda muttered. She groped for buttons and zipper, dealing with them with more brute force than dexterity. "My name is Miranda. And I don't want to be professional or reasonable right now so you can save yourself the effort of appealing to my title.” "This isn't happening." 'Yes, it is." She finished unfastening and bared some skin to press hers against. Warm. Human. "You want it, too." "I don't want you to do something you'll regret." But he didn't try to push her away.

"I'm not going to have regrets tomorrow. You can't tell me you have everything but condoms in that Bat belt of yours." "'Bat belt'?" He let out a laugh, then sobered. "Miranda." He moved to rest his forehead against hers, keeping his hands still. "Did they hurt you?" "Not like you mean. Not while they needed me for their plans. But I knew everything would change the minute I became disposable. And, Gabriel, there were a lot of them." A shudder racked her. "It would've gone on and on forever before they killed me. If they killed me." You're sure this is what you want?" She nodded. "I'm sure." She could doubt a lot of things, but she knew to her bones that she needed this, needed him. He blew out a breath. Then his mouth found hers and there wasn't any more talking for a long time. Afterwards, Gabe rested on his back with Miranda sprawled across his chest, limp and spent. Her hair spilled on to his shoulders. He smoothed it back, silky1 smooth against the rough palm of his hand. His other hand stroked up and down her spine, noting how easily he could feel her ribs. "Need to feed you something better than MREs," he murmured. "Uh-huh," she agreed in a husky voice. "Talk dirty to me. Tell me about Texan food." "Why would I know about Texan food?" She poked him. "Had a room-mate from Texas. The accent's kind of unmistakable. And you're living proof that everything's bigger there. What part are you from?"

He didn't try to fight the grin that spread over his face at her words. "Austin. Good mnsic. Hot food. If yon eat there, don't underestimate the little peppers." "The voice of experience.” "Habaneros aren't for everyone." "Just people who don't need that layer of skin inside their months," Miranda agreed. "I'll skip the peppers. I just want a grilled steak so big it covers the plate. And a baked potato. With everything on it. Cheese. Bacon. Sour cream. Butter." "I think you forgot chives," Gabe said, amused. He wanted to buy her dinner for the sole pleasure of watching her sate herself with food the way she'd just sated herself with him. That wiped the smile off his face. Somebody else would get to sit across from her and pick up the tab. Somebody else would be there for Miranda to turn to when she had other hungers to feed. She had a life to go back to, and it wasn't one he could be part of. She saved lives. He took them. "Them, too. And an entire cheesecake for dessert." She yawned and stretched like a sleepy kitten, obviously undisturbed by the future she contemplated. "What branch are you, anyway? Navy?" "No. The slogan just seemed appropriate. Used to be Green Beret." "Used to be?" Miranda raised her head to rest her chin on his chest. "Ah. Delta Force." "The existence of Delta Force has never been officially acknowledged." "Tell that to somebody who hasn't been living in a banana republic."

"Speaking of which, what are you doing in Guatemala?" She laughed, a low, easy sound that pleased him a lot more than it should have. "What's a nice girl like me doing in a place like this? Doctors are needed everywhere, not just in American hospitals. Virologists are concerned about preventing a global pandemic. I went where 1 was needed." "Some thanks you got for it." "You’ve significantly improved my experience." She patted his chest in appreciation. Her sleepy voice and relaxed form were proof that she felt secure with him, but she wouldn't truly be safe until he got her out. Gabe was all too aware of the risks they still faced. His arms tightened around her as if muscle alone could protect her. He realized what he was doing, and forced himself to relax his hold. So, small blonde doctors with smart mouths and more guts than sense made him feel protective. He could live with that. He should have suggested they get dressed again, put some space between them. But that might make her tense up all over again, and she needed rest. He also didn't want to let her go just yet. It wouldn't hurt to allow her to sleep where she was. So he held her naked in his arms while her breathing deepened and guarded her rest. Miranda woke up with a male body wrapped around hers and for a disorientated moment couldn't remember what had happened. Then it all came back in a rush. She must've made a sound, because Gabriel was suddenly awake, gun in hand as he searched for the cause for her alarm.

The ability to go from a dead sleep to ready for action was a trait soldiers and medical professionals shared, apparently. "At ease, soldier,” she said, sitting up and stretching. She didn't miss the way his eyes went to her chest and paused for a lingering moment before continuing up to meet hers. "Sorry. I woke up and suddenly remembered last night." His face underwent some subtle transformation from alert to impassive. As if not sure how welcome her memories were. GI Joe needed reassurance from Barbie? The world was full of wonders. "I don't have any regrets,” Miranda stated. "OK, I might regret that I threw myself at you, but I figured you were too honourable to make a move.” She reached for her clothes but didn't hurry. If he wanted to look, he was entitled to look. After what he'd done for her, he could take pictures if he wanted. Something to remember her by. The whimsical thought caused an unexpected pang and Miranda realized she wanted him to remember her. Wanted to be more than another grateful female who'd fallen on her back for him. Although, technically, he'd been the one on his back. Thinking like that was not going to help either of them, so she stifled the emotion, stuffing it away in the compartment reserved for disruptive feelings that threatened her ability7 to think clearly. Men like Gabriel had missions. They did not have relationships. She had a head start, but he dressed faster. He had everything stowed neatly back in his Bat belt before she finished slipping on her shoes. He handed her another snack bar.

"Breakfast of champion escapees,” Miranda murmured. 'Thanks. What's the plan now?" "Hide. Run away. Get to the water and get on a boat.” ''Simple. I like it." They weren't too far from the Pacific; it'd be a straight shot up the coast past Mexico to the US. She preferred to gloss over complications, like men with guns who'd try to stop them, and her lack of a passport. "Will there be a boat waiting?" He nodded. "We'll get picked up. We just need to get there." "It's funny," she said after managing to chew a bite thoroughly enough to swallow. 'There's been a little over ten years of peace here, after decades of civil war. I never thought too much about how fragile peace can be, how much work might go into keeping it. You'd think everybody would've had enough of the lighting. It hasn't been long enough for people to have forgotten." Gabriel shrugged. "Some hope to profit from it Some want revenge. Some just want to bring down what others build up." "I can't imagine being willing to take all those lives." She stared at her feet, brooding over the close call. A band of lunatics had been not just willing but eager to start a plague, not caring how many innocent people would die. Gabriel didn't answer. Miranda went back to eating in silence.

Three Gabe waited out the day with Miranda's proximity a constant distraction. She was close enough to touch in their confined space and it took all his

control to keep his hands to himself. He had no business touching her. Bad enough that he couldn't stop wanting to. Better to focus on the job. All he had to do was get her on a boat without either of them getting caught and then it"d be over. She'd go back to her life. He'd go on with his. And then he could stop hoping for a repeat of last night, minus blowing up a building together as fo replay. Minutes and hours stretched out interminably. When he judged it safe, he got them on the move. The need for caution made progress slow. Every sound had him hyper-alert, but no ambush came. Miranda moved more quietly than he expected and followed his lead without question. She went still when he motioned her to stop, hid when he indicated she should take cover, and stayed with him, mile after mile, without a sound of complaint. They made their way to the coast without encountering anybody, and emerged from a mangrove swamp to a black volcanic sand beach just after the sun set. The moon was a crescent sliver in the sky, surrounded by pinpoints of stars. It wasn't as dark as he'd like, but it could've been worse. "Take your shoes off after we wade out into the water," he said in a low voice. Miranda nodded, her bright head too easily visible even with minimal moonlight. "We're going for a swim?" "A short one. You can swim, right?" If she couldn't, he could tow her but that would slow them down. “I’mnot

"Good."

an expert, but yes."

They were waist deep in the Pacific with footwear discarded when there was a sharp burst of gunfire behind them. Gabe felt the side of his arm burn as he grabbed Miranda and dived underwater. They swam for the boat's location with an adrenaline-fuelled burst of speed. He made sure she was pulled over the side first. Then he followed, and the engine roared to life as the boat headed for the open sea. "Your arm," Miranda said, staring at it. "You got hit." She came towards him and pushed the sleeve up, exposing his bicep. Her fingers explored the wound, gentle but firm. "No bullet embedded. It looks like it grazed you." "Just a flesh wound," Gabriel said. She fussed until somebody handed her a first aid kit, then she applied antiseptic that stung even more than salt water had, and wrapped the wound in a bandage. "It's probably going to leave a scar." "I can live with that." It would be a constant reminder of how he'd gotten it, which would make forgetting her a lot more difficult. But he'd rather be the one wearing the memento of their adventure while she went home unscarred and unscathed. "Looks like you both got lucky," said Dale, the one who'd armed Miranda with medical supplies. "Glad to see you safe, Dr Gray. Nobody knew you were in that compound. If Gabe hadn't spotted you before giving the go signal for the air strike, the building might've gone up with you inside." Miranda stared at Gabe for an endless second and he knew she was remembering the first words he'd said to her. How he told her he'd been sent to rescue her. "Lucky," she echoed. Then she turned away. He told himself he was glad. Better for her to remember him as a liar.

The next few weeks were a blur. Miranda told her story, gave as many details about the group who'd taken her captive as she could, and wished she could roll back time to the day before her view of the world changed. Since she couldn't go back, she wanted desperately to go forwards. She returned home. Once she was clear to return to work, she threw herself into it. The Chicago virology clinic that employed her wasn't the same as being in the field, but working stateside was still better than having too much time on her hands. The long hours and the fast pace suited her, but she needed to work harder on getting over the man who'd probably already forgotten she existed. And she really had to stop turning every time she heard a male voice with a certain timbre, stop taking a second look whenever she saw a man whose height and breadth looked familiar. Even at home in her solitary apartment, memories invaded in the form of dreams. "I'm not obsessed," Miranda informed her reflection in the mirror after she'd ducked into the bathroom and splashed herself with cold water. "I just wanted to say goodbye." She'd thought she'd have a chance to thank Gabriel for completing his rescue, however unplanned it had turned out to be (the idea gave her chills even now), but they were never alone after they got on the boat. She could almost believe he'd been avoiding her. Maybe he'd thought she'd throw herself at him again and wanted to spare them both the embarrassment. Maybe she would have. Maybe she owed him another thanks for preventing that. Still, the sense of something unfinished gnawed at her. Miranda made her way to her office, where she had a consultation

scheduled that marked her last appointment for the day. When she opened the door and saw a military-style crew cut in a shade of dark walnut above broad shoulders and a muscular back, she bit back a groan. She was seeing him in her patients now. Then the man turned around, and grey eyes pierced her. She had to lean back against the door to keep herself upright. "Gabriel." His name slipped out in a tone that gave entirely too much away. She straightened with an effort and made her way to her desk. Hiding behind it might give her a chance to compose herself. "Miranda.” He nodded at her and took his seat across from her. 'You wanted to see me? Professionally?” Oh, God, he hadn't been exposed to something exotic and horrible, had he? But no, he looked healthy. Strong. Virile. Miranda got a hold of herself with an effort and stopped there. "1 wanted to see you. Personally.” “

Oh." Good. Because she didn't sleep with her patients. Although

technically she'd already made an exception with him. Then again, she hadn't patched him up until after she'd slept with him. "You could've called. I left my number for you.” And she'd felt like a moony teenager doing it. Hoping the boy would call, knowing he probably wouldn't. "I thought you might feel more comfortable seeing me on neutral ground than having me call you at home,” Gabriel said. "In case hearing from me triggered any unpleasant associations.”

"Unpleasant. . . Oh, you're wondering if I've developed posttraumatic stress problems? Strangely, no. It turns out assaulting one of your captors and setting the building on fire in which you were held captive is highly therapeutic.” "So it doesn't disturb you to see me." He shifted and reached up to rub his arm as if it twinged. Her eyes followed the movement, and the memory of his torn and bleeding flesh rushed back. "Does it still hurt?” "No, it's healed fine.” "Oh. Good.” Could she sound any more idiotic? "Gabriel, I'm glad you're here. I never got a chance to thank you.” He gave her an unreadable look. "For what?" "Getting me out. Getting shot doing it.” "I lied to you, and I had sex with you when you were vulnerable.” Miranda couldn't help the grin that tugged at the corners of her mouth at the memory. "You didn't exactly take advantage of me. You were just too gentlemanly to fight me off. And you didn't exactly lie, you just didn't tell me the whole truth.” One brow skated up. "That doesn't bother you?” "Why should it? Look, when you came to get me out of the lab, you didn't know me. You didn't know what I was doing. You needed to get my trust and cooperation. What were you supposed to do, say, 'By the way, you're standing on my target. Would you get out so I can call in the air

strike I have scheduled'?" His lips twitched. "I wouldn't have dared. You were armed and dangerous. Not a woman to mess with." Miranda spread her hands. 'You had to make a judgment call, I do the same thing in my profession. You said the right thing. You did the right thing. You're a hero, so don't you dare sit there and tell me you came to apologize for anything." "I didn't come to apologize.” Gabriel squared his shoulders and leaned forwards slightly. "I came to see if I could take you to dinner.” "Dinner?" She stared at him. "Steak that covers the plate. Baked potato with everything on it. All the cheesecake you can eat." So he remembered. "I'd like that.” "Good. I made reservations.” Miranda didn't try to stop the grin from widening. "That sure of yourself?” "No, but I figured if you turned me down I'd still need to eat. And if you said yes, I wanted to have a table someplace decent.” "Chicago has many decent restaurants.” She dimpled at him, feeling as fizzy and sparkly inside as if she'd been handed a glass of champagne. "And afterwards, maybe we could talk." "What about?” Gabriel shook his head. "First I have to ply you with food. I owe you a

real dinner." He watched her eat with a look of satisfaction in his eyes. Miranda savoured every bite, and did her best to demolish a sliver of cheesecake when they finished, but it defeated her. The conversation was light and casual through the meal, but afterwards, when he settled his hand on her lower back to guide her through the restaurant and back outside, she felt a sense of something building. They walked along the Lake Michigan shoreline, "Glad we don't have to outswim any bullets tonight,” Miranda said. "I'm too full. I'd sink.” “I’d

save you."

"You're too full, too." “I’d

find a way."

"You'd have something in your Bat belt, I'm sure," Miranda agreed, but despite their light words, the atmosphere between them thickened. The suspense unnerved her, so she decided to be blunt. "You've wined me and dined me and fed me cheesecake so divine I heard a choir of angels singing when I took the first bite. Is this the point where you tell me what you wanted to talk about?" She could almost feel his focus aimed at her. "This is the point where I mention that I'm on leave and I'd like to spend some time with you." "Oh." That was more than she'd hoped for. "I thought maybe you only had time for dinner." "Sometimes it might be just enough time for that," Gabriel said in a voice that sounded carefully neutral. "Sometimes not even that; plans can get

cancelled without notice." "I get emergency calls, too, you know," Miranda said, trying not to put too much importance on his inference to future events. "Believe me, I understand how quickly plans can change.” "I tried not to call you," Gabriel said abruptly. "I tried to stay away. I told myself it was better that way." "Better than what? One or both of us breaking a date sometime in the future?” "Better than complicating our lives.” "Complications aren't always bad,” Miranda pointed out. "I could date somebody simple, but it wouldn't be fair.” "Why is that?" ''Because I'd be thinking about you.” There. She'd said it. She waited to see what he'd do. He slid his arms around her and drew her closer, until their bodies touched. He bent his head towards hers. "We live very different lives." "Not so different, really,” she said thoughtfully. "We're both committed to something we believe in. In our own ways, we're both trying to make the world a better place. Our jobs can be dangerous. They're always demanding. Sometimes our best isn't good enough, and all we can do is keep showing up to try again. Listen, are you trying to talk me into dating you, or out of it?” "I want you to know who you're getting involved with.” His lips brushed

her temple as he spoke. Miranda pressed closer and slid her palms up his chest. "I ran from guntoting goons through a swamp with you. I think we've got that covered.” Gabriel let out a short laugh and tightened his arms around her. "Most relationships don't start with a trial by tire.” "Think of it as a shortcut. We got to see each other under extreme circumstances. I could have had a hundred dates with you and not learned as much.” "I learned a lot about you," he said. "You're gutsy and determined and focused. You keep your head and your sense of humour.” "I know you're trustworthy, loyal and brave,” Miranda said. "You have great taste in restaurants and you remembered everything I said I wanted.” "I was paying very close attention,” Gabriel said. "I wanted to be the one who got to feed you the dinner of your fantasies. If you have any other fantasies you'd like fulfilled, I'm your man.” Her man. The sound of that gave her a ridiculous, giddy thrill. "I have this fantasy,” she admitted to his shirt. "We walk hand in hand along the shore. And then we go home and make love all night long. In the morning, we look at each other over breakfast and just know we want to see each other across the table twenty years from now.” "I knew that when I watched you try to eat an MRE across from me on the morning after."

"Well, that might be where my fantasy came from,” Miranda said. "I didn't think you could be mine, but I wanted you.” "Same here." He feathered a kiss along the side of her cheek. Then he stepped back and took her hand in his, fingers twined together and gave her an intent look that stopped her breath. "Hand in hand along the shore. Let's get started.” Knowing all the rest that waited for them, Miranda fell into step beside him.

The Angels of Punishment A Special Forces of Heaven story Michele Albert

"Well, now, if it isn't my favourite celestial GI Joe. I wonder what brings you to my neck of the woods?" A tall, black-clad figure, standing with his back to her, let out a most uncelestial snort. "Hello, Prima." "Ahadiel." "I've been tricked into a binding spell. Somehow, I doubt you're all that surprised to find me here." Prima emerged from the protective shadows of her hiding place, next to a truck that was parked behind the local Walmart, and walked towards

him. Snow crunched beneath her boot heels, sounding unnaturally loud, and she glanced up at the dense blackness of the night sky. Nothing to see: only fat snowflakes swirling in the jaundiced glow of parking-lot lights. "I'm no angel, in any sense of the word." She stopped well outside the spell boundary. "As it so happens, I'm a bit pressed for time and you're not exactly easy to reach." "But a binding spell, Prima? Really?" She gave a shrug. "Really." It couldn't hold him indefinitely, of course, but she only needed to immobilize him long enough to hear her out - and long enough for any lingering divine wrath to cool down to non-apocalyptic levels. "Pathetic, such tricks. I expected better of you." Ahadiel turned, and Prima braced herself against even his fading, brittle brilliance. The Children of Heaven were creatures of light, and their bonewhite skin - so unlike humankind's varying tones of earth and clay - was all the more striking when combined with black hair and sky-blue eyes flecked with the colours of the sun. She shared that same pale skin and dark hair, but eyes were the mirrors of the soul - or so she'd often heard in this place - and her grey eyes served as a reminder that she and Ahadiel, despite outward similarities, were worlds apart. "Well, you shouldn't have," she said. "We've been of use to each other in the past, but I am what I am. I owe Heaven no loyalty."

"Nor Hell?" "Nor Hell." As she watched, Ahadiel tested the spell boundary with a playful poke. His nails looked human enough, if a little longer, sharper and darker in colour, but she'd seen them in action. When fully extended, what they could do to flesh and bone was terrifying in its finality. Her spell held, if barely, with a cantankerous crackling, and Ahadiel snatched his hand back. He smiled, brow raised. "It's weakening." "I know.” Despite the threat edging his quiet taunt, she couldn't help smiling back. A little. "But, as you'll have noticed, you are still trapped." Another un-celestial snort. Ahadiel might be angry, but he wasn't threatened by her - a point he soon made very clear. He circled the perimeter of the boundary with a single nail extended, sword-like. In his wake, he left red, sparking trails of energy. That had to hurt, yet his only visible reaction was a slowly broadening grin. When he'd completed his circuit, he said, "I made it bleed." He'd also made the back service drive glow, and at 3 a.m. in a sleepy rural city, that would be noticeable to anyone - or anything - in the vicinity. Prima glanced upwards again, all the while telling herself he wasn't showing off for her benefit and, even if he were, she wasn't in the least impressed. "Look, I know critical thinking skills aren't one of your strengths, that you're all about the smiting, but let's not attract any unwanted attention."

"As if a summoning and a binding are low key." Ahadiel was still smiling. "If you'd wanted to bask in the glory of my magnificent presence, all you had to do was ask." She might have laughed, if she hadn't known that his arrogance was only partially feigned. "I'm not here to flirt with you." "If you insist." He made a show of looking around him. "And where, exactly, is 'here'?" "Rhinelander, Wisconsin . .. and don't you give me that look. I have a place here because it's pretty and the winters are long." She let out aloud sigh, and the misty puff of breath curled skywards, mixing with the blowing snow. "None of which has anything to do with why I summoned you." "You tricked me with a ruse of—" "Not that much of a ruse. I really do know about Raguel." Immediately, she had his full attention. Perhaps a little too much of his attention, because his wings began to manifest. Warily, she watched as countless filaments of light, snapping with power, unfurled from behind him, hungry with a need to join, to expand, to take form - and to unleash their power, in the blink of an eye, on some hapless target. Angel wings were not feathered, as humans imagined, but all those iridescent threads, looping back into each other in their grid of electricwhite intensity, could be considered feather-shaped. "And how do you know of this?" "I was informed."

"By whom?" Prima arched a brow. "Who do you think?" "Nirgal." When she nodded, he added flatly, "This matter is none of his concern." A true demon and not a fallen angel, Nirgal acted as Hell's counterpart to Raguel and his cohort of celestial enforcers. The humans had once classified him, in their quaint tomes on demonology, as Lucifer's spy, the head honcho of Hell's secret police. Crude and overly simplified, but accurate to a small degree. Lucifer ruled over Hell, but only through brute force and fear. Nirgal and his team of demons and allied Fallen were charged with keeping the peace among their own kind, minimizing interference in mortal affairs, and holding off angelic aggressions. With Raguel on the celestial side and Nirgal on the other, they maintained the critical balance in the politics of power between Heaven, Hell and all related interstices. Or so was the general idea; some millennia, that was easier said than done. "There are signs of . . . trouble, which is why Nirgal sent me to find you, no doubt assuming you would do the hunting and fighting while I provide the intel, so to speak. He has good reason for believing Raguel knew about the situation and attempted to intervene, and that's why he's now missing." "And the nature of this trouble?" Right now, she couldn't be more relieved that a boundary, no matter how weak, remained between them. "You're not going to like this." "What I do or do not like is irrelevant. Answer me."

"We work together on this, Ahadiel, or else I keep the information to myself and you find your brother -or not - on your own. Deal?" "Angels don't make deals. We intercede." "Fine. Shall we arrange a joint intercession then?" "Not until you answer my question." She had been instructed not to, in no uncertain terms. "And I can't do that. Not until I have your word that you will cooperate with me and—" "And, by extension, those who are my enemies." "But I am not your enemy," she said, quietly. "I'm as neutral as it gets, Ahadiel. Not a demon, not an angel, fallen or otherwise. Hell doesn't want me, Heaven doesn't want me . . . I'm tolerated, no more, no less. If I defy Nirgal, I'll be punished for it. I think you can understand my reluctance to take that chance." "Release me, and I'll protect you." Tempting - very tempting - but still too risky. Sensing her spell had nearly exhausted itself, however, Prima took a step back. "There are only seven of you Angels of Punishment,” she said, with a calmness she didn't feel. "As the eldest and strongest, Raguel's the one who handles the major troublemakers. Or did, anyway, and though you don't know what's happened to him or where he is, you know you need to find him, fast. Because something isn't right, and lately you've been called down to this mundane little place far too often. Haven't you?" "Release me," Ahadiel repeated.

"Without me and what I know, you won't find him and a minor incident might become something much, much worse." "For the last time, release me." Words had power, his especially so, the force of them lashing outwards. His wings filled the boundary sphere, burning white, their edges sparking and sizzling as he strained to break free. She was only a Peri, the child of fallen angels, and nowhere near as powerful as even the lowliest celestial, much less one of Azrael's elite warriors. While she dared not give him the answers he wanted, not without his binding promise in return, she could still offer an olive branch of sorts and voluntarily turn him loose. At this point, she didn't have much to lose - and she had nothing else to give but her trust that he wouldn't incinerate her on the spot. Prima closed her eyes, then touched her mouth with her right hand, coloured with red ochre, and breathed into it. Pressing that same hand against her heart, she whispered: "With this breath, true of heart, thou art released." A sudden rush of wind whipped her hair into her face then ended with equal abruptness on a soft hiss, like a last sigh leaving the body. When Prima opened her eyes again, Ahadiel stood a hand's span away. "Sumerian. That's an old one." Each word brushed against her skin with a tangible heat. "Simple, and most impressive." "Thank you." Taking a deep, steadying breath, she added, "You're ... standing too close."

His smile returned, dazzling, but hardly beatific. "Don't you trust me?" While it didn't seem as if he were itching to smite the ever-loving crap out of her, she couldn't tell for certain. He'd behaved well enough the other times they'd teamed up, but a handful of encounters over a thousand years wasn't much to rely upon when it came to betting odds. "I have my failings, but rank stupidity isn't one of them. Now back off." After a moment, recalling whom she was ordering around, she added, "Please." Instead, Ahadiel moved even closer, his body brushing against hers, and cupped her face in his hand. Startled, she froze. "You are very beautiful, very entertaining and very tempting," he said quietly, the pad of his thumb brushing along the curve of her lower lip. "But I serve the will of Heaven. You would do well to remember that, and never trick me again.” "Never is more than I can promise,” she managed to answer, wondering what hidden motivations or intentions might explain his unusual - and most unsettling - behaviour. "But “1 try to keep any future trickery at responsible levels. How's that?” "Most generous of you." The caress - and it was a caress; no mistaking that - persisted, with slightly more confidence. "Had another of my brothers responded to your summons, it would not have gone well for you.” "I know.” She could hardly concentrate on what he was saying over the tiny - and thoroughly astonished - voice in her head that kept repeating: This isn't

right. He's never acted like this before, never touched me like this, never spoken like this... "I meant what I said. If you want to see me, just ask.” His touch both warmed and soothed, but with a static buzz of something darker at its edges. So soft and mild, hardly noticeable at first. The longer the contact, however, the more that fuzzy edge sharpened, the innocuous white noise becoming louder and harsher. Those too weak to endure it were driven mad, to the point of clawing away at their skin to be rid of it. Touched by an angel... not exactly a Hallmark kind of moment. Fortunately, she was mostly immune - a shared lineage had its advantages - but he;d rattled her enough that she'd failed to correct his assumption. She hadn't been unwise enough to summon just any Angel of Punishment. She'd summoned the only one she trusted. "I'm sure you'd rush right over, if you could find the time to squeeze me in between salting cities and slaughtering firstborns.” Retreating to a safer distance, scowling to hide this strange, unexpected alarm, she said, "Would you power down those wings already? Again, I'm not your enemy. I'm here to help.” "I don't need your help. I need answers.” The unblinking, birdlike intensity of his gaze didn't change, but the wing glare faded until nothing remained but that faint incandescence all celestials carried with them. Even that would fade completely if he stayed long enough in this place. While among their mortal charges, angels wore black for a reason: when one glowed with all the allure of a liquor sign in a

lonely one-horse town, one needed to counteract that inconvenience as much as possible. His boots, pants and shirt were black, as was the long woollen coat with its deep hood, which he could pull down over his face. In contrast, Prima wore jeans, winter boots in tan and black, a puffy cherry-red parka and a colourful Sherpa earflap hat over her long hair. Not terribly glamorous, but she blended in with the other 8,000-plus inhabitants of Rhinelander. With a body temperature somewhat higher than a human's, she preferred cool climates, and the cold didn't really bother her. Celestials weren't affected by either heat or cold. If it weren't for the Day-Glo issue, Ahadiel would probably be naked right now. Avoiding that particularly uncomfortable mental image - as well as his earlier demand - she said, "It sounds like you were maybe a little worried about me." "I suppose you could call it that." He moved off a short distance. "I'm guessing Nirgal knows I like you well enough not to kill you if you yank me around like some common Djinn." "Nirgal uses me because of what I am. My imprint is almost identical to that of a human, which makes it more difficult for demons and the Fallen to find me. Angels too, for that matter.” Again, she glanced at the sky - because "difficult” didn't equal "impossible" - and by the time she looked down, Ahadiel had again drawn closer.

'You keep doing that." He frowned. ''Are you in danger?" "Probably. I'm not the bravest of the brave, but I've been careful. I haven't sensed anything unusual, and there isn't exactly a high population of our kind in this area. I mean, unless it turns out the Hodag really is a Hellbeast that's somehow escaped my notice all these years." "The Hodag?" For a fraction of a second, Ahadiel's eyes went unfocused, then he blinked and said, "The fur-covered creature seven feet long and thirty inches high, with white curved horns, long tusks and sharp claws. A cross between a Komodo dragon and a demonic pug. Multiple appearances in signs and statues. City mascot. Photographed in 1896 by Gene Shepard, local businessman." Prima arched a brow at the stream-of-consciousness flow of words, as Ahadiel tapped into what she cheekily called the "Spark", a collective residue of electromagnetic brain impulses emitted by all living creatures. Within a scant second, Ahadiel had filtered through the memories and consciousness of 8,000 co-mingled Sparks in Rhinelander. Celestials heard and understood all human languages and nonhuman verbalizations. When someone prayed, the angels - and others - did indeed listen. They just didn't always respond. "A hoax created by Shepard. It's a myth." ''Don't say that around the locals," she warned. "They're very fond of their beastie." 'Tour penchant for finding humour in humourless situations is not helpful, Prima." Ahadiel's frown deepened. "Nirgal is also counting on the fact that my concern for you will compel me to protect you, with or without

an oath." "He's been known to play dirty, from time to time." She sighed. "The situation is . . . politically sensitive, and the danger is to all of us." With a shake of his head, Ahadiel turned around slowly, taking in their surroundings. Not that there was much to see in the back of a Walmart, or anywhere else along this stretch of Lincoln Street, which cut through the business heart of the city. The traffic was all but non-existent at this time of night, and nothing moved - unless one counted the sheets of steadily falling snow, eddying back and forth in the wind. "If the danger is this severe, why summon me here?" "The back lot seemed safe. I didn't want to be near a residential area in case something went wrong. I like the people here, and—" "What I meant was, why not a more populated area? It sounds as if I might need to draw upon a reserve." The Spark was more than an amorphous, ephemeral database, like a super God-powered internet. The life energy emitted by all living beings blanketed the planet, and, in a pinch, angels could draw upon that force to augment their powers. Beings of light, unlike beings of shadow, also operated more efficiently in full daylight. Ahadiel was hardly handicapped by being yanked into a small city in the dead of night, but she knew better than him what kind of danger could be coming their way. She didn't like holding back the truth, and considering his actions towards her tonight, she had more reasons to trust him than not. Excluding her parents, she couldn't recall the last time anyone had shown even the slightest concern for her well-being.

Then, decision made, she took a deep breath and said in a rush, "Helel has escaped her punishment." "OK... that would explain Raguel's interest." "Yes; her punishment was his work." "How did she escape?" "No idea, but she couldn't have managed it alone. She had help, and that's the part where you come in. You need to find them." "Who?" "And... that's the delicate part I mentioned earlier. I've given you what I can, but I need a binding oath before I say more." Prima hesitated, wishing he wouldn't always exercise that uncomfortable habit of moving too close. "I am sorry." 'You have no cause to apologize." He raised his hand, and her breath caught, wondering if he would touch her again, and if he did, what would she do in— Ahadiel suddenly stiffened and snapped his head back, focusing intently on some point over and above her shoulder. His wings manifested in the time it took her to blink. Not good. "What? Is there.. .what are you ...hey!" She gasped, feeling something cold and large rush past her as she was yanked rapidly - and not very gently - upwards. It happened so quickly that she had only an impression of a dark mass, rows of sharp, needle-thin teeth and lots of glowing eyes. "What was that?' Prima demanded. Only a brief, glancing contact, and

she was still shivering. "Besides just nasty!" "It wasn't the Hodag, that much is certain," Ahadiel said, tersely. "And you have wings, Prima. Use them." Belatedly, she noted that she and Ahadiel were on the roof of the Walmart building, standing knee-deep in snowdrifts. Well, Ahadiel was standing. Somehow, she'd ended up in his arms, gathered against black wool that smelled of wintry wind and wet snow. According to her father - who had cause to know such things - angels have a scent. Yet to her, Ahadiel only ever smelled of wind, flavoured with sunlight or rain, and nothing of an individual self. She'd often wondered if he wouldn't have an individual scent of "self unless he became one of the Fallen. Realizing what she was doing, Prima squeezed her eyes shut and repressed the urge to smack her head into Ahadiel's chest. Yes, being in his arms was surprisingly . . . pleasant, but the reason she was snuggled up against rock-hard angel abs in the first place was because some toothy, scary shadow-beast had just tried to smack her into orbit somewhere above Jupiter. ''Prima?" Ahadiel, his voice sounding oddly tight. "Are you all right?” "Of course. I'm in the arms of angel." She looked up, summoning enough bravado to give him a wink. "How much safer could I be?" "Not as safe as you think, not when the creature attacks again and I need my hands free." "Do you have any idea what that was?" "Akerub."

"That can't be." Although her pride wouldn't allow her to admit it, she'd had second thoughts, if only for a moment or two, about that Hodag legend. "They're celestial guardians; they wouldn't attack you." "It wasn't attacking me." He shifted, as if impatient. "Can you get down, or do I drop you on your lovely, if occasionally treacherous, ass?" She blinked, taken aback by what passed, for him, as a compliment. "I don't—" "Go. Now." His muscles had gone rigid as stone. "Now would be good." Eyes widening at the warning, she let go of him at the same moment she released her wings, shooting skywards on currents of charged air, and once again barely avoiding a cold, rushing mass of darkness. Now that she knew what it was - she had only seen a kerub once in her entire existence - she could make out the vaguely canine shape, with its long, snapping muzzle, wraith-like wings, and multitude of red, shining eyes. She shuddered. Azrael's creatures were always unsettling, although this one wasn't nearly as terrifying as others. Realizing it had missed its target, the creature circled and dived towards Prima, instantly meeting the solid resistance of Ahadiel's body. Angel and guardian beast impacted with bone-crushing force, then careened, at dizzying speed, downwards to the parked truck. The impact crushed the cab, fractured the windshield safety glass, and exploded all the tyres as the truck sank several inches into the asphalt, leaving jagged cracks all around it. Wincing at the sound of crunching metal, Prima called, "Thank you for

that!" Then, after a moment, she added, "Need any help?" "No! Stay right where you are!" Snapping and snarling sounds rose from the shadows by the mangled truck, followed by a flare of white-hot energy. "Up, up," Ahadiel shouted. "Go up!" Confused by the conflicting orders, one coming rapidly after the other, Prima hesitated - until she heard it coming again, with a low, grinding howl. She pumped her wings, willing them to gather speed, and risked a glance behind her. An expanse of primeval teeth and red eyes filled her view. With a startled yelp, she reversed, dropping fast, the light of her wings trailing behind her like a shooting star. Fear rolled through her, then fury, and she turned, fingers flexing as she extended her nails. Hers might not be as deadly or come with archangel-enhanced powers, but they'd still rip flesh and draw blood. As she braced herself for attack, an expanse of black rushed into view: Ahadiel, placing himself again between her and the beast. His broad back and flaring wings blocked out the sky. "Stay behind me," he ordered. Wings at full power and breadth, claws extended, he was as beautiful as he was frightening. The thin, rapier-like lengths of his claws were now pitch black in colour, except for their tips, which glowed with a blue-white heat.

As if considering its options, the kerub stared at Ahadiel with its many eyes, ragged-edged wings flapping as the wind buffeted it from side to side. When Prima moved, its eyes followed her. All of them. It was after her, and with that alarming thought came another realization, this one leaving her once more shaking with anger. "Can you kill it?" she asked. 'Yes, but I won't." The kerub darted to one side, almost too quickly for her to follow, but Ahadiel had already moved to block it. "Why not?" "It's being compelled.” There was a hard edge to his voice. "A simple creature like this has no chance against that kind of magic, and it pisses me off to see it like this.” "I'd feel more sorry if it weren't trying to disembowel me.” Despite her flip response, she was careful to keep Ahadiel between her and the increasingly agitated creature. "What's the plan?” "Avoid disembowelment.” "Ha-ha.” She glared at the back of his head. “You do have a plan, right?" 'Yes.” If he'd planned to expand on that, the kerub didn't give him the chance. It hurtled forwards, with that grinding shriek, and Ahadiel's entire body braced for the impact. This time, he was prepared for the charge, and his wings flared with the effort to hold his place. Prima drew back, hands and nails still flexed in defence as Ahadiel wrestled with the creature, trying to contain it within the boundaries of his own power.

He didn't need her help, but she still hated feeling so helpless, unable to do little more than wait and watch. She spared a quick glance at the city below, blanketed in white, the grids and winding ribbons of its streets and avenues dotted with glowing lamplights. Magical, in its own way, and far too open. With her and Ahadiel bouncing about the sky like little points of light, the Rhinelander PD would be dealing with calls about UFOs for the rest of the week. Aliens would probably be blamed for the damage to the truck too. She looked back at Ahadiel, just in time to see, from the corner of her eye, another dark mass shooting downwards towards her. Prima shouted a warning. Ahadiel jerked back, wings arching, barely managing to deflect the second kerub's attack while still protecting himself from the first creature. "New plan." He wheeled, then swooped down, enveloping her in a shining circle of light. "Hold on!" Knowing what was coming, she clamped her jaw tight, squeezed her eyes shut, and wrapped her arms around his neck so hard she thought she heard something give. Wind blasted her, assaulting her ears and freezing her skin. Her scream, ripped away and scattered to the forces surrounding her, could barely be heard: "IIIIII haaaaaaate thiiiiis, yoooooouuuu baaaaastaaaaard!" One second - assailed by torrents of ice and wind, caught in total darkness. The next - four walls, a solid floor and dim, blinking lights. Prima staggered, arms flailing like an upset chicken, when Ahadiel released her. "You do this on purpose, I know you do. You probably think it's funny!"

With an ignominious thump, she bumped against the welcome solidity of a wall, then steadied herself, gulping air. She loathed interstice-hopping; not only did it always make her feel like throwing up, it was utterly exhausting. Ahadiel, of course, stood calm and firm, arms folded across his chest, no wings in sight. His coat was torn, the left side of his chest shredded and suspiciously darkened, and a lucky swipe of a kerub's claw had left four ragged, red furrows down his right cheek. At the sight of his blood - more than she'd ever seen before - her anger faded. "You're hurt," she said, taking an unsteady step towards him. To her humiliation, her knees buckled, but he caught her before she fell. "You're hurt," she repeated, with a sigh, "and yet you're the one helping me." "Don't worry about it. I heal fast." "That's not the point. What's going on? Usually we do the chasing, not the running." While the effects of travelling at full-throttle celestial speed were vicious, they didn't last long. Feeling stronger already, she hastily pulled away from him. "And aerial fights! I can't even remember the last time I did that . . . I don't like being forced out into the open, not one bit." "Prima-" "Once upon a time, humans feared and worshipped us, and a little ruckus up in the sky wasn't such a big deal. But that was before NASA and NORAD. Before F-14S and RPGs. Before double-barrelled shotguns.” She shuddered. "I hate those things. They hurt." "Prima, calm down.”

"I am calm. I'm also angry.” After another glower in his direction, she surveyed their surroundings. Bare concrete floor, industrial-type ceiling lights and numerous large, panel-like cabinets with blinking electrical components lining the walls. "Where are we?” "In the control building of a power substation. The residual ELM from the power lines will mask my presence.” How clever. Then again, his sole reason for existing was to hunt and fight, so no doubt his bag of tricks was significantly more expansive than hers. "They used you to find me.” She turned back to him. "I'd say someone really, really doesn't want me passing on my information to you.” "Agreed." With a sigh, he leaned back against the wall, then wiped the blood away from his face with a sleeve, grimacing, ''Just missed an eye. That would've slowed me down. Are you all right?" 'Yes.” You should have sensed the danger when I did. Maybe you've lived among humans for too long. You're getting soft.” You know me. Fm more a lover than a fighter anyway.” At his frown, she added, "Honestly, I'm fine. Aside from the shock of hopping interstices, anyway. My ears are still ringing.” "Sorry. I had to get you out of there fast, and that was the easiest option. You're safe for now, so tell me what's going on.” As she opened her mouth to remind him what she needed first, he held up his hand. You have my

sworn oath to protect and assist you, Prima. Through me, the will of Heaven is yours to command.” Wow. . . just like that. Too easy. There had to be a catch. Not with Ahadiel himself, but she didn't trust Azrael's intentions any more than she trusted Nirgal's. "That's certainly not something I hear every day." He regarded her for a moment, wiping again at the blood dripping down his face. The cuts, she noticed, were already healing. "I've been ordered to this place for however long it takes to find Raguel, and to do whatever necessary to make that happen. I choose to help you, because I believe it will help me find my brother.” Prima stared at him. Celestials like Ahadiel did not possess free will; having the ability to "choose" was not a power granted to them. Not usually, anyway. Azrael was either being unusually generous or, more likely, was up to something. There were reasons he was considered the most cunning of the archangels. Ahadiel slid down the wall and sat, legs raised and forearms draped across his knees. His hands, loosely clasped, were badly scratched and torn. "Sit." He motioned at the floor beside him. "And talk.” With a shrug, Prima did as he ordered, since now wasn't the time to argue over his more annoying personality quirks. She pulled off her hat, then removed the parka and spread it on the ground. He might not care that the floor needed a good mopping, but she did.

"As I already mentioned, it started with Helel's escape." Discussing the punishment of disobedient angels was distasteful, partly because it hit a little too close to home. He couldn't help what he was, but sometimes she fantasized about finding a way to free him from his existence, which was rooted in so much violence, pain and fear. He wouldn't see himself in that light, of course, and so she kept such thoughts to herself. The furrows along his face were now only reddish scratches, although dark smears remained where he'd wiped the blood away. "Her offences weren't as serious as those of the others, but severe enough that she shouldn't have been able to escape." "Nirgal suspects Raguel might have been lured into a trap, and then used in some kind of ritual to reverse her punishment." She paused. "Is that even possible?" Ahadiel didn't answer right away. He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers, then rubbed them clean on his coat. "Maybe, but few have the ability7 to perform a ritual like that." "Would he ... would Raguel survive it?" "I think so; he's strong." He let out a long breath. "But I don't know for sure." Nothing she could say would ease his fears that his brother had already been destroyed, so there was no point in even trying. "Do you know who might have helped her?" Ahadiel asked. "Not Lucifer or Lilith, if that's what you're thinking. They have their own

interests in this place, but don't really care what goes on here. Or not as long as the power balance isn't threatened to the point where it catches the attention of an archangel. We'd all prefer to avoid that. I imagine you would as well." No one - and especially lower-tier celestials like the Grigori, Galearii, ordinary Djinn, or guardian spirits of any stripe - wanted to butt heads with an archangel. Lucifer and Lilith, once archangels themselves, knew all too well the importance of maintaining the balance, as they'd come out on the losing end the last time they tried to tip the scales in their favour. "So who does Nirgal think it was?" Oh, he was going to hate this part. A lot. "Harut and Maroth." Ahadiel shot to his feet, anger darkening his face. The space behind him began to shimmer, and Prima scooted sideways to a safer distance, hoping he'd be careful. One impulsive twitch in the wrong direction, and he'd blow out every circuit breaker, line feeder, or transformer in the substation, plunging the city -including St Mary's Hospital and the area clinics - into a blackout. Ahadiel had been hunting Harut and Maroth for a very long time, and to have them suddenly pop up now, involved in Raguel's disappearance, would infuriate him. Even more galling was how these clever malcontents had avoided their well-deserved punishment by making themselves useful to the more powerful and influential members of the demon clans. Lucifer and Lilith, and their respective entourages, had also provided shelter and protection, simply because it amused them to do so, as far as she could tell.

When he moved away from the control panels, Prima breathed out with relief. "What would they want with Helel?" "That's the big question, isn't it?" Prima remained seated, watching as Ahadiel moved restlessly up and down in the small space between the equipment, his coat reflecting the blinking red and green lights. "But maybe the better question to ask is - why bother with her to begin with? I think we have the answer to that one: Helel is the fount of all knowledge on angel breeding. She's a one-stop fertility clinic and geneticist. Whether you wanted a baby angel, or the half-breed, monstrous surprise behind Door Number Two, she's the one you'd go see." That was another subject that cut a little too close to the bone, and she couldn't help the bitterness in her voice. The mortals had gotten a lot wrong about angels, such as their sexuality and the near complete lack of female angels in their holy writings. It was this sort of ignorance and disrespect that added fuel to the fire of Lilith's contempt for humankind. And who could blame her? She'd been an archangel, and then some nomadic goatherds with issues turned her into a shrew and a whore. The need for celestial sexuality wasn't all that difficult to understand. Angels were immortal, but not eternal, and their numbers were hardly legion. An angel could be destroyed, especially those among the lower ranks, and when that happened, an archangel ordered that a new one be created. If there were fewer female angels, it wasn't because they were less efficient or awe-inspiring than the males, but because new angels were so rarely needed.

Her own angelic mother was absolutely terrifying. Granted, falling from grace hadn't done much to improve her disposition, but even before that she'd excelled in the art of instilling the fear of God into mankind. "I don't understand," Ahadiel said at length. He continued to pace, and Prima wished he would sit down. All that restless energy was distracting. "This is why you put up with me, isn't it? I provide the brains, you provide the brawn." That stopped him in his tracks, and his angry frustration melted away, replaced with an expression of mild amusement. "That would be one of the reasons, yes." She almost asked what his other reasons might be then thought better of it. His sudden change of behaviour towards her, coupled with what he'd told her about the nature of his mission in this place, left her feeling more uneasy than ever. Unattainable. He was supposed to be unattainable, untouchable, unassailable. Safe. "Prima? Are you going to answer or not? Why did they target Helel?" His question cut across her thoughts, and she looked up, meeting his expectant, patient gaze. Never mind the unease. If she were right about the reason for these sudden changes in him, fear would be more appropriate. Fear for him, and anger - and sadness too, because she realized he had no idea what was happening. "Sure. I'll answer you." It came out sharper than she'd intended. 'They're going to breed a nephilim."

Ahadiel stared at her. "Nephilim." "Yes. You know, those inconvenient little monsters resulting from the unholy sexual congress of a human and an angel." "I know what they are." His smile was sceptical, and he shook his head. "The nephilim were destroyed a long time ago." Some 25,000 years ago, which was well before her time. She'd heard the stories, though, and they still gave her the shivers. "Except that you, your brothers, and Azrael's scary little pet missed a few stragglers,” she said. "The nephilim gene still exists, and with people moving around the world more freely than ever, it's not as rare as it used to be. Every now and then, two carriers produce a very special baby. If that special baby grows up and mates with another one like it—" "The statistical odds of that happening are very small, even now.” "It happened just 2,000 years ago.” Again, before her time, but the repercussions of that event, and a narrowly averted apocalypse, were still fresh in the memories of everyone, humans included. "A fluke. That particular genetic mutation almost always produces female offspring, which also tend to be highly mentally unstable.” "Almost always, yes.”As she spoke, Ahadiel again sat on the floor beside her. He tended to frown a lot -she had that effect on him, she supposed but this time his ferocious expression had nothing to do with her. After a moment, she added, "You know what's out there. Why haven't you intervened?”

"I've not been ordered to do so.” He raised a brow. "Why haven't you?" "Because I don't want a blood-thirsty Angel of Punishment hunting down my ass,” she retorted. "Mustn't upset the balance, right? That's crazy - and stupid. You should kill them. All of them. Nip the problem in the bud.” "I can't do that," he said, his tone equally terse. The silence continued, excruciatingly tense, before Ahadiel broke it. "So why are Harut and Maroth interested in any of this? Or are they creating chaos again just because they can?" "They do have a talent for chaos." And for eluding divine retribution, but she knew better than to remind him of that. "What I believe, and I think Nirgal shares my concern, is that they're trying to bring back their buddies." "Not possible. No." Again, Ahadiel shook his head, this time with more vehemence. "Their offences were too extreme, and not even Raguel has the power, under compulsion or otherwise, to release them. It would take the intercession of an archangel, and there's no way that would happen.” "Are you sure?" While she didn't share his rock-solid faith and never had, it still hurt to see the flash of doubt in his eyes. Yes, he was only a being forged to carry out a divine will, but it angered her how the archangels showed so little compassion for their living, breathing tools. She didn't particularly like Lucifer, but she could understand some of the reasoning that had driven him to rebel. When he didn't answer, Prima added, more gently, "The archangels

have been known to move in mysterious ways, especially Azrael. It was only a matter of time before agitators like Harut or Maroth found a human body strong enough to host a disembodied angel. They won't need an archangel's intercession if they can cheat their way out of the problem. Helel's just Plan B." "I see." Ahadiel fell silent as he considered the situation. "Why spend years breeding unstable, difficult to manage children, when you can create one the old-fashioned way." "Exactly." She sighed. "If they can do this, their comrades-in-chaos are going to come back kinda cranky and not so inclined to play nice with the humans. Lucifer will be furious, and he'll blame the demons for betraying him. Most demons barely tolerate the Fallen and will use any excuses to break the truce. Lilith will play both sides, as she usually does. The archangels are going to have a hissy fit regardless, and what follows will be a mess only a prophet could love." He leaned back, head resting against the wall. "We have to stop them." "Yup" The exhaustion, momentarily pushed aside, returned, and Prima gave in, briefly closing her eyes. "Got plans?" "It was either Harut or Maroth who sent the kerubim. I'll go back to the site of the attack to pick up their imprint, and then I'll track them." "What about me?" "Can you reverse the compulsion spell someone has set over the creatures?" "Maybe. It won't be easy, and, to be honest, if that's your plan, I'm going to need to get some sleep. Interstitial travel wipes me out, and I'm

so tired right now 1 can hardly think straight. It doesn't help I haven't slept well in days because of stress." Ahadiel didn't need sleep, but she needed time to recharge the mystical batteries, so to speak. To humans, she might seem superhero strong; unfortunately, she was less Dark Phoenix and more Buffy/Willow, with a side of wings. Also, "Godspeed" might define his ability to tap into the life forces washing over the planet, but hers was more comparable to a 56k modem. Prima expected he'd make one of his typically arrogant comments about this. Instead, he said, "Kerubim are night guardians; they'll be less powerful in daylight." She blinked, now feeling a little guilty for her bitchy thoughts. "And they'll be easier for me to control.” "All right, then. We leave at dawn." "Ahadiel, you do realize Harut and Maroth will be expecting us." 'Yes." He straightened his legs out along the floor, then stretched. Prima tried not to stare, failed miserably, then tried to put the kibosh on that sudden flare of desire, and failed at that too. Great. A celestial detente, tens of thousands of years in the making, was in peril, and all she could think about was seducing an angel in a power substation. How classy. "I’ll be more of a hindrance than a help," she said, after a moment. "Maybe you should forget about staying around here to save the kerubim, and just leave me behind.”

"No." The denial was instant; he hadn't even considered it. "That would leave you unprotected, and one of them will kill you. We stay together.” "They outnumber you, even more so if Helel is with them. They'll separate us, and use me against you." He tipped his head towards her, smiling. "Thank you for that tremendous vote of confidence in my abilities." Embarrassment heated her cheeks. "I didn't mean it that way, and you know it. There might be another—” He silenced her by pressing a finger against her lips. "Goto sleep, Prima. I'll keep you safe. I swear it." When it came to resisting her attraction to Ahadiel, she'd always found a kind of security in her belief that he was strong enough for both of them. So sure of that strength, of his unshakable devotion to his duty, she'd rarely considered how she might respond to him on a more intimate level, should such an unlikely chance ever present itself. Now the impossible had become possible, and out of all the reactions she had considered, this overwhelming fear for him hadn't been one of them. He hadn't removed his finger, and her lips moved against it as she said, "Slippery slope, Ahadiel. Look it up." "As I’ve told you before, I serve the will of Heaven." He lowered his hand, hooked his finger in the collar of her turtleneck sweater, and gave it a firm tug. "Come here. You're a soft, decadent, troublesome woman, and while I'm no substitute for your goose-down pillows and comforters, I'm more comfortable than a floor."

She shouldn't, no matter how much she might want to. While he didn't realize yet that he stood on a precipice, she recognized the danger signs. Giving him even a little push over that edge would be a poor way to repay him for the care he'd shown her in the past. It occurred to her, abruptly, that her predicament wasn't accidental. Nirgal or Azrael were playing games again. Ahadiel wasn't the only oblivious tool in this room. With a sigh, she scooted forwards and let him pull her against his chest and close his arms around her. To hell with it; she'd simply have to rise to the occasion for once in her life and show everyone she wasn't quite the weak outcast they thought. With his heat lulling her into relaxing, Prima gave a little sigh and closed her eyes, smiling. She fell asleep almost immediately and, in the last moment before slipping under, she wondered if she'd really felt a soft kiss on the crown of her head. Almost as instantly, she woke. At first, slightly disorientated, she didn't understand what had pulled her from sleep - and then she felt it: a light touch against her hip, slowly moving upwards. No inappropriate liberties taken, only a light, tentative contact. Full awareness returned, and she noted that she lay curled along Ahadiel's chest. He sat with his knees slightly raised, anchoring her against his body, one hand on the small of her back while he explored the curves of her body with the other. Prima forced herself to remain still and breathe evenly, although she doubted she could fool him for long. Curious - and, admittedly, more than a little turned on - she wanted to see what else he'd do while he thought her

lost in the oblivion of sleep. Dawn was almost upon them. It could be he was trying, in his own awkward way, to wake her up, but she doubted it. Ahadiel might be an innocent - in the way only a being devoid of free will could be considered innocent - but he wasn't naive. What to do? Fake sleep and ignore this ever happened? Or confront him and accept whatever consequences might follow? Consequences. Even as her body hummed with awareness under his touch, flushed with the heat of desire, she couldn't forget that, for him, she literally embodied temptation. For that reason alone she should know better than to let this continue. It was always about the balance: for every gain, a loss. Ahadiel slid his hands lower, more boldly this time, and he circled the curve of her hip, fingers splayed along her bottom. When his touch strayed towards the juncture of her thighs, her breath caught on a little gasp. Prima looked up to find Ahadiel watching her, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You knew I was awake." "True," he admitted. "I wanted to see if you would tell me to stop." "And if I had?" "I'd stop." She shifted upwards along his chest until they were eye to eye. "This is a bad idea... and I think it's only

fair to tell you that I have very little self-control. Comes with the genes, I imagine.” She hated the breathless pitch of her voice; even to her own ears, she sounded desperate. Weak. "I was counting on you to be the smart and strong one here." When he brought his hands up to her face, brushing back her hair, she wondered if he'd heard a word she'd just said. "Ahadiel, I think you—" "Do you fear change?" His voice sounded deeper, rougher than usual, and when his finger followed the line of her jaw downwards along the curve of her throat, Prima went very still. A flick of his finger, as if at an annoying insect, and his clawlike nail would permanently take care of this problem and end her life. Goodbye, evil temptress. “

I don't know.” Her mouth felt dry. "Maybe. Do you?"

“I’ve

never been afraid of anything before.”

This close, she could see the striated colours of his irises, the reflection of her face in his pupils. "Fear has its advantages. It keeps you from being stupid." "Fear can also hold you back," he pointed out. "This isn't what you think. I want you to understand that I don't. . . It's not a need. I only want to know why. Why does it happen? What it is about humans, that my brothers and sisters willingly fall from grace to be with them?" "I'm not human," she reminded him. "You live among them, as one of them. I don't."

His touch had grown more confident, yet still felt oddly restless. It was as if once he'd started, he wasn't sure how to proceed, but still couldn't stop himself. "I'm more than willing to help you flirt with the dark side, Ahadiel, but now's not really a good time for experimenting . . . and it's nearly dawn. Maybe you've forgotten, but you've got a smiting or two on the schedule today." "I haven't forgotten." He made no move to release his hold on her, much less get up and walk away. "I've thought of little else." Prima sensed he was trying to tell her something important, but didn't know how - and then the realization hit with an uncomfortable clarity. What he'd just said about having never known fear before, the admission that he'd been thinking of the coming fight with two dangerous foes. It was so obvious she should have seen it coming. In a short while, if things went wrong, one of them, or both of them, would be gone forever. What he couldn't find the words for, what he wanted her to see, was his fear of loss. Especially a fear of losing something he had yet to experience. "A little while ago, you told me that Azrael had ordered you to do whatever was necessary to find your brother. You chose to help me." She put a slight emphasis on the word "chose". "Maybe you've made a few other choices before that, and I'm not sure you—" "I know." He looked away from her, and briefly squeezed his eyes shut as he tipped his head back against the wall. “I know” In that moment, she hated Azrael more than ever. Not that he'd give a damn about her feelings. He was the Angel of Death; everybody loathed

him. Prima was trying to decide what to do next when Ahadiel decided for her and kissed her. At first, she was too startled to respond. As he continued exploring her lips with frank curiosity, she was surprised all over again: he might be inexperienced, but he certainly knew how to kiss. When he'd tapped into the Spark, he'd apparently picked up a little something else besides an encyclopaedic knowledge of the Hodag. His kisses gradually grew more insistent, impatient, and when his tongue touched hers, the last shreds of her resistance and worry vanished, and she kissed him back. Ahadiel made a purely male sound of appreciation, and those restless hands closed firmly on her hips, pulling her hard against him. Still not enough. Prima straddled his lap, knees on either side of his thighs, and took his face in her hands. She guided his mouth first to that sensitive little spot behind her ear, then urged him further downwards. His skin felt hot and smooth in her hands. What she wanted, more than anything, was to feel all that inhumanly smooth, heated skin against every inch of her own. "I like the way you smell," Ahadiel murmured against her throat, his breath hot. "And taste." Considering that for thousands of years he'd done little else but hunt with a predatory single-mindedness, his words should've scared her silly rather than excited her. That he'd just slipped a hand beneath her sweater, fingers brushing along her abdomen, below her breast, wasn't exactly helping her keep a clear head, either.

“You

said you wanted to know why," Prima began, then stopped, taking

a quick breath as his thumb found her nipple. "Well... this is why." Ahadiel caressed her breast, gauging her reactions, and she let her head fall back, eyes closing, as the sensations washed over, tightening her need to an edge that was almost painful. Then, impatient for more, she grabbed the hem of her sweater and pulled it off, leaving her completely bare to his gaze. One clear advantage of immortality: she never had to wear a bra. When she arched her back, invitingly, Ahadiel didn't hesitate. He slid the palms of his hands up along her belly, then covered her breasts, squeezing lightly. "Sometimes, it starts out almost like hate," she whispered, watching him play with her, drawing the tips of her breasts into sharp, tight peaks. When he circled the pale centre with the tip of his nail, careful to leave no mark, she nearly lost it. After a moment, she continued in a voice less steady than before. "You resent humans, yet you want what they have, even if it means you lose everything. They're temptation with a capital T, and the sex —”

His kissed her nipple, then teased it with his tongue. Pleasure rolled her under, with such heated intensity she forgot for a moment where she was, what was at stake, even why she'd wanted him to stop in the first place. It wasn't fair, distracting her like this. Then again, he'd always been a fast learner. With an effort, she gathered her scattered thoughts. "To an angel, sex is

like a drug. If you go there, you'll only want more. Once you've held in your hands that power to create, you can't go back. Ever." At that, he glanced up. "Do you want me to stop?" Absolutely not. To her shame, she hoped he wouldn't. He was halfway down the wrong road already, at the point where it would be as easy to go the rest of the way as it would be to turn back. Shag an angel, save the world. Too bad it was wholly selfish and wrong - and probably playing right into Azrael's plans. "Do you want to stop?" "No." "Maybe I need to make my point more clearly." She kissed him, hard, tongue plundering his mouth as she pushed his shirt up so that nothing separated her skin from his. Ahadiel rocked his hips in response, drawing a low groan from both of them. She gave back what he'd given her in pleasure, caressing his belly, teasing his nipples with her tongue. But when he grabbed her hand and pulled it down over his groin, she broke off, leaning back as she stared at him. "You're not human," Ahadiel said, after a moment. To her surprise, his breathing sounded a little faster than normal. Not nearly as uneven and rapid as her own, but a small, and not entirely nice, part of her was satisfied with the effect she had on him. "No, but I don't think that'll make much of a difference." His gaze dropped to her bare breasts, and she didn't need to know how to read minds to guess what he wanted. Not when it was what she wanted

as well. Then he looked up, head cocked to one side, and murmured, "It's dawn." The moment between them vanished. One second, it was all heat and dangerous desire, but the next... nothing. It was as if a giant fist of selfcontrol had closed over that flaring lust and need, and smothered it. Prima would've been much more impressed with the speed - and inhuman ease - at which he'd switched his focus, if not for the fact that he'd left her so sexually frustrated she wanted to smash something. "Right," she said, reaching for her sweater. "Work to do. Guardians to rescue. Heads to bust, and—" "A world to save," he finished. She eyed him with suspicion as she finished pulling on her coat and hat, taking in the small smile, the arched brow. "Damn, son. I believe you just made another joke. It's getting to be a habit." In response, Ahadiel held out his hand. Prima sighed. "Do we have to?" "We do." This time, it felt as if she - and the substation - were stretched and bulging like a soap bubble. Then the bubble popped, and she and Ahadiel stood at the back of the Walmart again, by the smashed truck, surrounded by cops on one side of the crime scene tape and a small crowd of curious bystanders on the other. It was all she could do not to gasp, even as Ahadiel kept her on her

feet. A second of panicked disorientation, then the realization that there were no cops screaming or shooting at her. Ah, the invisible thing! She liked this much more than angelic modes of relocation. Being invisible was fun, and she couldn't do it nearly this well. Ahadiel squeezed her hand, but it was a warning not to let go. Calmer now, if still a little wobbly, she could hear what the cops were saying. ". . . hell if I know what happened,” said a youngish cop built like a linebacker, his dark hair military short. "Maybe it was aliens." Prima laughed then quickly muffled it with a hand over her mouth - but not quickly enough. The stocky cop looked back towards her. "You hear that?" His companion, a tall, thin man in his fifties, said, "What?" "A laugh." The older cop shot the younger one a sceptical look. "No. Now knock off the fuckin' alien talk. You're spooking yourself.” "I swear I heard something! It sounded like a woman, laughing.” Both cops stared at each other, looking acutely uncomfortable. Then the older one scowled. "Fuckin’ stupid alien talk. Sure, you go ahead and write that up and see how it works for you. Me, I want to put in the rest of my ten years and retire with full benefits. I'm going with 'cause: undetermined1.” 'You think blaming it on the Hodag would work better?” the younger cop asked, grinning.

The older cop rolled his eyes and turned away, just as Ahadiel tugged on her hand. He motioned his head upwards. She nodded, releasing her wings. Still holding hands, they flew to the roof of the Walmart. The earlier footprints they'd left behind had been wiped away by four inches of new snow and drifts. "What made you laugh?” he asked, pitching his voice low enough that only she would hear. "I’ll explain later. Are you picking up any imprints?” 'Yes.” He turned slightly, raising his head. He might have been scenting the air, but more than likely he was sifting the Spark for any impression of the kerubim. Visual, auditory .. . anything that could be relayed through the senses of human, animal, bird or insect. Several minutes passed, then he abruptly stiffened, and let out a breath. "We're too late. They've been destroyed.” "Oh, no. I'm so sorry." Humans imagined kerubim as terrifying monsters, part human, part lion and part eagle. But to a celestial, they were the equivalent of house pets. "There was no reason to kill them." "Remember who we're dealing with," Ahadiel said, flatly. "Can you take me to the bodies? Maybe there's something we can pick up that'll help us find Helel and the others." "I don't think they've left. We already know where they're headed, so if their plan was to stop us, they'll do it here." "We're back to walking into an ambush, then?"

Ahadiel shrugged. "Yes." "This doesn't bother you?" "Not really." "Oh." She wished she had even a smidgen of his strength- and confidence. He squeezed her hand again, and Prima turned as he leaned over to kiss her forehead. Briefly, she considered how nice it would be to have a doover; to go back to the substation, back to his arms, back to making a different choice that might not end ... badly. But that wasn't possible; even if it had been, it would be the coward's way out, and the stakes were too high for her to retreat into wishful fantasies. For better or for worse, by accident or by design, she and Ahadiel were a team. "Stay close to me. If there's any chance of trouble and I think I can't handle it, HI get you out of there fast." Wonderful. Jumping interstices was better than dying, of course, but she didn't have to be enthusiastic about it. A sudden thought occurred to her. “Wait. Ahadiel, if something goes wrong and you have to choose between me or stopping Helel and the others, I want you to promise me you'll stop them." "Nothing like that is going to happen." "I know you’ll do everything in your power to protect me, just as HI do everything I canto stay alive. But stopping a war is more important." She met his gaze. "Promise me."

"No." Before she could argue, his wings flashed, at full strength and breadth, and he shot into the sky. She followed a moment later, hard pressed to match his speed, but furious enough to try. Below, one of the cops glanced up, thinking he'd seen something move along the roof. But there was nothing to see, only amass of grey, sullen clouds that threatened to dump another couple of inches of snow before the day's end. Ahadiel led her to a small clearing surrounded by dense forest of mixed pine and hardwoods, deep in the heart of Wisconsin's North Woods. It had taken only a few minutes, at her speed, and as they touched down, it began to snow. Prima found the remains of the two kerubim almost immediately, and went to them as Ahadiel kept watch. It was quiet, unnaturally so, and she could feel her hands shaking as she knelt over the two dark, ashy stains in the snow. Wind, and more snow, would soon eliminate every last trace. Whatever Spark they'd had, it was gone. Yet, she sensed something else: unfamiliar, but definitely something that did not naturally belong to this place. She backed away, glancing at Ahadiel. "The compulsion spell didn't leave much of a residue. It's so quiet, and I'm feeling like there's—" "Come to me," Ahadiel interrupted, tightly. "Now," She wasted no time in doing exactly as he'd ordered. Her mouth had gone

dry again. "What?" "We're not alone. Something's here, but I can't see it." Of course. You couldn't throw an ambush party without both the ambushees and the ambusher. To her surprise, she wasn't as frightened as she'd expected. Maybe because they'd anticipated a trap. Or maybe because she was just in shock and denial. "A cloaking charm? I'd sense it, even a small one." He didn't answer. The strange silence continued, surrounding them . . . and it seemed to have intensified. Now, she couldn't even hear the wind in the trees. "I shouldn't have come here," she whispered. "I'm putting you in danger." "We go up," Ahadiel said. "Stay at my back. Take my hand, and let me drive." Another little attempt at humour - another first for him. The other times she'd watched him engaged in a fight, he'd been absolutely silent from start to finish. Prima boosted her wings as much as she could, but their silvery-grey luminance was nothing compared to the fiery breadth of Ahadiel's. She took his hand, gripping it tightly. "Actually, I'm quite happy to let you drive." "Ready?" When she nodded, he flew upwards at blinding speed. She did not. Before his hand whipped out and beyond her, she knew what had happened. It was a binding spell.

For a moment, she recognized the irony of it - and then panic hit, fullbore. Ahadiel was already on the return, and she opened her mouth to warn him off when something wrapped itself tightly around her neck and dragged her, struggling and choking for air, up into the thick branches of the old oak behind her. Smaller, sharper branches broke off, gouging her, others slapped against her, dead leaves scouring at her skin. Then, abruptly, she came to a stop, dangling high off the ground. She dug at the thing around her neck, struggling to loosen it, as Ahadiel dropped down out of the sky, claws black and extended, their tips burning white. For a split second, their eyes met, and then he was gone, knocked aside by another angel. She couldn't turn enough to see what was happening, but the sound had returned, and over her own harsh gasps, she heard the deafening crack of tree trunks shattering under impacts, the shake and rumble of the earth as massive trees crashed to the ground, Finally, the thing around her neck loosened a fraction, and Prima sucked in air, looking upwards. A face - its bone-white skin surrounded by long black hair tossing, serpent-like, in the wind - smiled down at her. The smile did not, however, reach the black, red-flecked eyes. Helel.

What was wrapped around her neck, Prima realized with revulsion, was a hank of Helel's hair. The fallen angel's wings flared upwards, alert, but they were dark, looking more like the tattered remains of an old ball gown that had lost most of its sparkling sequins than a once glorious lattice of power

and light. "Hello," said the Fallen. "My, my . . . what a pretty Peri you are. Your mother and father must be very proud." Prima again tried to pull away, to find Ahadiel. The sounds of a vicious fight were unmistakable: shouts and grunts of pain, the whistling slash of Ahadiel's claws, and more shaking and rumbling as uprooted trees, decades old, slammed into the earth. Then something exploded; the blast buffeted her wildly about in a stinging shower of wood splinters. A man laughed, and Prima looked down, blinking rapidly to clear the tears from her eyes. A handsome angel stood below her, grinning. He wore jeans, a checkered flannel shirt and hiking boots, and he had all of Helel's colouring, right down to the dulled, shadow-black wings. "That one looks ripe for the picking.” "The Peri's mine, Maroth," Helel said, in a girlish voice. "You go help your brother get rid of Azrael's dog." A scream ripped through the air, a bellow of pain and rage that raised the hackles and filled Prima with such terror she thought for certain her heart would stop beating. Maroth took wing, calling his brother's name, and Helel, looking perturbed, slowly reeled Prima upwards with her hair noose. Prima fought to stay conscious, even as the edges of her vision rapidly darkened and blurred. Summoning the last of her strength, Prima grabbed at the nearest branch,

then swung her body upwards and slammed her feet into Helel's face. The angel staggered, knocked off balance, but only for a moment. The hair squeezed around Prima's neck, strangling her, while Helel, sneering and bleeding, watched. "I forgot." Helel's voice sounded as if it came from a great distance. The earth shuddered, as something crashed close behind her, but Prima, rapidly losing consciousness, barely felt it. "You're almost one of them, so you fight like them. Like a dirty little animal.” Angry and desperate, Prima made a weak grab for the rope of hair above her, just as a blue-white flash, arcing downwards, cut her free. She fell, struggling for air, into a pair of arms. Wings of pure light surrounded her, and she looked up into Ahadiel’s face: bloodied, a raw gash from temple to jaw, his mouth set in a grim line. Again, their eyes met, briefly, before he touched down, shoving her behind his back. "A binding,” she rasped, barely able to get the words out of her raw, swollen throat. "I can't leave.” "I know.” Another quick glance around. Helel was nowhere in sight, but Maroth and Harut were on either side of them, closing in. The latter was missing his right arm. "I told you to go without me,” she said, in a harsh whisper. "And I told you no."

"Then we both die for nothing! You can't—" She broke off, with a strangled scream, as Helel suddenly materialized before her. At her scream, Ahadiel spun, claws slashing, but it was too late. Helel had already moved out of range, her claws against Prima's neck. AhadieVs eyes darted to Harut and Maroth, then back to Helel. "Oh, you can probably kill us all,” Helel said. "But not before I take off her head. And if you do manage to kill us, you'll never find Raguel. At least, not in time to do any good. Is that something you can live with?” "I can live with it.” As Ahadiel gathered his muscles to attack, his gaze flicked towards Prima. "And my brother would be able to live with it too.” He’d made his choice; a good choice, if not the one she'd hoped for. Prima closed her eyes, not wanting Helel to be the last thing she saw. At the same moment a tremendous, crackling boom of an explosion knocked her back. A column of fire shot upwards, then quickly faded. On her hands and knees, Prima scrambled towards the cover of a fallen tree, staring up at the figure standing between her and Helel. A long, dark red coat, shadowblack wings, and then a rumbling, familiar voice: 'You dare lay a hand on my daughter, you bitch?" Her father? Another quick glance showed Harut and Maroth backing away from an equally familiar, black-robed figure in front of them. Behind her, Ahadiel was still poised to attack, ready to kill anything and everything in his way. "Arioch and Alussa. I failed to factor you into our plans. How

embarrassing,” Helel said, a trace of anger edging the amusement in her voice. With that, she disappeared, taking Harut and Maroth with her. Once they were gone, Prima felt a light tingling, and then the sense of a thick weight lifting. The binding spell was broken, leaving her alone with her mother, her father and an Angel of Punishment on the verge of going Berserker. "Ahadiel, it's OK. They're here to help. Take it down a notch or two, please.” He stared hard at her, unblinking, as if he hadn't heard her. A violent shudder took him, leaving him visibly shaking as he straightened, and then dropped his arms to his sides. The claws retracted, dripping blood, and his wings faded to a shimmer before disappearing. Prima heaved a sigh of relief, still trying to process this astonishing turn of events. Everything had happened so fast, and she had to resist the urge to squeeze her eyes open and shut a few times, just to be sure she wasn't hallucinating. "Mother, Father ... I don't know what to say.” "Hello would be sufficient.” "So would thank you,” said her mother, giving Ahadiel a wide berth as she came towards Prima. "And just so we're clear on this, we're not here to help. Not me, anyway. I couldn't care less if this wretched place burns to ashes. But no one,” she said, fiercely, as she cradled Prima's scratched, bleeding face in her hands, "absolutely no one, harms my precious child." "I'm OK. You got here in time.”

"Next time, we might not,” her father said. "You should have come to us for help.” "I would have, if it had been possible.” She caught Ahadiel's gaze. "Are you all right?” He hadn't made any attempt to join her or her parents, and his only response to her question was a terse nod. Her father, scowling, pushed past her and faced Ahadiel. “You. What are your intentions towards my daughter?” For the first time in probably his entire existence, Ahadiel was at a loss for words. Finally, he said, "None. I have none.” "That's good,” said her father, nodding. "Make sure you keep it that way,” added her mother. This was a thousand kinds of awkward - and no way was she making it even worse by starting an argument. Ahadiel had the good sense to keep his mouth shut as well. Her mother kissed Prima on the cheek, then joined her husband. "Savim." she said, addressing Ahadiel by his formal title of "Prince". "Because I appreciate the concern you've shown for my child, I offer you this information. Do with it as you will. Your brother is still alive, but you'll need to travel deep into the territories of Hell to find him. He is not here in this place." "Thank you," Ahadiel said, quietly. “

And for my thanks, Sarim, I give you this." Her father pulled a shotgun

from inside his coat, and tossed it to Ahadiel, who caught it with a faint look of surprise. "I am honoured, but I have no need of weapons.” "Maybe, but you'll make good use of these. Prima can explain." A box of shells followed the shotgun, which Ahadiel also caught, one-handed. Then her father turned to Prima and said, "Keep safe.” Together, her parents took to the sky, vanishing almost instantly. After a moment, Ahadiel came up beside her, shotgun and shells in one hand. His gaze took in her dishevelled hair, ripped clothing and scratched face. With his free hand, he brushed back her hair and lightly touched her cheek. “I’m

sorry,” he said.

"For what? You did exactly as you promised. You win some; you lose some. I guess you'll be sticking around for a while longer, then.” He nodded, stepping back. He frowned at the shotgun. "So those were your parents: AriochandAlussa." "Mmm-hmm. I think Dad kind of likes you. You're both in the same line of business, sort of.” 'Your father works for a vengeance demon." "I said, 'sort of." She took a shell from the box. "Mother, on the other hand, doesn't like men very much. Except for my father. The strong and silent routine would be best around her." She rolled the shotgun shell between her thumb and forefinger then held it up, smiling. "A magic bullet."

Ahadiel took it back. "A whole box of magic bullets, to be precise. But for what?" "I have no idea. Dad has good intentions, but his follow-thro ugh can be a bit shoddy. I suppose we'll just have to shoot things and see what happens." With all the excitement over- for now- she longed for a hot bath and a long nap, but she didn't think there'd be much time for that for a long while yet. "So ... what are you going to do?" "Good question." Ahadiel gave a loud sigh. "It seems I have a choice. I go after Helel, Harut and Maroth, and try to stop them from starting another war. Or I go after my brother." "Azrael sent you here to find Raguel, and to stay until you found him. Perhaps Azrael doesn't want you in the other fight." "The number of lives in the balance . . . I don't know that I can turn from that. If my brother were here, I believe he would agree." Prima took his hand, and gave it a comforting squeeze. "An interesting thing about choices is how you can sometimes choose more than one." "Then that's what I'll do." "I thought so." After a quick survey of their surroundings she said, "I don't think we're too far from my place, and if you'll be here for a while, you're going to need a place to stay." He smiled. "True." “You

can stay with me if you'd like. Here, or wherever we end up."

I'd like that, thank you. I'll be sleeping on the couch, though." It was her turn to smile. "But of course you will."

"Have a little faith in me. Halfway, yes. All the way? We’ll see." With a laugh, Prima took to the sky. A moment later, Ahadiel followed.

Dark Force A Black Ops novella Cheyenne McCray

One "You're not leaving me behind.” Jaymie Taylor scowled at the big man as he glared at her with a look so dark he might as well have been a stormshrouded mountain. Her cheeks burned as her anger rose. "I'm part of this team and you will not leave me behind.” "Brick” Sanders had earned his nickname. The formidable black ops mercenary, former Navy SEAL, was as unmovable and as unforgiving as a fifty-foot-thick wall when he set his mind to something. As far as Jaymie was concerned Brick could shove his attitude right up his cinder blocks. All walls had at least one weakness and she'd find his if it was

the last thing she did. His hard-cut, bronzed features were anything but handsome. He might not be what most women would consider especially good-looking ... but she had to admit he had sex appeal to the max that saturated her to the bone when she was near him. Brick had an incredible body to go along with all of that sex appeal. When he wasn't looking, she enjoyed watching him prepare for and execute each objective, or kick back with the rest of the team when they took a break. "If s not a Dark Force mission.” Brick's voice rumbled like rocks in a landslide. "This is personal. I decide who goes.” His biceps were impressive as he folded his arms, as was his welldefined chest that stretched his sleeveless T-shirt. His black fatigues were a little loose, but they couldn't hide his powerful thighs and tight ass. She'd wanted him since the moment she heard his voice - even though he'd been arguing with "Thunder” Hansen that she couldn't be on the team. Thunder, of course, won the argument and Brick had taken another long look at her before storming away. She'd smiled to herself as she'd thought about taking that man to bed. Jeez, she had to stop this train of thought. The desire that she felt every time he was even close to her. Jaymie waved in the direction of the camp that the team had set upon the beach. It was a good hundred yards from where she and Brick were having their "discussion" within the jungle's fringe. "You gave in to all three guys

when they insisted on going with you to save your nephew. There's no reason why I can't be on the recovery team, too." When he'd opposed her being on the team, Brick had used the excuse that because she'd been a CIA agent and not former Special Forces, she'd be unable to handle the kind of ops they would be hired for. He'd argued that she'd be a liability instead of an asset. Over the past six months since she'd joined the team, Jaymie had hassled Brick at every opportunity7, pissing him off as much as possible, just for the hell of it. She'd had no problem proving him wrong on their first two missions together, showing everyone how valuable she was to the team. Of course Brick was too much of an arrogant bastard to admit he was wrong. At least he'd stopped his rumblings about her even being there. Brick took one step towards her, leaving only inches between them. Jaymie almost stepped back, which would have had her pressed up against the young kapok tree behind her, and congratulated herself on keeping her position. She narrowed her gaze as she met the six foot four man's green eyes. Even at five foot ten she had to look up to glare at him. "I've been a member of Dark Force for six months." She clenched her hands into fists at her sides. "During both of my missions I've proven that I'm a valuable asset to the team." Tension radiated from him, so palpable that she felt it within herself. When he spoke again, the single word was low, measured, controlled. "No." Jaymie started to speak but every thought shot from her mind as Brick grabbed her wrists. In an almost violent movement, he jerked her to him

and captured her mouth with his. There could be no other word but "capture". Jaymie felt his hard, firm mouth pressing her softer, fuller lips against her teeth. Complete and total surprise had her opening her mouth and Brick totally dominated her by thrusting his tongue inside, exploring and tasting her before he sucked on her tongue. Shock immobilized Jaymie for only a moment but he'd raised her hands so fast, both of her wrists clenched in one of his big palms. He held her hands above her head and nearly slammed her up against the kapok tree. She fought against Brick's hold but he used his large, hard body to prevent any kind of move she might make. Sixteen years of tae kwon do, not to mention extensive training in handto-hand combat, and she was pinned by this brute of a man, this immovable force. Brick's kiss was hard enough to be painful. He clenched his fist in her loose blonde hair and kept her head motionless. Instead of fighting him, she relaxed her body, thinking that if she did she might fool him into letting down his guard. More surprise shot through her as she felt his long, thick erection pressed against her belly. His kiss was relentless, powerful. Jaymie found herself breathing in his masculine scent, and involuntary electrical charges zinged from her belly button to between her thighs. In the past six months since she'd been recruited on to the team by Thunder, Brick's musky scent had never failed to send thrills through her. She'd never been so close to him, though, never been so filled with his incredible scent, his very presence.

She didn't even realize she had fallen into the kiss and was kissing him back until she heard herself moan. Her moan encouraged Brick and his kiss became impossibly more intense. He bit her lower lip with a firm yet soft bite. Jaymie gave a cry into his mouth. Not of pain, but desire. Sheer, complete desire. And she was shaking with it. Shaking with the need for him to take her right there against the tree. "I want to fuck you." He raised his face just enough that she could see the sexual need and frustration in his green eyes as his words echoed her thoughts. "Be inside you." His next word was a low growl. "Now." Jaymie tried to think clearly, but all she could do was imagine Brick filling her. That was what she'd wanted since she'd first met him despite his arrogance and insistence they didn't need her on the team. Brick didn't relax his hold and she could still feel his barely contained desire. She knew he wouldn't force her, but he wanted her badly. As badly as she wanted him. "I like it rough, Jaymie." He pressed his rigid cock against her belly, grinding as he did it. "And when I start I'm not stopping." Jaymie tried to swallow but her throat was too dry. She met Brick's gaze that had gone dark green in the dim jungle light. Feral, hungry - his expression deepened as he stared at her, waiting for her response. Even if he were rough, he wouldn't hurt her. Would he? She needed him so badly, what other answer was there? 'Yes," she said in a hoarse whisper. "I want you." Brick moved his fingers from her hair while his other hand continued to

pin her wrists against the tree. She squirmed against his hard body. He ripped a vine from a tree and wrapped it around her wrists then around the trunk of the tree at her back. Stunned, she struggled, but she could tell he had tied the smooth vine so well her efforts were totally futile. The instinct to fight against her bonds was natural. "What the hell—" Another harsh kiss took the rest of her sentence from her. With her arms secured above her head and his body pressed to hers, she couldn't stop him from pushing up her tank top and wrapping another vine around her waist. It was smooth against her belly. He had her tied so securely there was no way she could get loose. As he drew back and looked into her eyes, she knew he'd meant what he said. She'd said yes ... and there was no turning back. But she didn't want to turn back, didn't want him to stop. The eroticism of what he was doing, how he had tied her to the tree, had her completely off guard - had her completely turned on. With one hand he yanked her green tank top up and over her breasts. He anchored his other hand in her hair again, pulling her head back so firmly it thunked against the tree. Her mind spun from the not-so-gentle thump. But then she gasped as he jerked down her bra and immediately caught one of her nipples in the warmth of his mouth. Her nipples had always been unusually sensitive, and the feel of him sucking one made her nearly blind with lust. When he lightly bit her nipple, it almost made her knees give out. She tried to keep her moans and sounds of excitement low as he moved

his mouth to her other breast so that the noises didn't carry back to camp. Her scalp tingled as he released her nipple so that his hands were free to push her shorts and panties over her toned thighs to her feet, leaving her naked from the waist down. Humid jungle air brushed her skin and she grew so wet with desire she was squirming against the vines that held her. Brick slid his fingers into her wet folds and Jaymie choked back a cry when he flicked the taut nub. His calloused fingers felt rough against her softness and the contrast was amazingly hot. "Can't wait any longer." He had the sound of a primal animal that took its mate regardless of her own need. Well, this was one female whose need matched his own. He unfastened his fatigues and shoved them down his hips. The length and girth of his cock made desire clench her abdomen. She grew wetter with the knowledge that he would be taking her, driving his thick erection into her. Brick grabbed her by her ass with his large hands. His fingers dug into her flesh as he raised her. She wrapped her legs around his hips and his ass, his body firm between her thighs. His feral, dark-green gaze focused on hers as he positioned his cock to enter her. Jaymie caught her breath, her heart pounding, body trembling, as she waited for him to do what they both wanted, needed. He gave an animalistic rumble in his chest just before he thrust inside her.

An involuntary cry came from Jaymie's lips as she took him deep. Vaguely she was aware of the fact that the other guys of Dark Force might hear her, but right then she wasn't quite sure she cared. "I've wanted to fuck you since the day you joined the team." Brick pounded into her almost relentlessly as he spoke. "I knew you'd be a distraction and we couldn't afford distractions, /couldn't afford it." Jaymie couldn't speak as he pulled her hair harder, jerking her head back so her breasts jutted out. He ran his stubbled cheeks over the column of her throat. "Brick." His name seemed to come from nowhere as he fucked her harder than she'd ever been fucked before. "Please—" She stopped, not even knowing what she was begging for. Maybe it was for the orgasm that was starting to build inside her, already beginning lowin her belly. She could feel his hips bruising the insides of her thighs from the power of his thrusts. Being restrained - his hold on her hair almost painful - made everything feel somehow more exciting. Her orgasm spiralled inside her, eliminating her ability to think clearly. She fell into every sensation she was experiencing. Her wrists restrained above her, the vine tethering her waist to the tree, Brick's T-shirt rasping against her nipples, his stubble like sandpaper against her throat, and his cock driving in and out of her so powerfully she felt it deeply enough to cry out with every thrust. When Brick clenched his fingers around her ass, Jaymie nearly screamed as she came. Her entire body jerked then shuddered from the intensity, the power of her orgasm. It seemed to go on and on, Brick drawing her climax out as she spasmed around his cock.

"I can't have you driving me out of my mind like you do." Brick bit her ear as he spoke in a low, almost menacing tone, and she shuddered as she tried to come back to herself. "When I finish fucking you, you'll be out of my system. I won't think about putting my cock inside you every time I see your blue eyes. Every time I look at you." Through the haze in her mind, Jaymie tried to make sense of his words. Then Brick slammed into her a few more times and growled as he came inside her. Within her now sensitized channel, she felt him throbbing. His face was a grimace as his orgasm clenched his body. When he looked like he was in control of himself, he gripped her shoulders and slid out. She stared at him in confusion as she lowered her legs from around his waist. Jaymie widened her eyes when he drew out his dagger. Then he reached up and sliced through the vines securing her wrists. He did the same to the vines at her waist and caught her before she would have fallen, due to the wobbly feeling that surged throughout her body. He kept his gaze on her as he sheathed his knife, tugged up his fatigues and fastened them. She dressed as well, slipping into her shorts and pulling her tank top and bra down over her aching breasts. Her body went from hot and excited to cool and distant as she stared at him, processing each and even1 word he'd just said. "You fucked me because you think that will make you stop wanting me." Her tone was like ice. She took a step towards him. Brick shrugged and started to turn away from her, towards camp. Jaymie moved in front of him and slugged him.

Then she rammed her knee as hard as she could into his balls. Brick dropped to his knees with a pained shout. Jaymie smiled with the smallest amount of satisfaction, turned, and headed back towards camp.

Two Adrenaline heightened Jaymie Taylor's senses as she slipped silently through the dark jungle and gripped the stock of her Barrett 82A1 .50 cal high-capacity semi-automatic rifle. A kidnapped twelve-year-old kid's life was at stake. And his son of a bitch of an uncle, Brick, was somewhere in the jungle, unaware of her presence. Despite Brick's order that she wasn't to accompany the rest of the team, Jaymie left not long after they did, following the men into the jungle. Her body armour and utility belt were heavy but comforting as she moved forwards. Her dagger, Sig Sauer handgun, a small flashlight and extra ammo weighted her belt along with two IEDs - improvised explosive devices. Secured in her left boot was a small but deadly knife and in her right was a second Sig, a model that was more easily concealed than her larger handgun. Occasionally Jaymie heard the men checking in with Brick, the obvious team leader on this mission, by giving their statuses in low voices. Miniscule earpieces were secured firmly just outside each operative's ear canal, including her own. The individual high-tech earpieces were

programmed to transmit only its operative's voice, keeping background noise to a minimum. It was possible lives would be lost tonight - it was almost a given in a situation where their team would be storming a compound like this. But no way could she allow that kid or anyone on the team to be among the casualties. She was one of the best of the best at what she did, as were the four men ahead of her. She never allowed doubt to enter her thoughts. Doubt could get you killed. Through her night vision goggles, everything glowed green-yellow. The eyewear assisted her in slipping among the dense foliage, through complete darkness. She easily blended with the night in her black fatigues, her blonde hair stuffed under a cap, black paint streaking her face. Jaymie eased under a rubber plant's thick, low hanging leaves, her booted feet silent on the sodden jungle floor as she made her way towards their target. Somewhere not too far ahead of her, Brick moved as easily and quietly as she did despite his almost intimidating size. She was so angry with him that her blood felt like lava in her veins. And she was so furious at herself because she was still unbelievably aware of the potent sexuality of his presence even though she couldn't see him, couldn't hear him-he was probably a good 200 yards ahead of her. Despite the distance, Jaymie could almost swear she felt his magnetism beside her. She imagined catching his scent and her belly flipped as she remembered the way he'd felt

inside her. The conflicting emotions were driving her out of her mind. She'd driven him out of his mind enough to fuck her up against a tree to get her "out of his system". She wondered if he'd succeeded. Unfortunately he wasn't out of hers. She elbowed vines aside while she held back a smirk at the fact that Brick, the asshole, now had a black eye and had walked with a limp for the rest of the day. He seemed fine now, which was a good thing considering they were on a mission. The jungle's humidity caused perspiration to break out on Jaymie's skin and droplets of sweat rolled down the sides of her face. At the last moment, she avoided stepping into a depression in the rich earth beside a banana tree and her heart bounced in her chest. Damn. She caught her breath and gritted her teeth. What the hell was the matter with her? What was she doing thinking about Brick when her focus on the mission needed to be complete? She would get herself or someone else killed if she didn't get it together. Jaymie shook her head then easily brought her thoughts back to where they needed to be - part of the liquid machinery of the black ops team. Lights winked in and out of the foliage in the distance. "Compound in sight," came Brick's voice in her earpiece. "In view," Jaymie almost said but managed to bite her tongue. She checked the GPS-enabled watch on her arm as the others reported their positions.

Within moments Thunder, Casper and Spit gave their coordinates. Casper would do his thing and take out the generators, enabling the team to take over the compound more easily in what would soon, likely, be chaos. The recon the team had engaged in for the past couple of days would help make this op go like clockwork. The guys hadn't even been aware that she'd followed them each day. When she reached the fringe of the jungle, Jaymie crouched behind a cover of cecropia trees. The compound's lights became too bright and she had to push her night vision goggles up on top of her head. Surrounded by twenty-foot-high fencing, several buildings stood in the middle of a massive clearing. Stars winked above the area devoid of jungle vegetation. One of the buildings was huge, the main house where they were sure the kid was being held. Jaymie gritted her teeth. The child could be a needle in a haystack. Over the comm, she'd learned a couple of days ago that Brick was certain he'd spotted the kid through a window on the northern side of the building. Jaymie had thought she caught a glimpse of blond hair through the same window on that day, too. Around the building were two sets of thick-linked fences with rolls of barbed wire along the inner and outer ten-foot high fencing. At each corner were tall metal outposts, each with two armed sentries. "In thirty," came Casper's low, casual drawl. Anyone who knew him would have no idea that he was about to wreak havoc on the place big time. Jaymie shielded her eyes with her hand and slowly counted down the seconds. At the exact moment she ticked off thirty in her mind, an

explosion rocked the grounds. The entire compound went dark. A roiling ball of fire shot to the sky and sparks jetted from the flames providing enough light to let Jaymie see the sudden pandemonium. Black smoke boiled from the ground along with the flames. The IED that had just taken out the compound's main generator had obviously done its job. Cries and screams echoed in the jungle, coming from the group of buildings. Men shouted out orders in Spanish while others screamed. Another explosion blasted the night. More flames shot up to the sky, the sound so loud she wanted to put her hands to her ears. Instead, she maintained position, her heart pumping blood as if the fire had turned to liquid in her veins. She forced herself to breathe as she waited for Brick to give the order to the men to move in. Jaymie blinked in surprise when the compound's lights flickered - and came back on. Dimmer, but they were working. She frowned. The second explosion should have taken out the back-up generators. Now, in the light provided, it was easy to see men rushing to surround the perimeter of the fence, their rifles pointed towards the jungle. Damn. Dark Force's main advantage was totally gone if they couldn't take out all the lights. "Hold on tight, kids," came Casper's drawl inside her ear through the comm. :£You might want to cover your ears and close your eyes." Jaymie barely had time to lower her rifle to obey before light scorched

the night, lightning bright even through her closed eyelids. Thunder from the third explosion sounded as though her hands weren't even muffling her ears. "Good to go," Casper said in his usual casual voice. Jaymie's ears rang as she opened her eyes to see the compound was dark again, with the exception of more light from flames shooting towards the sky in the huge jungle clearing. She pulled her night-vision goggles down, careful to avoid looking at the flames, and gripped her rifle tight again. "Synchronize." Brick's voice was strong over her earpiece. Boy was he going to be pissed when she came out of the jungle with the rest of them. But he was too professional to let it distract him, so she wasn't worried about diverting his attention from the mission. She glanced from the darkened but chaotic buildings to her watch as Brick continued his countdown in a slow, measured tone, "Five... four... three... two ... one." Jaymie clenched her jaw as she brought up her rifle. At the same time she pushed herself to her feet and bolted for the compound.

Three Rage flowed through Brick as he charged forwards. He focused through his night-vision goggles as he squeezed the trigger of the M-4 rifle and took out as many of Chavez's men as possible. That son of a bitch - Chavez's right-hand man - was going to die for

what he'd done. For daring to kidnap Brandon in order to draw Brick out. When Brick got too close to the buildings for the M-4 to be effective, he slung the rifle over his shoulder. At the same time he drew his Glock. Spit Andersen shot out of the jungle on Brick's left. Brick felt no surprise as Jaymie drew up on his right. The depth of his feelings for her, feelings he'd refused to acknowledge, were shoved even further aside. Now was not the time to be thinking of Jaymie in that way. In any way but as a valuable member of Dark Force. He tried to be pissed that she hadn't obeyed him. Truth was she'd be an asset tonight whether he wanted to admit it or not. Brick didn't have to look at Spit to know he was levelling a large grenade launcher at the double fences. The hollow thumping sound of the launcher was nearly lost in the chaos. With the next explosion, Brick squeezed his eyes shut for a mere second to avoid the glare in his goggles. He didn't stop running. He blinked and had the satisfaction of seeing gaping holes through both fences, thanks to the grenade launcher. Brick gripped his Glock in both hands and fired at two more of Chavez's men. Since Jaymie was there, he knew that his back was covered as he ran through the yawning wounds in the fence straight towards the main house. He'd rarely seen anyone who could shoot as well as she could. Spit, also a superior marksman, nearly as accurate as Jaymie, would keep things clear behind them. Adrenaline surged through Brick and his insides felt as if his entire being

was strung tight. He and his teammates fought their way through the darkness, the night-vision goggles giving them a big advantage. When they reached the main house, Brick headed straight for his target. Sure as hell, he knew he'd caught a couple of glimpses of Brandon through the window during the torturous week of recon. Brick had wanted to rescue his nephew every time the black ops team surveyed the compound. He knew better than to rush things and risk getting the kid killed. After their last day of recon and a run-through of each and every drill, Brick had been satisfied they'd recover Brandon alive. Once his nephew was safe, Brick would find that bastard, Mark Flynn. He'd make sure Flynn never fucked with anyone else's family ever again. One of Chavez's men rounded the corner of the house, his sights set on Brick. But in the next instant, the man crumpled to the ground as Jaymie put a bullet into his head. When they reached their target destination, Brick pushed his night-vision goggles up on top of his head. With fire still consuming some of the outbuildings, he focused on the small barred window. Flames reflected on the glass making it difficult to see inside. Jaymie and Spit stood with their backs to him, covering him from all sides. Regardless of the ear-splitting chaos of the night, he identified every report of their weapons. It took some effort to keep from worrying that something would happen to Jaymie. He had to acknowledge that she was just as competent, tough, intelligent and capable as his other teammates.

Brick stuffed his Glock in its holster and slung his rifle from his shoulder. He still couldn't see inside. Damn. He wanted to make sure he didn't hurt the kid. He got as close to the window as he could and shouted, "Stand back", hoping he could be seen. Or at least heard. After retreating a step, Brick gripped the rifle, raised it and slammed the butt between a pair of bars and through the windows glass. It shatterednot bulletproof, thank God. "Brandon!" he shouted through the bars, hoping to hell his nephew was in there. "It's John." ''Uncle John?" came the boy's voice. Relief poured through Brick. Brandon's terrified face came into view. He sounded even more scared than he looked as he added in a stutter, "I... I can't believe—" Brick shot a quick glance over his shoulder before looking back at his terrified nephew. "Are you alone?" Brandon nodded. "Yes." Brick searched the room with one sweep of his gaze and spotted a bed. "Get under the bed," he ordered. "Have to blow these bars and I don't want you getting hurt." Brandon didn't hesitate. He ran to a far corner of the room, dropped to the floor and vanished beneath the bed while Brick took a small, but always effective, explosive device from his belt. Unlike an IED, this device was far more accurate and controlled. Brick didn't bother to look over his shoulder again to see what was happening behind him. Jaymie and Spit were taking care of business.

"Down!" Brick shouted at the pair as he set the explosive on the windowsill and pressed the button with the mere three-second delay. He was a good ten feet from the house and dropped on to one knee, turning his head slightly away as the explosive blew. When he whirled to face the window, through remnants of smoke, he saw the bars were history and the former window was nothing but a gaping hole. Brick looked around them. Chavez's men were everywhere, but Jaymie and Spit still had he and Brandon covered. Brick rushed back to the house. "Get out, Brandon,” he shouted into the room when he reached it. The boy scrambled from under the bed and ran for the window. He jumped out so fast that his weight slammed into Brick, forcing him to step back despite being three times the size of the boy. Brick released the child. No time for even a small reunion. "Stay close to me and as low as possible. We're going to get you out of here." Brandon gave a short nod and attempted a small show of bravery that Brick knew was for him. "Yes, sir," he said at the same time he crouched low beside Brick. Sweat rolled down Brick's face from the heat of the flames. His T-shirt clung to his skin beneath his body armour. They shot any of Chavez's men who came into sight. Brick's heart pounded as he aimed the handgun and gripped the trigger time after time. Once they made it through the gaping holes in the two fences, Jaymie, Spit and Brandon sprinted beside him across a barren clearing, towards the

jungle. Just before they reached cover Spit shouted and dropped. Jaymie came up short, like she was going to go after Spit. Even in the darkness Brick thought he could make out the bluer than blue shade of her eyes "Take the boy. Head for cover.” Brick gave Brandon a slight shove towards Jaymie. "I'm going after Spit.” Jaymie's nod was sharp, her expression grim. The boy didn't pause as he dashed to the jungle beside her. Spit was motionless on the ground. Brick put his fingers to Spit's neck and felt the man's strong pulse. Out cold, but alive. Shots speared the night as Brick grabbed Spit under his arms. The bullets were close, way too close. Brick dragged the former Navy SEAL into the cover of the jungle. When they were hidden by thick foliage, Brick shoved up his nightvision goggles. By the light of the flames, he saw Spit wake and grimace, but the man didn't make a sound. Through the cover, Brick caught glimpses of Chavez's men at the compound. It looked like they'd organized what remained of their ranks and were about to head into the jungle. "Get the hell out of here,” Brick said over his comm. "Chavez's men are headed our way." Thank God all of his team responded in the affirmative, including Jaymie. Meant no one was down but Spit. "Where are you hit?" Brick asked his teammate.

"I'll live." Spit sucked in his breath. "Took one in my thigh, I think close to bone.” Spit spoke through gritted teeth. "Bullet got me in the back, dead centre. Knocked the breath out of me but that's it." Brick ripped strips off his T-shirt and hurried to tie a tourniquet around Spit's thigh and the blood-soaked fatigues. "We need to get our asses back to base." Brick jerked Spit to his feet. 'Thunder and Casper should make it back before we do with you holding us up." "No fucking kidding." Spit had already turned and made his way through the forest, barely limping despite the wound. Tough son of a bitch. Shouts came closer and a bullet zinged and buried itself in a rubber tree next to Brick's head. "The kid with you, Taylor?” Brick said to Jaymie over his comm while he busted through the foliage. "Yes," she said over the comm to the sound of gunfire, her breathing sounding a little rough. "We're sure not hanging around.” Brick kept up with Spit and covered their backsides as they headed to base.

Four "Thank you, Uncle John.” Brandon crouched by the fire, early morning light showing the dust and ash on his cheeks.

Jaymie glanced from uncle to nephew, noting the strong resemblance. Brandon was going to be even better looking than his uncle, without all the harshness of Brick's nature and features. Brick sat on a rock near the campfire, not looking at his nephew. He ran his palm down his stubbled face before looking at Brandon and shaking his head. "I'm the one who got you into this mess. You don't owe me one single word of thanks.” He nodded towards each team member lounging around the campfire, including Jaymie. "The team deserves mine.” Thunder, Spit, and Casper each shrugged or gave Brick a casual "it's no big deal” look. "You would've done it for any one of us, ''Thunder said in his rough voice. He pushed himself away from the palm tree he'd been leaning against. "So don't start that gratitude shit.” Brick studied Jaymie with tired, irritated eyes. Boy, had she given him an excellent black eye. He got to his feet, his torn black T-shirt exposing the flat tanned skin of his abs. He focused his gaze on Jaymie. "Come on,” he said as he turned his back on her and started walking into the jungle. A slow burn travelled through her body, heating her face and causing her scalp to prickle. She was so tempted to ignore the big ass, but she had to face him sooner or later and she never was one to procrastinate. "Sure." Jaymie tried to keep her tone and her expression cool as she got up from the rock she'd been sitting on. She dusted sand from her backside, as if that would do any good considering they were camped out on a beach.

By the looks on the faces of the other black ops team members, they knew Brick was pissed and intended to let her know it. Jaymie swallowed and followed him into the dimness of the jungle. As they made their way deeper into the foliage, the potency of his presence seemed to envelop her and she could almost feel him inside of her. Idiot. She wanted to bang her head against a tree - maybe a coconut would land on her head and knock sense back into her. She had no idea why he was going so deep into the jungle. All he needed to do was get her out of earshot of the campsite. When they were a good 100 yards from the campsite, Brick turned to face her, his arrogant features grim and unyielding. Jaymie raised her hands before he could speak and imagined herself wringing his neck. "I'm there every step of the way with this team no matter what the mission is." He stood in front of her, like a battleship anchored in stormy seas. His expression flickered with something she hadn't seen from him before - and she wasn't sure exactly what it was. She clenched her hands into fists at her sides, wanting to clock him. Again. Then his features softened, just slightly, but she'd never seen him look anything less than tough. He dragged his hand down his face and met her gaze. "I—" Brick cleared his throat, but kept his eyes locked on her "—owe you

an apology." Jaymie blinked. Then she blinked again. Brick was apologizing? "For not letting me on the team," she stated. "No." Brick shook his head. "I was wrong to leave you off the team but I had my reasons. But that's not what I'm apologizing for.” Before Jaymie could comprehend what this big man was saying, he continued, "I was an asshole for what I said to you yesterday when we—" He cut off his sentence like he didn't know how to finish it. "Worse than an asshole." She narrowed her gaze. "That's never been in question." Brick approached her and she stood her ground, even when he raised his hands and gripped her shoulders. Warmth travelled from his palms throughout her body. His jaw tightened. "The reason I said what I said is the same reason I didn't want you to go on this mission." Her confusion grew. "I'm not following this conversation." “I’m

in love with you, Jaymie." Brick's grip on her shoulders increased as

her jaw dropped. "I can't stand the thought of anything happening to you. The mission was too dangerous." Jaymie felt like she'd just fallen into quicksand and it was sucking her in, fast. She'd been an undercover CIA operative for eight years, a mercenary for six months. Nothing on earth could have prepared her for what Brick was telling her. "I thought that maybe if I . . . if I had you . . . that it would make these

feelings go away." He started moving his hands up and down her upper arms. "Maybe it was just lust. Shit." Brick released her arms and dragged his hand down his face again. "I know I fucked everything up yesterday." Warmth grew within Jaymie's chest and the weighted feeling that had been in her body grew light, pleasant. He locked his green eyes with hers again. "That's crazy, Brick." She started to smile, started to tell him what was inside her heart when she saw an expression of anger cross his features. The too-familiar click of a handgun sent harsh tingles down her spine. "Nice," came an unfamiliar voice from the foliage behind Brick. "Brick Sanders has yet another Achilles heel." Brick's scalp prickled and a sudden rush of adrenaline sent his pulse racing. Flynn. It took every bit of Brick's SEAL training to keep his body loose and prepared to get out of what was about to become a fucking mess. How the hell hadn't he caught onto Flynn's approach until it was too late? Jaymie. His feelings for her had caused exactly what he'd thought it might - distraction. He didn't meet her eyes. Instead he looked over her shoulder and saw two men ease out from behind their tropical cover. Three on two. Not bad odds prodding Flynn didn't just shoot them. Brick couldn't hear Flynn move, but he sensed that the man was getting closer. Flynn had been one of Brick's closest friends at onetime, when they were both Navy SEALS. Not any longer. "Turn the fuck around, Sanders. Hands behind your head." Flynn's voice

was filled with rage. "You know I won't have any problem putting a hole in your woman's head if you screw with me." The man made a snarling sound as he added, "I want her to die right beside you." Brick didn't bother to ask Flynn to let Jaymie go. That would be the last thing the bastard would allow. Brick met Jaymie's gaze and he felt pride at the strength he saw in her eyes. She wouldn't go down without a fight. He wasn't wearing his weapons belt, but he always kept a handgun at his ankle and a knife in the sole of his boot. Not that Flynn would give him a chance to use either. Once he'd raised his arms, hands behind his head, he slowly turned and faced the red-headed man he'd called a friend. Women had always gone for the bastard's inherited Irish charm and wit. 'You destroyed everything." Flynn's hand remained steady, his weapon levelled at Jaymie as she stepped up beside Brick. "Had a real good thing going with Chavez before you took out my half of the operation." "Nothing personal," Brick said, maintaining his calm. "You know we were paid to take it out." "Bullshit." Flynn's naturally pale complexion had reddened to the point that Brick wondered about the man's blood pressure. "You would have had intel." Brick gave a slow nod. "Like I said. Nothing personal." He stared at his former friend, more anger rushing through him because Flynn had turned to narcotics - to producing and selling cocaine. When Brick had found out, it had become personal. But Flynn had spotted him during the takedown of his drug organization

and retaliated by kidnapping Brick's nephew, Flynn had been a friend of the family at one time and knew way too much about Brick's personal life. "Since you managed to get the kid back," Flynn said, "I think I’ll take care of this little sweetheart. You can watch as I bleed her out." From the corner of his eye, Brick looked at Jaymie. She didn't blink and her expression was neutral. A combination of pride and fear for her made his focus all the more clear. Flynn held his gun on Jaymie as he drew a knife from his belt. He held the gun in one hand, the knife in the other. Brick glanced at Jaymie's hands behind her head. She was pointing one finger towards the men behind her. He met her gaze, hoping she could see that he understood exactly what she intended to do. Flynn raised the knife as he took a step towards Jaymie. She dropped almost flat to the ground, in a push-up position. Brick dived for Flynn and tackled him. He knocked the gun from Flynn's hand, but the knife pierced his shoulder and pain shot through him, swift and hot. He ground his teeth to hold back a shout from the pain, at the same time slamming his fist against Flynn's jawbone. He felt bone crack beneath his knuckles. Jaymie twisted on to her back as the two other men went for her. She gathered herself in a tight ball and rolled between the men, catching them off guard.

She drew a knife from her waistband and another from her boot so that she had a knife in each hand. She surprised the men again by going on the offence - and slicing each of their Achille's tendons in a swift move of each hand. The men shouted and shrieked as their legs gave out. Jaymie didn't pause. As they hit the ground she sliced one man's throat and rammed the other knife into the other's heart. After a gurgle and a pause, both men went slack. Brick and Flynn still grappled on the ground. Blood flowed from Brick's shoulder but he ignored it as he fought. Flynn possessed extraordinary strength. Flynn slammed his fist into Brick's eye. For the slightest moment, Brick felt disorientated, but he recovered and delivered a knife-hand strike to Flynn's throat. The man gasped for air and started to swing. Brick grabbed Flynn around the neck in a death hold. With one quick movement, Brick twisted his former friend's head and snapped his neck. Brick pushed himself to his feet and slammed his boot into Flynn's head, even though the man was already dead. Adrenaline ran high and powerful through Brick's body. The thought of what Flynn had intended to do made him want to kill the bastard all over again. He turned and looked at Jaymie, getting to her feet. She was breathing hard, smears of blood on her hands, her hair plastered to her neck - but she was alive. Thank God she was alive.

They stared at each other for a long moment. "Well, that's certainly an interesting way to tell a girl that you love her," Jaymie finally said with a hint of a smile. The power of his feelings for Jaymie nearly overwhelmed him. He strode towards her, grabbed her in his arms and nearly crushed her in his embrace. He kissed the top of her head and rubbed her back with his palm. "I love you, Jaymie." Brick caught her by the chin and tilted her face up so that their eyes met. There they were, standing in the middle of three dead men and he was telling her he loved her. When she smiled, something exploded in his heart. Something warm that flowed through his body. Jaymie wrapped her arms around his neck and brushed her lips over his. "I just so happen to love you too, you big ass."

Lipstick Spy School Gina Robinson

Inside every woman there's an inner Bond girl longing to break free. The Lipstick Spy School had one mission-to draw it out and nurture it. For a day, at least. As Kim entered the luxury hotel on the Fort Lauderdale beach, she actually had two missions: get a decent pedicure (Floridians didn't seem to

believe in closed-toe shoes), and kill Jason Bergman, Lipstick's special ops spy instructor. Unlike her fellow day spies, Kim arrived alone, without the almost mandatory best friend, sidekick and cohort in crime. She had a designer overnight bag slung over her shoulder with her gear inside: athletic shoes, yoga pants, sports bra, makeup, lingerie, slinky dress, stiletto sandals and various weapons of choice. She was particularly handy with her Italianmade automatic Leverletto knife - a lethal, lady-sized piece that fitted well in her hand. But really, she could kill with practically anything. The decor of the hotel lobby screamed modern, beachfront chic in a colour palette of white, deep blue and green. The chairs were boxy and square, the tables and bolsters perfectly round in every respect, and the lighting intimately dim with a touch of neon thrown in to promise some excellent nightlife once the sun went down. The message couldn't be clearer - only affluent, fashionable clients need apply. How very fantasy spy-like. Kim spotted her Lipstick Spy School contact immediately. A blind woman couldn't miss the curvaceous brunette in the tight, logoed Lipstick Spy School T-shirt. The woman extended her hand as Kim approached her. "Babette Long. Welcome. And which spy would you be?" She spoke in warm, sultry tones, as if she were a Bond girl herself. Kim shook her hand. "You can call me Tracy." "Ah, Tracy, a clever code name. Everyone wants to be Bond's best babe," "His true love, his wife," Kim corrected.

Babette looked her up and down, probably assessing her potential to party and spy with the best of them and wondering how hard it would be to drag her Bond-girl potential out. If only she knew... "We're meeting in the Millionaire's Room. Third floor.” Babette pointed up a wide staircase in the middle of the lobby as she gave directions. "Report in and Vicki will get you squared away." The Millionaire's Room looked like an exclusive executive boardroom with a nod towards nature. Cut-loop pile carpeting the colour of sand spread across the room like a beach. The far wall was nothing more than a row of windows with a view of the Atlantic Ocean, set at a perspective made to look as if you could open a window and step out on to the water. A good place to toss a man from a window? Ah, but Jason could swim. Still, if he were unconscious ... Kim's assassin tendencies never lay dormant. A boardroom table sat in the middle of the room surrounded by tan chairs and punctuated at regular intervals with vases of magenta lilies. How very Lipstick. Vicki greeted Kim at the door. She issued her a V-neck camp T-shirt with the distinctive smoking lipstick-gun logo and a hot-pink cosmetic bag embroidered with the name Tracy. The bag, filled with a high-end lipstick in a pouty pink shade and a compact mirror, came complete with a gold chain shoulder strap. Perfect. Kim needed a place for her poison and the chain looked like it would hold up to a good strangling. Six women were already sitting around the table, drinking lattes and tea. You could cut the nervous anticipation in the room with a nail tile. Kim

seated herself at the far end of the table, away from the other women. She had no need to fraternize. As the room tilled, she smiled to herself at the oestrogen overload. Jason, testosterone-tilled Green Beret that he was, was not going to love this. Poor baby, he had his work cut out for him. Eventually, twelve women tilled in around the table. Babette appeared and camp began with the official welcome. "Welcome to the premier spy day experience for women. Today's adventure will feature the fine seductive and survival arts of being a Bond girl. Hand-to-hand combat, for the girl who finds herself in a dangerous situation; master mixology, because a seductress should always know how to pour a drink; and a lesson on the ballroom world's most sensual dance, the tango, because sometimes we want to put ourselves in a compromising situation." She winked. "I'll keep this short. In a moment, Vicki will take you to the fitness centre and the locker room where you can change into your camp shirt and exercise gear and prepare for combat." In the locker room, Kim changed quickly into her yoga pants and sports bra, mentally going over her battle plan. If she could take Jason out in the first session, that would be a cushy day's work, wouldn't it? She'd enjoy a little extra time around the city to shop, maybe take a water taxi, or hang out at the beach. And it would be so easy to get away with murder. Accidents do happen. With her back to the others, she loaded her pink cosmetic bag with her knife, poison and assassin's tools before stuffing her overnight bag into her locker. Then, as the other women pulled their hair into bouncy ponytails, Kim twisted her shoulder-length hair into a severe French twist

and secured it with a comb. Let the amateurs make a fabulous handhold for an attacker. There was no way she'd give Jason a thing to grab onto. Bag dangling from her shoulder, she left the changing area and was the first woman into the fitness room. The workout room had the same "walk on water" view as the Millionaire's Room and smelled faintly of sweat. As her fellow campers filed in, it smelled more and more like the perfume counter at Nordstrom. The room quickly filled with a hum of feminine voices and the occasional nervous giggle. Even before spotting him, she knew when Jason walked in. The room went dead silent for a moment, followed by a collective sigh of appreciation. She turned to see Jason emerging from the men's locker area with his fellow trainer, a man named Steve. Kim had only a faint sketch of who the other guy was. Since he wasn't her target, she only cared enough to make sure he wouldn't be a threat to her plans. Physically fit, but short and stocky with an off-centre nose that had been broken too many times, Steve certainly wasn't the cause of the exhales of appreciation. On the other hand, the sight of Jason sent an unexpected surge of desire through her. Evidently, wanting to kill him didn't dim her animal reaction to him by even a milli-watt. It was a pity she'd have to waste such a fine male specimen. Six foot two, buff but lean, short dark hair, broad shoulders and a narrow waist, he was heaven dressed in a black T-shirt and black athletic pants. Unfortunately for him, even heaven sometimes got a little hell.

His gaze locked with hers and then travelled the length of her body. Appreciation and lust lit his eyes. Naughty boy. She shook her head at him ever so slightly. Vicki shepherded the last camper from the locker room, went to the middle of the training mat, and introduced the instructors. Kim knew all about them. Her mind wandered as Vicki droned on about Steve, but she perked up with pride as Vicki talked about Jason. Not every woman had a target like him. "You women are so lucky, you don't even know! We only get Jason when he's home for one of his infrequent leaves. He's our most popular instructor." She winked at him. Jason just smiled. "Jason works for the US Army in Special Forces. Counter-terrorism, is it?" Jason shrugged. "Maybe." The sound of his deep, sultry voice brought a look of rapture to the woman standing next to Kim. It was a good thing women no longer wore corsets or there would have been some good old-fashioned swooning going on. Obviously charmed, Vicki giggled. "His work is so secret, I'm not sure he even knows what he does, but he's an excellent trainer. Very experienced." So much innuendo in Vicki's words. Kim didn't appreciate it. Jason grinned. "I've trained a few foreign armies in my day." Since the man looked no older than thirty, the boast was doubly impressive.

Introductions complete, Vicki stepped out of the way and the hand-tohand combat training started. Steve and Jason took turns explaining and demonstrating various tactics while the lady spies watched and mimicked. Kim contemplated her first move. Jason began by teaching about balance and demonstrating the on-guard stance. "Good balance is the key to winning a tight. Knees bent, rest on the balls of your feet, ready to move. Arms up, ready to attack. Body turned to the side. You want to present the smallest target possible.” He turned and stared into Kim's eyes. Her heart flipped and her pulse raced out of control, but like any trained killer, she held his gaze. "Stare into the enemy's eyes," he continued. Enemy? Oh my, he’d picked her out already. "But remain aware of your surroundings.” Kim smiled to herself. With Jason in the room, it was hard to be aware of anything else. In that pose, with his thigh muscles and biceps bulging, he looked completely delectable, like she could just run into his arms for a squeeze as he fought off a foreign terrorist. Such fanciful thinking. What had gotten into her today? Steve took a turn teaching the class the vulnerable parts of the body as well as how to properly ball a fist and use it as a weapon. Then the two took turns demonstrating different manoeuvres. They taught the rapt women the open-palm ear slap, the heel-of-the-hand chin jab, the knee-tothe-head bang, and the art of biting and kicking effectively.

When Jason cocked his elbow to demonstrate the well-connected elbow blow, his guns rippled. “I’m

having trouble with that one,” a spy named May Day, a plump, nearly

menopausal woman said. "My cocked elbow doesn't seem quite right.” She looked at her flabby arm and laughed. "Do you mind if I feel yours and see what I've got wrong.” Jason walked over to her and held his arm out for her to feel. "Here. Give it a squeeze." May made grabbing motions with her hand before finally taking an actual feel of Jason's arm. "Oh my, ladies! That muscle is real, and very hard.” Kim restrained herself from rolling her eyes. Such blatant behaviour. She may have wanted to kill him, but show some respect. Jason wasn't a male stripper they'd hired for a bachelorette party. "Let me show you how it's done.” Jason came behind May, put his arms around her, and bent her arm into the proper position. "Flex.” He gave her arm a feel. "Good. See how simple?” Kim thought Jason shot a look at her. Hey, after hours at the gym, her muscles were rock hard and ready for action. Go ahead and show off, she thought. Enjoy your last remaining moments on this earth. When I show you my muscles, it will be all over. Jason walked back to the front of the class. "All right, if s time for battle," he said. 'You'll each get a turn

sparring with either Steve or me. Who'd like to be first?” His gaze bounced around the group. As the women clustered around Jason, Kim held back. She may as well watch the entertainment for a bit, get her money's worth from camp. Though she highly doubted it, one of the women might tire Jason out, which would only be to Kim's advantage. Two clumsy bouts with Jason playfully pulling ponytails were all Kim could stand to watch. As the other day-spies sat on the sidelines and cheered and laughed, Kim had to fight the urge to roll her eyes. Jason hadn't even broken a single bead of sweat. As the round ended, Kim pushed her way to the front of the crowd and stared Jason down. "I'm next." She ignored the death glares the women who'd been waiting longest shot at her. Spies weren't paragons of manners. The sooner they learned that lesson, the better. She wanted to get this over with and on to her other mission - that much needed pedicure. The thought of her feet in a warm, sudsy footbath spurred her on. She wondered for just a second if Jason would chastise her and send her to the back of the line. Fortunately, he didn't disappoint her. He was a soldier at heart. He didn't give a rip about politeness. Instead, he liked bold women and relished a challenge. She could see it in his eyes. He swung into the ready position. "You're on, Tracy." Kim smiled and whipped off her T-shirt, revealing her low-cut black sport bra, a whole lot of cleavage, and the set of abs she'd worked so hard on. The other women gasped. Too bad none of them had been smart

enough to think to use their assets to their advantage. Kim saw the sparkle of lust reignite in Jason's eyes. Kim snapped into position, calculating her moves. Jason waved at her to come at him. “Your move. Give me a big kick." "I'll kick your butt, all right. But I don't take orders from anyone, let alone the enemy," She swept up a fitness magazine that was sitting on a table nearby and rolled it into a baton in a single movement. The group let out a collective gasp. Someone shouted, "Not fair! She's got a weapon." Kim held the magazine baton like a spear and charged him, aiming it at his windpipe. Jason ducked into a crouch at the last second, sending Kim tumbling over his back and flat on to hers. "All's fair in love and war." He sounded exuberant. The sounds of the women on the sidelines, all cheering Jason on, faded away as Kim concentrated on her goal. She rolled on to her stomach, put her palms flat on the floor, brought her knee up under her and sprung to a stand, thrusting a well-aimed knee at his crotch. He caught her knee just before it made contact and tipped her back down on her butt. From the floor, she wrapped one leg around the back of his knee and tugged. As he went down, Kim leaped forwards on to her knees. She had to get his head back so she could deliver a death chop to his windpipe.

His military haircut was too short to grab and use as a handle to pull his head back. Instead, she curled the fingers of her left hand in towards her palm, aiming the heel of the hand at his forehead, intent on pushing his head back, as she prepared to chop with her right hand. She surprised him and got his head back, but he was lightning quick. He deflected her death chop and grabbed her hand, tugging her off balance on to her side. As she fell, her left hand lost contact with his forehead. Curse his brute strength! As she cowered on her right side, trying to recover, he pulled the French twist comb from her hair. She growled and startled him enough to grab it from him. Holding it like a claw and channelling her inner wolverine, she swiped it at him. She caught his arm with the comb and drew blood. Swearing beneath his breath, he wiped the blood off on his shirt, giving her enough time to get on her feet and lunge for him. He dodged to her right and then back to her left. As she swung her head around to track him, her loose hair and her rage blinded her. Jason seized the advantage, grabbed her and pounded her into the mat. Next thing Kim knew, the comb flew from her hand and clattered across the room. She lay flat on her back on the mat, hair fanned around her, with her arms pinned to her sides. Jason sat on her crotch. She wished she could say she hated the feeling, but the man had the goods. Her whole body tingled. For his part, he was smiling and staring at her heaving breasts. Pretending to readjust his weight, he rocked against her ever so slightly and winked.

Two could torment. She squirmed beneath him just to get him going. But actual escape was futile. "Uncle?" He leaned into her so close that their lips nearly met and her breasts brushed his chest. Just the tiniest movement would close the gap between them. What would it be like to kiss him here? A woman with less self-restraint would have found out. Dead silence filled the room. Kim scowled. "You win. This time." It looked like her pedicure would have to wait. He grinned. "The army could use a girl like you." He sat up and offered her a hand up. "Ready?" She nodded, thinking standing wouldn't be all that comfortable for him. Next round would be hers. In the locker room, the other spies gave Kim the wide berth she'd rightfully earned. The fact that she'd botched the job only made her more stand-offish. Her fellow campers took quick spins in the shower to mist off the gentle dew they'd worked up during hand-to-hand combat, before changing into their cocktail dresses for the afternoon. Kim was a sweaty mess. She took a real shower and washed her hair, which meant she had to start her beauty routine from scratch. As a consequence, she showed up to lunch perfumed, hair flowing, sultryeyed and late. She wore a plunging, dark-pink knee-length dress with a skin-tight bodice and flowing skirt, gold stiletto heels, and her camp

make-up bag over her shoulder. The only seat left was next to Babette. Lunch waited for her. Babette passed her the salad dressing and a basket of rolls. "Are you enjoying yourself?" "I am, yes. Thank you." Kim helped herself to a roll and a pat of butter. She'd earned a treat and she'd be working it off later, anyway. "We've never had a camper quite as . . . um, zealous as you are." The perplexed look on Babette's face said she was trying to figure Kim out, and failing miserably. Being a good spy, Kim put on her innocent routine and decided to act as if Babette were complimenting her. "Really? Oh, thank you!" She beamed. "I like to win. I'm very competitive. And I love physical activity. I'm just sorry I didn't beat him." Babette laughed as if Kim's statement were a silly thing. "That would have been a first! No one beats Jason. Ever. Not unless he wants them to." She sounded ridiculously proud of him. For some reason, that irritated Kim. She kept smiling and playing along anyway and planning her revenge. She shrugged as if she were conceding the point. "I really let out my inner Bond girl, didn't I? I get points for that, at least." "Well . . . yes." Babette squirmed, looking as if she didn't want to encourage any more of Kim's overzealous behaviour. Kim couldn't resist egging her on just a bit more. "Hey! I have a great

idea. I could give you a testimonial for your website." She flashed Babette her most radiant smile. "All about how the Lipstick Spy School really brought out the Bond girl in me." "Oh, um, sure. Next time we update the website, maybe?" Babette cleared her throat. "After lunch, we have our mixology class. You're going to love that." Her voice was unnaturally cheerful and the bright smile on her face patently fake. Beneath the forced good humour, she looked relieved by the thought of a stiff drink or two. Kim guessed Babette was thinking that nothing could possibly go wrong during a mixology lesson. Guess again, Babette, darling. Jason hated wearing monkey suits, even one in the form of a ridiculously expensive Brioni tuxedo. At least the dress trousers were narrow cut, giving them a military flair. As Babette had explained to him numerous times before, a tuxedo may be cliche, but it was what the women considered the quintessential spy uniform. So think of it that way, as a uniform. He wore those all the time, didn't he? Furthermore, what the female clients wanted, the female clients got. His job was less about teaching valuable self-defence lessons and more about giving the ladies a slice of fantasy - he was supposed to be a bit of eye candy and flirt a little. He felt like a gigolo. If this job didn't pay so well and have such excellent perks, he would have ditched it a long time ago. It was a hell of a way to spend part of his leave time. As he walked on to the terrace in preparation for mixology 101, he rubbed his arm where a bandage covered the scratch Tracy had given him

with the hair comb. He smiled. Deep as it was, he deserved that scratch. He'd worked her hard and he was proud of her. No demure little thing for him. He had one thing in common with Bond he liked his women bold and dangerous. Something about that particular woman turned him on. A group of Lipstick spies gathered around a portable bar in the shade on the terrace overlooking the pool. They watched the mix master, a bartender named Mark he'd talked with on occasion at the gym, prepare for class. The day-spies, mostly privileged women in their thirties and forties, wore a variety of obviously expensive cocktail dresses. Only Tracy's turned his head. She sat at the end of the bar, aloof and confident in a deep-pink dress with her camp bag slung over her shoulder. He was no fashion expert, but her dress was hot. As he approached, a pleasant breeze lifted Tracy's flowing skirt, revealing a smooth, firm, perfectly shaped thigh that made him itch to run his hands down it. Mark the bartender was speaking. The ladies hung on his every word as if he were Proust. Like Jason, Mark had been hired as much for his looks as for his job qualifications. Mark's words drifted to Jason on the breeze. "The perfect Martini recipe is a fantasy. Individual tastes differ. Simply put, the ideal Martini is the one that tastes best to you. "A Martini is nothing more than a mixture of gin and vermouth in proportions that please the recipient's palette.” He held up a bottle of French vermouth. "For the novices among you, vermouth is a fortified wine

flavoured with herbs.” Looking at the women, Jason couldn't see a novice anywhere from here to the horizon. Mark set a silver Martini shaker and a bucket of ice on the bar counter. "A dry Martini refers to a Martini made with much more gin than vermouth. The less vermouth, the drier the Martini..." Jason slid on to a stool beside Tracy, turning so his knees nearly brushed her hips as he leaned on the bar to stare at her. "How do you prefer your Martinis?” She turned and gave him the sexiest smile he'd ever seen. It reached all the way to her eyes, which were made up to simply smoulder. "A good Martini is like a fine sense of humour- dry. The drier, the better.” He leaned in close to her. "If I poured you a glass of gin, would you let me whisper 'vermouth' in your ear? Would that be dry enough for you?” She tilted her head and laughed. "Almost. Maybe.” She picked up a swizzle stick from a dispenser on the counter and twirled it in her fingers. The other women were staring at them now. "A Martini can be shaken or stirred,” Mark was saying, trying to draw their attention back on him and the lesson. "There are pros and cons to each method. Both cool the alcohol, which is the main point..." Jason held Tracy's gaze. "Ah, the age old question - shaken or stirred?" Her coy smile struck straight at his heart. "Stirring preserves the clarity of the liquor." "But?" he asked.

"I prefer shaken.” The corners of her mouth curled up as if he amused her as no other man ever had. She looked seductively up at him from beneath her long lashes. He wished she'd never stop staring at him like that. "Really?" "Yes." As she adjusted herself on the stool, her hips brushed his knees. You wouldn't catch him moving away from her touch. "Because it's the Bondian method?" "Bondian method! You made that word up." She laughed again, a beautiful, deep, sultry laugh that made his desire rage. "No, not because of Bond. I love the little ice flecks that float on a well-made drink." "Ah, you like to skate on yours. Hot, are you?" "I could be." Her tone held just the right amount of flirt. If he'd been a caveman or in the one of the many jungles and remote locations he'd fought in over the years, he'd have scooped her up and carried her off right then. She tilted her head and appraised him. "You look very handsome in a tuxedo. But I bet all the girls tell you that." Before he could answer, she reached over and ran her fingers over his shoulder, sending a pleasant shudder down his back. "Beautiful fabric." Then she ran her hand down his arm and squeezed his forearm, right where his bandage sat. He winced. "Your arm." She spoke in a seductive coo. "I'm so sorry."

"Hey, you two," Mark called to them. "Try your drinks." Jason hadn't noticed that a Martini glass had been set before him on the bar. He ignored it, preferring to watch Tracy as she sipped hers. "And that concludes the basic Martini," Mark said. "Now for the variations." Tracy sighed. "Mark looks put out. We'd better pay attention." Much to his disappointment, she turned around to follow the lecture. Mark demonstrated some of the more exotic Martinis - a Sour Appletini, a Chocolatini, a Rendezvous. Each spy, starting at the far end of the bar from Jason and Tracy, tried her hand at mixing a different drink. Even Steve mixed one up after wandering in pulling at his shirt collar, so late Babette should have canned his butt. When they got to Jason, Mark asked him, "What'll it be for you? A James Bond Martini?" Jason shook his head. "I'd like to make up my own recipe." "Brave man," Mark said. 'You going to mix it or shall I?" "You go ahead. I’ll give you the recipe." Jason turned to Tracy. "What do you like? Give me an ingredient." "Let me think," she said as she pulled her bag off her shoulder and set it on the counter. "Hmmmm." She opened her bag and pulled a tin of breath mints from it. "Like one?" She held them out to him on her open palm. He declined, watching raptly as she put a mint in her mouth and replaced the tin in her purse. How in the world did she make sucking on a mint look like a seduction? Something in her eyes, the way she held his

gaze. The way she ran her tongue around her mouth and puckered her lips. He'd love for her to be sucking on him. He hoped the mint was enjoying itself. She pursed her lovely, glossy lips as she thought. "Tonic water. I love a good gin and tonic. In this warm weather, it sounds like heaven." "You're making it too easy on me," he told her before turning back to Mark. "Five parts gin, one part Blue Curacao, one part tonic, and a twist of lemon peel. Shaken and served in a highball." "Coming at you." Mark mixed it and poured it with the flair of a classact bartender before setting the drink in front of Jason. "Not for me." Jason handed the drink to Tracy. "For the lady." The other women let out a collective sigh of envy and appreciation as Tracy lifted the glass to her lips. Yes, he'd calculated the romance of it all. Just because he was a kick-butt action guy didn't mean he didn't know how to seduce a woman. Tracy sighed appreciatively as she pulled the glass from her lips and looked him directly in the eye. He loved the way she stared at him, as if they were the only two people in the room. "Fabulous!" Her tone was low, sexy, intimate, just for him. "My compliments. What will you call it?" "The Mrs B." She tilted her head as she smiled and studied him. "Not the Tracy?" "No." "How about the Mrs Bond?"

He laughed. She thrilled him to his core. "Too formal. The Mrs B." She nodded and turned from him to hold the glass up towards the sky and ocean and watch the light shine through it. "What a gorgeous drink. 1 love blue." She sounded almost wistful. Jason could have watched her all day. As it was, it was a good thing he was watching her then. Most people wouldn't even have seen it, but he'd been trained in observation skills. She'd concealed a small vial of white crystalline powder in her hand. Probably got it when she'd opened her purse to get the mints. Using magician-quality sleight of hand, she poured the powder into the glass and disposed of the vial. He watched her swirl the highball slowly to dissolve the addition. "If s a blue horizon in a glass,” she said. "Absolutely perfect.” The whole transaction took mere seconds. When she turned around, the powder had dissolved and the drink sparkled, clear blue again. She held it out to him much as he imagined Eve had held the apple out to Adam, all seduction and harm. "Have a drink?” Her words were practically a whisper on the wind. She was good. She didn't even falter. He took the drink from her hand and lifted it part way to his lips just to watch her reaction. Yeah, she was dying for him to drink. At the last second, he tipped the drink into the tasting spittoon bucket on the bar. "Sony, I don't drink on the job.” Even though she held her sultry smile in place, anger and

disappointment leaped in her striking green eyes. Why did the beautiful ones always want to kill you? Two botched attempts in a few hours were almost more than Kim's pride could handle. Yeah, the man was good, but she was a better assassin than that. She'd blown her two best shots. A kill during hand to hand could have been written off as an accident. The poison she'd slipped in the drink was slow-acting and untraceable and the tonic water would have concealed its bitter taste. She could have been the heck and away long before he succumbed. But there was no way she could kill him on the dance floor and get away with it. Simply no way. She cursed handsome, charming men. There were so few of them and, yet, she had to get rid of a prize one. This one was very rare. He set her pulse going and threw her off-balance where many others had failed. She was known as an unflappable woman, and for good reason. Trying to kill him was her job. But her mark was on to her now, big time. Her job wasn't going to get any easier. Fortunately, her intel said that Jason had a room in the hotel for the night. She had his room number and she hadn't met a lock yet that could keep her out. She'd have to strike him there. Her automatic Leverletto should do the trick quickly and without any unnecessary mess. But she wasn't going to get any extra sightseeing time. And she was going to have to endure tango lessons, she thought as she walked into the Millionaire's Room, which had been transformed into a studio complete with a dance floor. The tango instructors, a handsome Cuban man and a slender, pretty

Cuban woman, stood at the head of the dance floor talking to Babette and Vicki. A cluster of young male dancers stood just off from them. Where were Jason and Steve? She'd assumed they'd be here, too. Kim joined the group of women hovering at the end of the floor nearest the door and did the maths. "There are too many ladies,” she said conversationally to the woman next to her. The woman glared at her and spoke coldly, "Someone will just have to sit it out." Kim shrugged her attitude off. She'd never cared whether other women liked her or not. And as often as not, they didn't. Vicki introduced the instructors as Andres and Veta. After being introduced, Andres took over the instruction. "The tango is a game of seduction," he said in his delightfully Spanishaccented English. Where did Babette and Vicki find their instructors? They certainly knew how to sustain a woman's fantasy. Kimgavethem credit for a job well done. Now if she could only do hers. "Like any seduction, it all begins in the eyes." Andres held his arm out to Veta as she came around to stand in front of him. She looked adoringly, seductively into Andres' eyes and he into hers. Kim could feel a swoon penetrate the air around her. "Now it would be helpful if my male dancers will pair with the ladies." He snapped his fingers and the young dancers partnered up.

They were one beefcake short. As the last available dancer headed for Kim, the snotty lady next to her snagged him by grabbing his arm and pulling him to her. The young man looked startled. The woman flashed Kim a smug look. "Aye! We are one short." Frustration showed on Andres* face as he looked at Kim and shook his head. He turned to Vicki and Babette and frowned. "I can't pair you with her. It does no good for ladies to dance with ladies. The man and the woman have different steps. It would ruin you! And I have worked so hard." Just then, Steve hurried into the room, adjusting his tie as if he'd had it off in the brief interim between sessions. "Ah," Andres said and swung his arm wide to indicate Steve should partner with Kim. Kim sighed. She was pretty sure Steve had all the grace of a gorilla and she really didn't want to stare him in the eye. Unfortunately, she had no choice. "We begin with the posture." Andres demonstrated. "Arms at the side. The neck follows the line of the spine. Breathe deeply and quietly." He looked around the class, studying his students. "Good! We move on. The man holds the woman in the small of her back with his right hand. Just so." He put his arm around Veta. "He takes the woman's right hand lightly with his left and they extend their embrace to shoulder height. Women, rest your left hand gently on your partner's shoulder. Now chests wide, arms bent..." The lesson continued with Andres and Veta demonstrating the steps and

Steve clobbering Kim's toes, made especially vulnerable in her open-toed stilettos, as they tried the moves. "One, two, three, four, five - ladies remember to cross over—" Kim crossed. Steve moved the wrong way and stomped her foot. "Ouch!" Kim bent and grabbed her throbbing toes. "Sorry! Sorry!" Steve bent to have a look. She tried putting her weight on her foot and winced, backing off. It was as good an excuse as any to end this disaster. "I don't think I can dance any more." She glanced at him. He really did look apologetic, though with the force he'd pranced on her foot, she wondered if it had been intentional. She got the feeling Steve didn't like dancing. "Let's get you to a chair." He offered his arm and she hobbled with his help to the nearest seat. She sighed as she examined the damage. Her big toe glowed red, the dark edges of a bruise already beginning to form. She'd be lucky if she didn't lose her big toenail. Even a great pedicure couldn't cover up a lost nail and she didn't relish the thought of an acrylic. She was still lamenting and rubbing her foot when Jason walked into the room. Without a word, he grabbed her by the hand and pulled her to the dance floor before she could protest. He snapped her around in front of him and stared into her eyes with an intensity that took her breath away. She couldn't look away. She could only stare back into his eyes as if he held her there by sheer will. His put his

hand at the small of her back where she was keenly aware of its heat through the thin fabric of her dress. She rested her trembling hand on his shoulder and kept her chin up. He took her hand in his and squeezed it. She thought she'd never be able to breathe again. "Ready?” he asked in a deep, steady voice that made her tingle all the way to her toes. "When you are." He smiled. Their gazes never wavering, they flowed into the music and on to the floor as one. "One, two, three, four, five with the crossover, six, seven, eight." Andres kept time. Kim could have kept it with her heartbeat. Staring into the depths of Jason's eyes, seeing seduction and desire there, feeling his heat and a rush of desire wash over her, she hoped her knees wouldn't buckle. The world faded away. They became one, the two of them engaged in a tango that was both seduction and competition. She broke the silence, but not their gaze. She refused to blink first. "You're very sure of yourself, aren't you?" "A good spy always is." "I'm injured." "Are you?" "Bastard," she said, but she kept her tone light. "Suppose I were to kill you

for a thrill for dragging me out here?" He laughed. "Quoting Bond movies now, Countess?” "Butchering them." He smiled. "I think we've mastered the basic step. How about a challenge - can you sandwich?" At the thought of his thigh between her legs, she flushed. But she never backed down from a challenge. "Can I sandwich!" She beat him to the punch and slid her leg between his, rubbing her thigh against his crotch, and smiling at the reaction she got. He merely grinned and whispered in her ear, "Gotta love the tango." One, two, three, her leg between his. Four, five, six, his between hers. Her heart raced as he grew bolder with each step. A whisper of desire grew until it shouted within her. She lost herself to him. A very dangerous game, that. She wanted nothing more than to tango all the way to the bedroom and beyond. Oh so far beyond to tangled satin sheets and satisfied moans. When the music stopped and the dance ended, Kim had to force herself back to reality7 from the ravenous dance. Andres was clapping for them. "Excellent. Excellent! We see why couples love the tango." He winked. "Such fluid motion." Kim's breath came hard. While she danced, she hadn't even felt the physical exertion. Now she wasn't certain the dancing had anything to do with it. Jason continued to stare into her eyes and hold her in his arms for the few extra seconds necessary to indicate intimacy.

Then he released her, nodded to her, and left her standing alone and stunned without a word. She'd been so engrossed, she hadn't even noticed her toe. But now it began to throb. Along with her heart. Camp ended a half-hour after Jason left. Although she went through the motions, it ended for Kim with his departure. The moment Babette dismissed them, Kim rushed for the locker room and retrieved her overnight bag. Room 1010. Jason's. She hoped he'd gone straight to it. She didn't relish the thought of lying in wait. On the surface, waiting to pounce sounded exciting, but waiting was waiting no matter how you sliced it, and dead boring. Kim took the elevator up alone and found the hallway deserted. This time of day, the cleaning staff had finished their job. She located Jason's room with ease. She cased the situation and studied the door. Lucky her, he was in. He'd locked the deadbolt and now the indicator on the door showed that the room was occupied. She pulled her tools from her bag. Seconds later, she'd picked the electronic lock and jimmied the deadbolt. She stashed her tools in her bag with the stealth of trailing shadow. As she palmed the little Leverletto, her heartbeat roared in her ears. Be still my heart, the excitement! She listened at the door before she pushed it open. Running water! Delicious. She not only had the element of surprise on her side, but the

Psycho element as well. As she peered inside, her breath caught. The white and tan room had a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows that slid back and opened on to a wide balcony and a panoramic ocean view. Bolsters, shams and pillows scattered with red rose petals and embroidered with words of love filled the mile-high bed. More rose petals lay scattered on the floor, making a path to the bed and the bathroom beyond. Perfumed candles flickered on the nightstand and on a table on the balcony in the waning evening light, giving off a seductive scent. An ice bucket on the table held a bottle of deep red wine. Two crystal wine glasses and a box of high-end chocolates sat beside it. The man lived like Bond. And he was expecting company. She smiled and silently let herself in, setting her bag by the door. She fingered her knife, ready to strike as she sneaked towards the bathroom door and into the hypnotic sound of running water. No one would hear a thing. She paused for just a second by the slightly ajar bathroom door and peeked in. Steam obscured her view. She didn't dare venture a better look for fear he'd see or hear her. She took a deep breath. It was now or never. She stepped in, ready to kill. Before her, gently steaming water streamed into a half-filled, two-person Jacuzzi bathtub. But there was no one in it. Where was— Warm, bare arms, moist from a shower, grabbed her from behind, pinned her arms against her side, and her body against a very naked man. She bit back a scream and kicked wildly as he lifted her off the floor. She

should have known! The man had ice in his veins and moved as silently as falling snow. "Drop it!" he growled in her ear. His freshly shaved cheek brushed her own, distracting her. She did love a smooth face. "Make me." Wrong thing to say. He pressed her more tightly against his aroused body with one arm and grabbed her knife wrist with the other so tightly he cut off her circulation. She'd fight him until the end. She had to. She flailed against him, but it was useless and a waste of precious energy. She tried the child's trick of going limp, hoping he'd drop her or that she'd be able to slip through his arms. But the steam stuck her dress to both her skin and his, gluing them together and giving him the advantage. And he was too strong and too well trained for the limp trick to work. He acted as if he could hold her deadweight all night long. He held and squeezed her with muscles as firm and taut as a cobra's until her body tingled all over, and she wanted nothing more than to coil herself around him. Her hand lost all feeling. Her hair felt damp against her face. He shook her wrist, trying to snap the knife free. Her wrist cramped up and she lost her grip. The Leverletto clattered to the floor. Rotten commando moves! Jason kicked her knife away. He released her. Unable to resist him any longer, she spun around into his arms. He pulled her against him and into the deep, open-mouthed kiss she'd been longing for all day. She melted into him and kissed him back,

running her hands through his short hair and over his shoulders. He pulled away and stared deep into her eyes. "I missed you, Mrs Bergman." "I missed you too, Mr B." He nuzzled her neck, at the same time pulling the spaghetti straps of her dress off her shoulders. "I win. Again." "Ummm." She could barely think. 'Yes, yes, oh yes." She ran her hands over his bare chest, savouring every rock-hard ripple of muscle. How she missed him when he was away. "Never wrestle with a naked man. He’ll always win." Happiness bubbled up within her. He;d bested her. His skills were as sharp and honed as ever. Her job keeping him on his toes done, she could relax. A bit. 'You almost beat me. I nearly missed the powder in the drink." He kissed her shoulder. "Quinine. Just enough in the whole dose to make you uncomfortable. Now if it had been something truly lethal..." 'You're a hell of an agent. The CIA's lucky to have you." He kissed her neck. "And so am I." He pulled back just far enough so he could look her in the eye. He swept her hair back from her face with a gentle touch that made her love for him well up. "I've proven myself? You won't worry when I'm on active duty now?" She cupped his face in her hands. "I love you. HI always worry." She

sighed, sensing he wanted reassurance. He hated it when she worried. "But “I concede that you're in top form." She smiled and traced a pattern on his chest with her fingertip. He shuddered beneath her gentle touch. She looked up at him again and pleaded with him, "Just come back to me. Come back to me whole and yourself." 'Yeah." He unzipped her dress and slipped it off her. "If you’ll come with me now." He scooped her into his arms. She leaned her head on his shoulder as he shut off the water and carried her to that big, wonderful bed.

Don't Walk Away Shiloh Walker

One The woman he loved held a knife at his throat. He was on his knees, on a fucking filthy street, and she stood behind him. Close. So close he could smell her skin. So close he could reach out and touch her ... finally.

Except there was the small matter of the knife in her hand. And he suspected she probably hated his guts. Somehow, he doubted the knife was her way of telling him how much she missed him. He wanted to see her. But he held still. Her hand was shaking. He could feel it, feel the sharp edge of the blade pressing into his skin. If he moved too quickly, she just might lay his neck wide open. "Fucking bastard.” It was the first thing she'd said since she'd come up behind him. It was dim in the narrow alley tucked between two low, squat buildings, but Ethan Raintree had no trouble recognizing her voice. "Hello, Celeste." "Bastard.” "You already said that. Are we going to stay like this all night or are you going to use that knife?” he asked. Part of him wondered if she could. Could she use it on him? "Don't tempt me,” she whispered. There was an underlying thread of steel in her voice. His heart broke a little at the sound. She'd been so soft once, so untouched. No more. The ugliness of his world had bled over into hers. Yes. She could use the knife. But she lowered it instead and backed away. Slowly, Ethan came to his feet and turned to face her. The sight of her now did the same thing to him as it had the first time he'd seen her. Nearly eleven years had passed since then.

It had been ten years since he had walked away from her. It had been the hardest thing he'd ever done, but he hadn't had much choice. After he'd destroyed her life, leaving her alone was the least he could do. Eleven years ... she'd changed. He had as well, in some ways. But he still loved her. If he didn't love her, he wouldn't be here, on this day, in this sad, run-down excuse for a town. Belle, Texas-It was anything but "belle”. Ugly as sin, poor as dirt and still struggling to catch up to the current century. He was only here, because he'd known she'd be here, too. It was 2 July, the anniversary of the day her grandmother had died. Every year on the second day of July, like clockwork, Celeste travelled to Belle, Texas to visit her grandmother's grave. Ethan knew. Every year for the past nine years, he'd been here on this day if at all possible. Before he had left the army, he'd missed the date twice. In the five years since then, he hadn't missed it once. Up until now, she hadn't ever seen him. Judging by the look on her face, she wasn't overly pleased about running into him now. What in the hell was I thinking? he wondered. She'd been leaving the small diner at the centre of town and when she'd glanced his way, instead of melting back into the crowd, he'd lingered, just long enough for her to see him. He wasn't sure if he was surprised she'd come after him or not. Although he had been surprised when she'd taken his feet out from under him a few minutes ago.

He might have asked about that if she hadn't looked at him with such venom in her eyes. "What are you doing here?" she demanded, glaring at him. Anger flashed in the depths of her dark eyes. Ethan jerked a shoulder in a restless shrug, uncertain how to answer that. Did he tell her he was there because he'd known she'd be there? Did he tell he'd come so he could see her, for just a few seconds? That he'd been doing it for years? Stalker, much? Celeste narrowed her eyes and said, "You know, I'm pretty sure the Army Rangers aren't in big demand herein Belle, Texas. So what in the hell are you doing here?" "I'm not with the army any more," he said. She blinked, and if he wasn't mistaken, she looked a little caught off guard. She recovered quickly though and gave him a cocky smirk. "Well, that would explain how you ended up on your knees in an alley, I guess. You getting rusty, Ethan? Letting somebody like me sneak up behind you?" "I heard you behind me." And if he'd turned around just five seconds earlier, she wouldn't have taken him out like that. He hadn't turned around because he'd needed a few more seconds to level out. By the time he'd thought he could look at her without letting her see his every emotion written on his face, she'd already taken his legs out. "Bully for you." Her grin took on a mean slant and she said, "So did you let me put you down? If so, why don't we do it again? Maybe after a few

dozen repeats, “I feel better.” If he believed that he just might let her. He stared at her, hungry for the sight of her, and so much more. He wanted to feel those long, slender fingers running through his hair, curling around the back of his neck and stroking his skin as he kissed her. A few seconds passed and the cocky smile on her face faded. "Don't look at me like that," she said quietly, shaking her head. "Like what?" "Like that...like you used to look at me. Like you thought I hung the moon and the stars." “I

did." They hadn't had much time together during their relationship.

Stolen moments when he could get away for a day or two, and one memorable trip to Cancun when he had been on leave. That was right before it all fell apart. Right before he found out who she was. Celeste Harper was a bit of a pampered princess. He'd always known that, from the first time she'd walked into a nameless bar in the depths of Mexico City - a place she never should have gone. All he had to do was look at her as she sauntered into the cantina, wearing a white silk dress that cost more than most people made in a month. Hell, in Mexico, that dress probably cost more than most people made in a year. She'd had two shadows at her back, but paid them so little attention Ethan had decided she was used to having silent bodyguards.

The bodyguards - shit. Even if he had been too dazed by Celeste, he should have taken a look at the bodyguards and run in the other direction. He could have saved them both the heartache. But he had glanced over the bodyguards and figured he knew why she had them. Princesses didn't leave their castles without a couple of knights to watch over them. Ethan had looked, wanted, taken ... and it wasn't until later that he realized who she was. Celeste Harper was actually Celeste Harper Jeffers. And she was the only daughter of Paul Jeffers. Ethan didn't personally know the man, but he had heard of the bastard. He was a drug lord and his speciality7 lay in creating derivatives of the date-rape drug, Rohypnol. Celeste had no idea. Until Ethan had told her. He shouldn't still look that perfect, Celeste thought, more than a little disgusted at the way her body was reacting to him. It was like she was twenty-two all over again, and caught up in his spell. "You never thought I hung the moon and stars," she said, keeping her voice low and level when all she wanted to do was scream. He glanced away, hiding his disconcertingly pale eyes from her. He didn't say anything, but that wasn't a surprise. Ethan had never been one for explaining himself, or trying to

convince people to listen. He said what he needed to and if people listened, fine. If not, he didn't give a damn. He'd tried to convince you. And he did give a damn ... Shut up, she told herself. That quiet voice, even after all this time, tried to insist that Ethan hadn't done anything wrong, that it had been a weird quirk of fate that had brought them together. Just walk away. That was what she needed to do. Desperately needed to do. Walk away from him, get back on the bus and head back home. Of course, she didn't really know where home was. Not any more. Not for ten damn years, ever since she'd realized the truth. Ever since Ethan had told her the truth. Watching him from under her lashes, she tucked her knife back inside her boot. She spent a few seconds smoothing out her jeans, and wished she could do something about the way her hands shook. Slowly, she straightened and stared at him. For the past ten years, she'd wondered how she'd feel if she saw him again. What it would be like to look at the man responsible for shattering everything she'd valued in her life. She'd clung to the notion that if she ever saw him, she'd pummel that perfect face of his bloody. The bottom of her stomach gave out on her as she realized something. She didn't want to beat him bloody. She didn't want to shriek, yell, punch. She wanted to throw herself at him and feel those arms come around her, feel him tangle his fingers in her hair and hold her close. This is bad, bad, bad ...

Setting her jaw, she crossed her arms over her chest. She bit the inside of her mouth. She made herself think about how terrible the first few years of her life had been after she learned about her father. She dredged up every bad memory that she could link to Ethan's existence. Nothing was working. She still wanted to run to him. Desperate times called for desperate measures. Baring her teeth at him, she asked in a cool tone, "So ... was it you?" Ethan cocked a brow at her. "Pardon?" "Was it you? Are you the one who killed my father?" The only reaction she saw was the faintest flicker of his eyelashes. His face never changed, no anger, no guilt, no surprise showed in his eyes. Nothing. "I wasn't involved with anything connected to Paul Jeffers," he said. Was he lying? If he was, would she even be able to tell? She narrowed her eyes and watched him closely, looking for . . . she didn't even know what. What did she expect to see? A glaring red sign that read: I'M A LIAR. Or maybe one that said: YES, I DID IT. I KILLED HIM. YOU’RE RE RIGHT TO HATE ME. Except she didn't hate him. And she couldn't make herself not believe him. "Not 'involved'. Exactly what does that mean?" "Just what it sounds like," he replied. His pale-grey eyes held hers. "I wasn't involved. I had nothing to do with it. I didn't know it was going down. I didn't even know he'd died until it was on the news.”

Celeste swallowed. To her horror, she realized her eyes were burning she was so close to crying. So close. Blinking away the tears, she looked away from him and muttered, "Well, maybe that counts for something." Ethan sighed. "It shouldn't count for anything." He came forwards, edging around her. He passed so close she could feel the warmth of his body, so close she could smell the warm, vaguely exotic scent of the sandalwood soap he used. Was she imagining it or did he lightly brush the tips of his fingers over her hair? "Goodbye, Celeste." Goodbye? Narrowing her eyes, she spun around and glared at his retreating back. "Excuse me? Goodbye? You show up here after ten years and all you have to say to me is 'goodbye'?" He glanced over his shoulder at her, a sad smile tugging at the corners of his hard mouth. "What else do you want me to say, Princess?" "How about 'sorry'? How about an explanation for why you are here? Something." "You're a bright woman, Celeste. It's 2 July. This is Belle, Texas. You're always in Belle on 2 July." Celeste gaped at the back of his head. "You expect me to believe you're here because of me?" "I don't expect anything of you," he said, his deep, smooth voice quiet and steady, stroking over her like a velvet glove. Then he sighed and pushed a

hand through his black hair. "But you asked for an explanation. So there you go. I knew you'd be here. I wanted to see you. End of explanation." He turned back to face her, a grimace twisting his lips. "The explanation is easy. But an apology? Not so easy." He watched her with a deep, penetrating stare that made her feel like he could see clear through to her soul. "What should I apologize for, Celeste? I'm sorry you've been hurt in this - I can say that. But I can't apologize for telling you the truth about your father. You needed to know. You were busting your cute little ass in school, making all these plans for how you wanted to help disadvantaged youth, while your dear daddy paid for that education by exploiting women and children." She flinched. Shame hit her, a slap across the face. Blood rushed to her cheeks. "You bastard." "So you’ve said. Twice already." A cynical smile twisted his lips and he shook his head. "But that doesn't explain what you want me to apologize for. I'm not sorry I told you the truth and I'm not sorry that sick son-of-abitch is dead." "That sick son-of-a-bitch was my father," she snarled at him. "I loved him." "I know." His voice was gentle, his eyes kind. There was sympathy there, sympathy, understanding ... and other emotions she didn't want to study too closely because it hurt too much. Just seeing his face hurt. Hearing his voice. Furious with herself, Celeste snarled, "No, you don't know. You don't have any idea what it’s like to realize you come from a monster; to

realize that you loved that monster. To realize that the monster even loved you back. He loved me. He did everything he could to take care of me, to make sure I never wanted for anything ..." A sob stole her voice. I can't do this. Glaring at him, she backed away. "Stay away from me, Ethan. I don't ever want to see you again.” She took off running, barely able to see the ground for the tears that blinded her. Two He was out there. It was disconcerting as hell to realize that. Celeste got out of her bed and padded across the hardwood floors to the small balcony facing Main Street. The Belle Inn was the only moderately profitable business in Belle, catering to those who enjoyed spending the night in older hotels that had a history of being haunted. It had been redone period-style. The room she stayed in probably looked as it had back in the 1800s, with the exception of the air conditioning and indoor plumbing. Thick curtains covered the windows, blocking out the light, muffling sound. Too bad they weren't enough to keep Celeste from sensing him. Ethan. He was out there. Why? She'd made herself clear, right?

“I

don't want, ever want, to see you again.' Nice, short, to the point.

Pushing the curtains back, she opened the narrow door and stepped out on to the balcony, peering into the dark. There were street lights here and there, but none of them cast enough light to penetrate the darker shadows that lay between the buildings. That would be where he was. Somewhere in the shadows. Watching her. Bracing her hands on the railing, she leaned against it and stared into the darkness, looking for some sign of him. Where are you? And even as she silently asked that question, part of her wondered, Why do I care? Because it was Ethan. Because she had to care. It was Ethan... "Where are you?" From where he was, he couldn't hear the question. He saw her lips move, but for all he knew, she was up there begging God to strike him down where he stood. Leaning against a crumbled brick wall, Ethan stared at the woman on the balcony and tried to figure out why in the hell he was still there. She didn't want him around. She'd made that fact pretty damn clear. Still, he'd lingered around the little town and, come nightfall, he did

exactly what he'd done the night before- stood outside her hotel and waited. Just as he'd done for the past nine years. When she backed away from the balcony, he breathed out a sigh that was part relief, part frustration. Relief because if she wasn't looking at him, he could almost breathe past the band constricting his chest; frustration because now it would be another year before he saw her again if she came back to Belle next year at all. It had felt like she had been looking straight at him from on the balcony. That look had made it all but impossible not to go to her, even as it made him want to grab her, hold her. The past nine years had been so damned hard. He missed her. Needed her. Wanted her... She slipped into the room from the balcony and he waited for the doors to close, for the curtains to fall back into place. But they didn't. The door remained open and the curtains pushed aside. Waiting... 'You need to leave," he muttered. But he found himself leaving the alley ... crossing the street... One second she was alone, and the next she wasn't. There was no sound. If she hadn't been staring at the open curtains so intently, she wouldn't even have seen the darker shadow before it was lost to the rest of the darkness.

She eased up in the bed and waited. The only sound was her erratic breathing, but she knew he was in there. She could feel him - a ripple of electricity dancing through the air, his gaze an unseen caress along her bare skin. The man moved like a ghost, utterly silent. It should have terrified her she was alone in a room with a man who'd been trained to kill. But she wasn't terrified. Celeste held her breath and waited for him to speak, but the silence stretched on. Her heart raced within her chest and she squeezed her eyes closed, tried to figure out what in the hell she was doing, why she'd opened the door, why she was lying here like she was waiting for him. It came to her then. Clear as daylight. Clear as the longing she'd seen in his eyes. The same longing she'd felt echoed in her own eyes. Longing ... for him. She was waiting. From the time he'd walked away, even as part of her wanted to hate him, she had been waiting for him to come back. She'd needed him to walk away at the time. He had to go before she did something, said something, she could never take back. She'd needed the time to come to grips with who she was-who her father was. After he'd died, just a few short weeks later, she'd needed the time to grieve. She'd needed the time to understand. To find herself away from her father's overwhelming influence. Now, a decade later, she could finally admit something else.

She needed Ethan. She'd needed him almost from day one. She could survive without him, but she didn't want to survive without him. She wanted to live, wanted to experience the happiness, the peace, she'd known only with him. None of the men she'd allowed into her life had ever measured up to him. No matter how much or how little she'd cared, none of them had ever come close to Ethan. None of them had ever come close to her own heart. Taking a deep breath, Celeste kicked her legs over the edge of the bed. He was so quiet... she couldn't even hear him breathe. So quiet. And her teeth were all but chattering, she was so nervous. She wished he'd say something, but if she tried to open her mouth to speak, she was going to start to babble, and then she'd lose her nerve and she really needed to get this done. Get it over with. If she ended up with a boatload of guilt and self-disgust come morning, so what? It wouldn't be anything new. Without wasting another five seconds, she grabbed the hem of her short nightshirt and hauled it over her head. She let it go and, as the fabric hit the ground with a whisper, she finally heard something from him. A harsh intake of breath, followed by the sound of slow, deliberate footsteps, coming right in her direction. Abruptly, terror seized her and she reached out, blindly hit the light switch on the bedside lamp. A soft golden glow filled the room and she stared at him, blinking her eyes against the light. He wasn't staring at her face, though. He was staring at her body - a naked, hungry look on his face. Terror

held her frozen. Need churned inside her. Her hands shook and she fisted them at her sides, fought not to cover herself. "Celeste..." His voice was a ragged, harsh growl, so unlike his normal tone, always so deep and mellow. He lifted a hand and she caught her lower lip between her teeth as he brushed the back of his fingers over the outer curve of her breast. She caught his hand and pressed it to her. "Come to bed." She took a step backwards, taking him with her. Heat flared in his eyes, but when she went to lie back, he didn't come with her. He opened his hand, cupped her breast in his palm, but did nothing else as he watched her. "Why?" "Because I need it. I need you." Ethan shook his head. "No, you don't. You’ve gone ten years without me in your life. You want me to leave you alone. You don't want to see me again. So why?" "If I didn't want to see you, I wouldn't have opened the door," Celeste said quietly. She leaned against him and pressed a kiss to his chest through his T-shirt. She could feel the warmth of his skin, the solid feel of muscle and man through the thin cloth. "If I didn't want to see you, I wouldn't have followed you when I saw you on the street earlier." Lifting her head, she stared at him through her lashes. Fisting her hands in the worn fabric of his T-shirt, she eased it up. She held her breath when the shirt caught under his arms, wondered if he would stop her, but then he grabbed it and tore it away, hurling it across the room. He caught her arms, keeping a few scant inches between them when all she wanted to do was

press her mouth to his chest and lick, suck, bite, nuzzle all that bare, golden flesh. "I want you." He pressed his brow to hers, his pale-grey eyes boring into her. "I've wanted you every day for the last ten years, and I'd damn near sell my soul for this. But not if you plan on walking away in the morning. Or the day after. Or the year after. Walking away from you almost killed me. I won't do it again -not if this happens." The naked need in his eyes wrenched at her heart. So often, she'd looked into his eyes and seen a blank wall - he rarely left himself exposed. Reaching up, she trailed her fingers down his jawline, feathered them over his lips. "I haven't thought about tomorrow. Or the day after. The year after. I can't think right now. All I know is that I've missed you, even while I tried to tell myself I hated you. I've spent the past ten years missing you, too. Spent the past ten years being lonely ... and I'm so tired of it. I want you, Ethan." "You want me, but do you still love me?" Celeste stepped forwards and wrapped her arms around his neck, pressing her naked breasts to his chest. "I don't think I ever stopped." She caught his lower lip between her teeth and bit him lightly. His body shuddered, but he didn't pull her close. He held still, so very still. Seconds stretched out endlessly - would he pull away? Would he walk away? Walk away. Ethan knew that was exactly what he should do. Coming to her in the dead of night, without even knowing why, without even understanding what in the hell she was doing - hell, he doubted she knew

what she was doing. Just a few hours earlier, she'd told him to stay away and now she stood naked in his arms. Naked. In his arms. And he wasn't doing anything ... why? Fuck it. He'd figure the rest of it out later. Bending his arms around her, he boosted her slender form up until she could wrap her legs around his waist. "Celeste .. ." He groaned her name against her lips as he tangled a hand in her hair, tugged. She tipped her face back and met his kiss, hunger for hunger, heat for heat. Taking her to the bed, he tucked her smaller body under his and settled his hips against the cradle of hers. Through his jeans, he could feel her, warmth and woman .. .waiting. Waiting for him. Finally. After ten fucking years. Levering up on to his knees, he tore at the fly of his jeans, swearing as his fingers fumbled with the button and the zipper. His breath hissed out of him. He ached, throbbed. He shoved his jeans and underwear down past his hips. Celeste reached out and wrapped her fingers around him, smiling. Her hair, black as the night, spread around her shoulders and a wicked smile curled her lips. "Witch," he muttered. She had a confidence now that she hadn't before. Some seed of jealousy tried to grow inside him, but he shoved it aside. It had no place here - neither of them had stopped living.

He certainly hadn't. Gritting his teeth, he reached down and wrapped his fingers around her wrist, stilling her movements. "I... shit, Celeste, I don't have anything with me." She reached up and slid her hand under one of the fat pillows crowding the headboard. She pulled out an unopened box of condoms and tossed them to the middle of the bed. "Problem solved." His gaze landed on the condoms and then he glanced back at her. She shrugged, somehow managing to make the gesture look sophisticated, elegant, even as she lay naked on a bed. "I didn't exactly plan this - had no idea you would be around. But—" "It doesn't matter," Ethan said, shaking his head. He dipped down, pressed his lips to hers while fumbling for the box. He tore it open, shredding the box in his haste. Nothing mattered ... nothing but her, nothing but him, nothing but this. Endless seconds passed as he stretched his body out and covered hers. Endless seconds as he held himself still, hovering just above her while he stared at her face. She smiled up at him. Brushing his lips against hers, he whispered, "I love you. I'm always going to love you." Then, without giving her a chance to reply, he crushed his mouth to hers. She groaned into his kiss as he pressed against her. He growled deep in his throat as she yielded to him.

Heat to heat... softness to strength. It was bliss. It was everything. And even when it was over, even as Ethan was left wondering what would happen come morning, he felt complete for the first time in ten lonely years.

Three I'm in hell. Too fucking hot. The air was thick; thick with the sounds of screaming voices and the stink of blood. Heavy with death, despair. I'm in hell... Something cool touched his face. Stroked his cheek. Warm lips pressed to his. A voice murmured in his ear. ".. .wakeup ..." Just like that, so easy, he slipped out of hell and into heaven. Opening one eye, he peered up at Celeste. She was propped up on one elbow, staring down at him. Her midnight-black hair fell around her shoulders, lay across his chest. Her dark-brown eyes gazed at him solemnly. "You were having a bad dream," she said softly. Ethan grunted. Yeah. Bad dream. That might describe it well enough. If one could call a bad dream having a friend turn and sell them out. Four years. It had been four years since that particular nightmare -one of the men in his unit, a guy he'd known for years, had turned traitor. Max Blesset - the fucking bastard was dead, cold in the ground, but it wasn't

enough. How many nights had he spent reliving that night in dreams? Too many. "Are you OK?" Ethan forced himself to smile. "I’ll be fine.” But he wasn't sure he would. Now that he was awake, now that he realized morning had come, fear settled inside. A cold, hard knot of fear that threatened to block his throat. "You don't look like you feel fine,” Celeste murmured. Tangling his fingers in her hair, he shifted in the bed, rolled until he could tuck her body under his. "I'm fine,” he said again, slanting his mouth over hers. He needed her again. Because in his gut, he suspected she was going to walk away from him now. She'd walk away and, for the rest of his life, he'd live with the knowledge that he would never get over her. He needed more . . . he needed always. He would have to settle for moments and memories. Celeste lay collapsed on his chest, gasping for air. Ethan's big arms held her close, clutching her tight, so tight she could barely breathe. He held her like he thought she'd slip away. Working her arms between them, she lifted her head and smiled down at him. His face was an expressionless mask and Celeste felt something cold begin to work its way through her heart. Her smile wobbled, but she

tried not to let it show as she lowered her head and kissed him. He kissed her back. But it felt... off. Nervous, she pressed against his chest and he let her go, let her slip away from him. She felt cold. She grabbed the sheet and wrapped the tangled cloth around her as he climbed out of bed. The bright early-morning sunlight fell across his golden body, played over his skin as his muscles shifted. Mouth dry, she watched as he grabbed his jeans from the floor and pulled them on. "What are you doing?” He glanced at her. His long, dark hair fell in his eyes, obscuring his features. "Getting dressed." "In a hurry?" He shrugged, lifting one big shoulder before grabbing his shirt from the floor. The cold ache in her chest expanded, shifted, flooded her. She'd felt like this once before - the day he'd walked away from her after he told her about her father. Blinking back the tears, she climbed off the bed. Her hands shook. She wanted her clothes, but she doubted she could even manage to pull anything on just then. She felt sick. As he put his shoes on, she stood there, watching him. Dazed. It lasted until he started towards the door. Then the cold exploded into

fury. Snarling, she grabbed one of her shoes from the floor and hurled it at him. It hit him square between the shoulders. "You son of a bitch." He reached the door. Celeste grabbed the other shoe and hurled it. This one hit him in the back of his hard head. Finally, he paused, reaching up to rub at his head as he looked at her. "You're walking away from me. Again." She hated the petulant whine she heard in her voice. Hated how desperate, how needy she sounded. "You're doing it again." He just stared at her. Fighting to force the words past the knot in her throat, Celeste gestured to the bed and said, "So if you're walking away, just like that, what was last night about?" He lifted a brow. "Sex?" If she'd had another shoe handy, she would have thrown it at him. And she'd aim for his nose - maybe she could break it. "You bastard. So much for that line you handed me about this meaning something." "What was it supposed to mean?” he asked, his voice weary, strained. Glaring at him, she said, "I thought it meant that we still meant something. To each other. Obviously, I was wrong." "What was it supposed to mean?" he asked again. Celeste didn't even know how to answer that. Turning away from him,

she walked to the balcony and slipped outside. It was hot - even though it was barely eight in the morning, the sun shone down with burning intensity and the air was thick, humid and still. She sucked in a lungful of that sultry air and told herself, I'm not going to cry. She didn't believe it, though. And right up until the door opened at her back and she felt the cool wash of air-conditioned air dancing over her skin, she was perfectly OK with crying. She was entitled, damn it. When she'd woken up, she'd felt like she was on cloud nine. Ethan was with her ... finally. Then he'd started moving in his sleep, restless. Occasionally, he'd muttered in his dreams, his voice hoarse, angry and sad. She whispered to him until he came out of the nightmare and he'd touched her ... made love to her. Now he was walking away - hell, yes, she was entitled to cry. "Celeste?" Dashing the back of her hand over her eyes, she stared straight ahead. The busted roads of Belle, Texas were in desperate need of repair, like half of the buildings. But it was easier to look at the eyesores of the poor town than to look at him. "Just leave, Ethan." He laid his hands on her shoulders. Celeste hunched away and when he didn't take the hint, she moved away, putting as much distance between

them as she could. "I'm not leaving," he told her quietly. Snorting, she glared at him. "Oh, really? So were you going for coffee just now or what?" He had the grace to look a little ashamed. "Maybe we can wind the clock back." "No need." She looked away and stared at the barber shop across the highway. "You want to leave, so leave. No reason to wind the clock back." "I don't want to leave." "Oh, puh-leeze." Rolling her eyes, she shook her head. "If you didn't want to leave, you wouldn't have rolled away from me less than a minute after you made love to me. You wouldn't have gotten dressed and headed for the door." "I didn't want to - I figured that's what you would want. Hell, Celeste, you barely know me any more." Slowly, she turned and stared at him. "I know you as well as you know me. But I wasn't the one heading for the door. That was you." A muscle jerked in his jaw. "You blame me for your father's death." "No." Celeste closed her eyes and sagged back against the balcony railing. Through the thin cloth of the sheet, she could feel the rough, heated concrete rail. It felt solid, sturdy. Needing something to cling to, she reached down and braced one hand on it, curling her fingers into it. "No. Dear God, there have been times when I've hated my father, you know that? Even though I loved him, even though I still love him, a part

of me hates him, hates what he was, hates how he lied to me." Opening her eyes, she stared at Ethan through her lashes and said softly, "I blame him for his death, Ethan. Him ... not you." 'You say that now." He stared off over her shoulder, not looking at her. "But practically the first thing out of your mouth was whether or not I had anything to do with it. What would you have done if I'd said, yes . . . if I had known? Hell, if I had killed him?" Celeste flinched. She covered her face with her hands and whispered, "I just don't know, Ethan." With a terse nod, he said, "Well, maybe you should think about it. I didn't kill him. I don't know if it was a sanctioned hit, who did it, nothing." He took a step closer and reached up, caught her chin in his hand, angled her face up to his. In a low, rough voice, he said, "But I could have done it. Hell, I wanted to, once I figured out who he was, and how he'd kept you in the dark all your life. I wanted to kill him and, if I'd had the chance, I just might have done it. So think about that. You don't really want me in your life, Celeste. Not really." He stroked a thumb along her cheek, leaned down for a kiss. It felt like goodbye. It felt like an ending. Tears burned her eyes as he turned away. But she didn't let him walk away this time. Lunging after him, she grabbed his arm. The sheet she had draped around her gaped and she fumbled with it one-handedly as she glared at him. "That's my call, Ethan. I get to say whether or not I want you in my life and, damn it, I know what I want. And I don't want you walking away from me again."

Her voice broke and she reached up, touched her fingers to his cheek. "I don't want you walking away, Ethan. I've been so damned empty without you in my life." She trailed her fingers over his mouth, felt the hard, chiselled lines, committed them to memory. Then she made herself take a step back. "I know what I want. But I'll be damned if I chase after you. It's your call...if you want me, you come looking for me." She left him standing on the balcony and locked herself away in the oldfashioned bathroom. Struggling not to cry, she turned on the water and let the claw-footed bathtub fill. The sound of running water echoed in the small room and she sniffled, giving in and letting one ragged sob escape. There was more sadness trapped inside. But she couldn't give into it. Not yet. She needed to get cleaned up, get the smell of his skin off her body, and then get the hell out of there. Once she was on the road back to Mexico City, she'd give in, then she'd cry. Then she'd grieve. But not yet. She let the sheet fall to the floor and climbed into the tub. Water sloshed against the rim as she settled back. It was hot, almost too hot, but the temperature wasn't doing a damn thing to penetrate the icy shell around her heart. She was so cold. So cold ... Heaving out a sigh, she leaned back in the tub. "Don't think," she told herself.

It was how she got through that first year after Ethan had left her. It was how she'd gotten through her father's death. Denial - it was her friend. "Don't think." Abruptly, the water cut off. Startled, she opened her eyes, staring at Ethan through a cloud of steam. Instinctively, she drew her knees to her chest, shielding herself from his gaze. But he was looking at her face. Only at her face. He knelt by the side of the tub and reached out, fisted a hand in her wet hair. "What?" she demanded, defensively, when he did nothing more than stare at her and toy with her hair. He still didn't say anything. He reached for her and hauled her to her knees, slanting his mouth over hers and kissing her. Water dripped from her body and hair, soaking his T-shirt, dripping down on to his jeans. Celeste tore her mouth away and glared at him. "Don't do this to me, Ethan. I can't handle this roller-coaster ride, not if you don't know what in the hell you want." "I've always known what I wanted," he said. "You. Just you." "Yes, as evidenced by you walking away from me. Twice." "I know what I want," he said, his voice low and rough. "But that doesn't mean I think I can have it. Damn it, Celeste, I barely survived walking away from you." "Then why did you do it?" Celeste demanded, arching her back and trying to put some distance between them. Ethan just tightened his hold. Grey eyes flashing, he glared at her and

said, "Because it was the right thing - for you. I'd ruined your life." "No." She shook her head. "No, you didn't. That wasn't my life. It was a lie, one my dad made for me out of the lies of his life. That's not the kind of life I wanted then, and it's not the life I want now." "What life do you want now?" She gave him a bitter smile. "Haven't you been listening? I want a life with you. I don't know much more than that, but I want it with you." His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. His eyes, dark and stormy, stared into hers, so deep, so intent, as though he was trying to see clear through to the other side of her soul. "Celeste..." She leaned in and kissed his throat. Her heart raced in her chest, soaring high, then crashing to her feet. "If you really walked away because you thought it was the right thing to do, then so be it. I don't like it, but I understand .. . I think. You made a choice. Now you've got a chance to make another one.” Leaning in, she pressed her lips to his ear and murmured, "Make the choice, Ethan. Choose us this time. Us. Not me. Not you. Us." He didn't say anything out loud. He just kissed her. But this time, when he kissed her, it wasn't goodbye. It didn't feel like an ending. It felt like a new beginning.

Heat of the Night

Jordan Summers

One The plane bucked and sputtered, its engines threatening to die before the wheels could touch down on the dirt runway that had been carved out of the jungle a hundred feet below. Ken "Viper" Thompson stared at the civilian medical team from behind mirrored sunglasses. They were a ragtag group of do-gooders, who believed they were making a difference in the world. Had he ever been that naive and young? If he had, Ken couldn't remember. Fifteen years as a professional sniper would do that to a man. He and his spotter, John James Ekle had replaced one of the nurses and the minister on the team at the last moment, which was why they were jammed in here like a half-dozen squids in ajar. Sweat trickled down his back as the heat rising from the jungle smothered the little plane and its occupants. Lack of circulation made the stale air take on an edge of fear and desperation. Nerves were running high. Ken scanned their faces once more, but everyone seemed to be preoccupied with what was outside the aircraft. No one suspected the real reason he and John were here, not even the sharp-eyed doctor in charge of the team. They hadn't had time to develop a deep cover - thanks to a power-hungry ex-general's accelerated timetable - so they'd decided to blend with a real medical relief team. Danger came with that decision, since civilians were unpredictable and

could blow even a good cover by accident. That's how Ken had ended up dressed as a missionary priest and John had passed himself off as a nurse. Both had enough combat medical experience and training to pass scrutiny, but Ken's size had made him conspicuous. At six foot three, there was no blending in. Without the collar to deflect suspicion, the home-grown military would spot him for what he was - a warrior. It was one thing to pretend to be a priest, it was quite another to think like one. Ken's gaze dropped to Dr Lily Houser's bare legs as she uncrossed them. They weren't long, but they were shapely like the woman. Firm and compact, they had just enough strength to grip when it counted. It didn't help that her short sexy blonde hair and sleepy green eyes looked as if she'd just crawled out of bed after a night of vigorous love-making. Hell, maybe she had. The visceral reaction the thought provoked made Ken pause. Why should he care if she had a lover or not? He didn't even know the woman. It wasn't like he was looking to get involved in the middle of a mission. His eyes strayed to her chest and what few saintly thoughts he'd had fled from his mind. Ken tugged at his clergy collar, wishing he'd worn the vestigial tab instead. The cut-out display in his shirt would've saved a lot of choking. Damn, it was hot in here. Ken had been given a file on Lily and the rest of her team before leaving the marine base in Oceanside, California. According to the papers, this was the second time she and this group had volunteered to be dropped into the

ass-end of the jungle. They planned to immunize the locals against the H1N1 virus and set up a makeshift clinic to help curb infant mortality rates. While they set up shop, Ken planned to put a bullet through Juan Garcia - an ex-general with grand ideas of raising an army to stage a coup - then hump it out of the jungle with John before anyone was the wiser. Unfortunately, that would take time since the satellite photos showed three potential locations. Until John scouted them all out and found where Garcia was hiding, Ken would have to play holy man under the watchful eyes of Dr Lily Houser. His gaze strayed to her legs again. Her tan thighs poked out from beneath khaki shorts before tapering into a pair of snug hiking boots. He could think of worse places to be than beneath the good doctor. Lily felt his eyes on her again. She couldn't see the blue hidden behind those mirrored shades, but there was no mistaking the heat. She resisted the urge to tug her shorts down over her legs. It wasn't like they were indecent. They came to mid-thigh. Yet under his gaze, she felt naked. Lily crossed then uncrossed her legs in an attempt to get comfortable in the cramped space. Weren't priests supposed to only have eyes for God? It didn't help that Ken didn't look like your average priest. Her eyes slid over his well-muscled form, long-fingered hands and dark head. He kept his hair short and his rugged face clean shaven. She caught a whiff of something musky, thought it might be aftershave until she smelled it again and realized it was simply soap and man. Father Ken wasn't classically handsome. He was too rough around the edges for that, but he was striking, even more so when she could see his

eyes. The colour of glacial ice, there'd been nothing cold about the way he'd looked at her. Any more heat and he'd have melted the polar caps. Lily was more than a little ashamed that she'd noticed. When he and John had first reported to the aircraft, she'd baulked. Her regular nurse, Amy, had backed out of the trip at the last minute without much of an explanation. The crew Lily had put together was skeleton enough without losing a key member. Every member had a specific function. Without someone there to fill in the missing piece, the team would fail. Lily had little choice but to accept the new additions. That didn't mean she had to like them. She'd put her personal preferences aside because children were dying down in Cielo Bonita. A delay to seek out new team members would only mean more unnecessary casualties. Still, she'd made a few phone calls. Lily couldn't afford not to since she had to depend on her team when they reached the jungle. Father Ken and Nurse John had checked out much to her chagrin. Lily didn't like working with new people, especially out in the field. You never knew how they'd react to the conditions. Her gaze strayed to Father Ken. He didn't look like the delicate type. She glanced at the large black duffel bag at his feet. In fact, he looked as if trips like this were second nature to him. The plane dipped and everyone but Ken and John gasped and grabbed for their harnesses. John hadn't missed a beat as he chatted up her other registered nurse, Karen Matthews, a cute redhead with stunningly long legs that went on for miles. From the look on her besotted face, the advances he

was making weren't exactly unwelcome. Karen laughed and touched his arm as John pulled a face behind the pilot's back. As long as their antics didn't jeopardize the team, Lily didn't care what two consenting adults did in their free time. Lily forced her hands to release the straps and calmly smoothed out her short blond hair. She was still getting used to the length, since she'd cut it specifically for this trip. When she realized Ken was still watching her, Lily dropped her hands into her lap. If he wasn't rattled, then she wasn't going to be either. Men like Ken and John wouldn't respect a leader who couldn't even handle a little plane ride. She rolled her shoulders and forced herself to make eye contact. His lips quirked and the cramped aeroplane space suddenly got warmer. Lily looked away and thought she heard him laugh as the wheels bounced off the runway, then touched down. Cielo Bonita wasn't more than a few shanty houses perched next to a winding river full of deadly anaconda and cayman - a cousin to the crocodile. To call it a town was being generous, Ken thought. Why Dr Lily wanted to build a clinic here didn't seem immediately apparent. Fifty miles over the towns got bigger. There was more need, according to his intelligence. He unloaded his duffel with his clothes and bibles in it. His M-21 rifle, Glock pistol, KA-BAR knife and ghillie suit would be buried beneath foliage at the fallback site. He and John couldn't afford to count on airport security, even though they'd been paid ahead of time to look the other way. Ken waited for John to get his gear. His spotter scope had been disguised

and placed with photography equipment. Lily glanced back at them as John approached. "I think the good doctor has the hots for you," he said. ''She's barely taken her eyes off you since the flight began. Maybe she has a taste for the forbidden.” He laughed and waggled his eyebrows. "Or maybe she hasn't made up her mind about us," Ken said, looking his way. "We need to stay on our toes. We can't afford to tip off the natives or the friendliest "Tell me you wouldn't like a piece of that,” John said, his eyes straying to Lily's bottom. "She's your type and she has one smokin' body." Ken elbowed him hard. "I don't have a type. Try to stay focused on the mission." John grunted, then gave him a knowing smile. "That's what I thought." "We better help them set up. Don't want to give our new boss an excuse to send us packing," Ken said, ignoring his partner. The mission came first. It didn't matter that Dr Lily Houser had a mouth that was utterly kissable or that his hands itched to touch those luscious curves she kept hidden under that loose blue T-shirt. Ken had a role to play and it didn't include seducing the utterly fuckable doctor. Lily would be horrified if she knew what he was thinking, not to mention if he acted on his carnal thoughts. He tugged at the collar again, then forced his hands away. A real priest would be used to wearing the damn thing. Of course, most priests didn't have seventeen-and-a-half-inch necks. If he had a brain in his head, he'd do his job and get the hell out of here. His prolonged presence would only endanger the sexy doctor and her

team. Ken had no doubt they'd be receiving a visit from some of Juan Garcia's men either today or tomorrow. He planned to make himself scarce when they arrived. No sense in tipping them off. They probably already had eyes on the place. He scanned the faces of the villagers who'd come to get a glimpse of the new arrivals. "What's wrong?" John asked. "Are you having one of those feelings?" Ken looked at the faces once more, but didn't get the itch between his shoulder blades that always let him know when he was being watched. He shook his head and rolled his stiff neck. "Let's get moving," he said. "We don't have much time." "Right behind you, boss." Ken shot him a warning glance and pointed to his collar. Just the thought of it choked him. "I mean Father," John said then chuckled. "More like undertaker," Ken muttered and they both laughed.

Two Despite Ken's resolve to stay away from the luscious Dr Lily, he'd had little luck doing so in the three days since they'd arrived. She was like a magnet for his attention. Her sexy laugh and caring demeanour drew him repeatedly to the makeshift tent they'd set up as a temporary clinic. The patients had been flowing in ever since word got out that a doctor had arrived. She'd treated well over two hundred people in the past two days and more kept coming. Lily was a tireless worker, who never lost her bedside

manner no matter how exhausted she became. There'd been times he'd had to step in and make her take a break, drink some bottled water and have a bite to eat. Those times had been his favourite because he'd learned a lot about the woman. She was the youngest of three kids in a family of lawyers. Lily had fought to go to medical school, even though her father had expected her to join the family firm. Ken had read most of the information from her file, but Lily had made the facts come to life with her animated storytelling. If Ken had learned anything over the last few days, it was that Lily was a scrapper. Despite her diminutive size, she fought for what she wanted and what she believed in. She had very strong opinions about a variety of subjects and wasn't afraid to share them. He'd enjoyed every second of their verbal sparring, but didn't miss the fact that it hid a deeper attraction. One that was getting harder and harder to ignore. They'd just finished their lunch, when the first of Juan Garcia's men arrived. It had taken longer than Ken had expected. Whether that was due to the distance from his camp or extreme caution, he didn't know, but would find out soon enough. The man had come in under the guise of a wounded farmer, but Ken and John had recognized military training in his gait and his watchful gaze. Lily left Ken's side and rushed over to help him into the tent. She was already asking questions with the help of a local interpreter before the flap closed. Ken shot John a sharp look and jerked his head towards the tent. John followed Lily inside. Ken rose slowly and put his hands together so that it looked like he was praying. All the while, he scanned the tree line. He had no doubt they were

under surveillance. The spot between his broad shoulders was twitching. He crossed himself, then stretched out his stiff muscles and calmly made his way towards his tent. The heat from the jungle punched the air out of his lungs. The sweet smell of blossoms wafted on the breeze, leaving him light-headed or maybe it was the company he'd been keeping. Ken wanted to go into the medical tent, but there was no reason for him to be there. It wasn't like the man was dying and needed last rites. John would report back on what the soldier said. He just had to wait. It turned out to be a very long two hours. The man who'd come in under the guise of a farmer hadn't said much. John noted that he'd looked over their equipment and eyed the staff suspiciously. He was spying, trying to ascertain if they were who they said they were. His actions left no doubt that Juan Garcia was in the area. Fortunately, the rest of the afternoon and evening were uneventful. The next morning three more men showed up. These guys hadn't bothered to disguise their uniforms. Lily had hesitated when she saw them, but then quickly ushered the men into the medical tent for treatment. Up to this point, Ken had respected Lily's work ethic and intelligence, but now he was beginning to wonder if he'd misjudged her. It was one thing to treat a man in disguise, it was quite another to knowingly treat the men that had caused some of the injuries she'd seen over the last few days. She was deliberately putting herself in harm's way. She needed to get that sexy butt back to San Diego where she'd be safe. It took every fibre of his being not to march into the tent, pick her up and put her on the next flight out of town.

Lily stared at the men dressed in green fatigues. One man watched her and her team while the other two searched their tents and luggage. No one tried to stop them and for that she was grateful. She hadn't known she'd been holding her breath until the last man came out of Father Ken's tent emptyhanded. Lily's shoulders eased a little. Logically, she knew there shouldn't be anything to find, but that hadn't stopped her from worrying. For one terrifying moment she'd imagined them shouting that they'd found something other than bibles. He's a priest, she reminded herself again, hating that she had to keep doing so to prevent her growing feelings for the man from showing. Lily had known coming into Cielo Bonita that she might have to contend with the politics in the region. In this case, that meant the corruption, intimidation and violence, which were rampant. Like various areas in South America, civil unrest was common or at least had been in the past. Between the drug trade and power struggles, violence was as normal as breathing. She didn't know which cause had these men knocking at her door and she didn't care. The faster she treated them, the sooner they'd be gone. Hopefully for good. The many paid the price for the few bent on destruction. She knew these men had caused some of the wounds she'd treated. Lily had heard whispers of kidnappings, torture and enslavement. The latter used for labour in the drug trade. She'd even heard stories of young girls being taken from their families and forced into prostitution to entertain the soldiers. She'd taken the warnings seriously, but she hadn't been able to turn her back on the people. Any more than Lily would turn her back on these

men. She'd taken an oath to treat everyone no matter their background and Lily intended to keep it. Karen Matthews stood next to her, her gaze going again and again to John Ekle, who had finally shown up to work. "Long night?" Lily asked. John had the decency to blush. "Longer than I thought." He grinned and Karen scowled. "Doctor, should we give him an antibiotic?" she asked. "Yes," Lily said as she finished dressing the soldier's leg. He'd had a cut that had gotten infected. If he'd left it much longer, she would've had to amputate. "No, I meant him," Karen said, pointing to John. His grey eyes flared. "I always use protection, darlin'. You don't have to worry about me," he said, winking at her. ''I'm a regular Boy Scout." John's words were playful like always, his actions smooth and relaxed. Nothing he did seemed out of place as he helped them bandage the soldier, but Lily couldn't shake the feeling that he was watching their patient closely. "You are disgusting,” Karen said, helping the soldier off the table. The man glanced between them and his lips quirked. Some things were universal and didn't require interpretation, Lily thought, as the soldier hobbled out of the tent. The armed group left shortly thereafter. No doubt to report their findings. John leaned forwards, not missing a beat. "You still like me?"

Karen baulked. "Not any more. You're a himbo." "Ouch," he said, clutching his chest. She snorted. "Like calling you a male bimbo would ever hurt your feelings." His grey eyes glittered in amusement as he gave Karen's body a slow perusal. TU make it up to you tonight," John said. "I promise." Karen glared. "You said that last night and the night before." 'Yeah." He shoved his hands into his pockets and gave the nurse a lopsided grin. "But now I mean it." "You two need to get a room," Lily said, shaking her head. "Oh, I intend to," John said, sending a heated glance Karen's way. "What's it going to be, darlin', your tent or mine?" Karen let out a frustrated growl, but from the look in her eyes she had every intention of taking John up on his offer. Lily's thoughts wandered to Father Ken. "Not going to happen," she muttered under her breath, before tossing her latex gloves into the trash. Ken made himself scarce, keeping towards the tree line, but couldn't bring himself to go far in case Lily needed him. He didn't think the men would try anything, but you never knew with home-grown militias. At least she wasn't alone. Despite his nocturnal activities, his spotter was in there with her. John had spent the past few nights traipsing through the jungle and studying satellite images to try to figure out where the ex-general had been hiding himself. Ken had covered his absence when Lily noticed him missing by

telling her that John had met a local woman in the town. She'd frowned, but accepted the story, since John had done nothing but flirt since they'd arrived. It was a good cover. No one who'd been around him for any length of time would suspect it was a lie. This morning John had reported that he'd located their equipment and a crude four-room house seven klicks south of their position. He'd seen movement and had been able to get a positive ID on Juan Garcia. John had scouted out a tree-covered hill 2,000 feet away that looked to be a good spot to try to take the shot. The dense brush would give them the cover they needed. Ken watched the soldiers leave. He didn't relax until they were out of sight. He hadn't seen the location John had picked out yet. He'd need to survey the place for himself before he knew for sure if he could take the shot from that position. It wouldn't do for a tree branch to be in the way. They would be leaving tomorrow morning and, if all went as planned, they would not be returning. A fact that bothered him more than it should . . . thanks in part to a certain blonde-haired doctor, who in a short while had managed to weasel her wav under his skin.

Three Morning came early for the medical team. The heat and the noise made sleeping in impossible. The sounds of the jungle grew in volume as the animals began their daily struggle for survival. The hot air accentuated the damp musky odour of the rich soil and the sharp tang of the muddy river nearby.

As was her habit, Ken found Lily sitting on a log by the fire, a bowl of instant oatmeal in her hands. Her hair had been pulled back and she wasn't wearing any make-up, allowing her inner beauty to shine through. She hadn't noticed him yet, so he continued to stare. He was going to miss seeing her face every morning. His chest constricted as he stepped forwards into view. Lily smiled brightly then scooted over so he'd be able to sit beside her. It was a routine they'd both gotten used to over the short time they'd been here. "Good morning," she said, before taking a sip of coffee, "Morning," he answered, grabbing a cup for himself. "Need a refill?" Ken shook the coffee pot. "No, I'm good," she said, putting her cup down to finish eating. They sat in silence, each enjoying the beginning of a new day. The sun hadn't reached the treetops yet, but already the heat threatened to turn the world into a sauna. "It's going to be a scorcher," Lily said. "Yeah, it feels like it." Ken took a sip of his black coffee. "I'm going to head out to a village that I’ve heard might be receptive to the good word," he said. "You're leaving?" she asked, her expression clouding without her realizing it. Ken's throat tightened, making it hard to swallow. He squeezed the cup to keep from reaching for her. "I thought most of the people in this area were already converted," Lily

said. He nodded. "They are, but the people I'm referring to are natives." "Oh." Lily reached for her coffee. "How long will you be gone?" She didn't have to say that she was going to miss him. Ken could see it in her shimmering green eyes. It matched the longing he felt inside. Ken looked away unable to face her. He'd lied to hundreds of people over the years. Some for their own good and some because it meant the difference between life and death. Yet his gut clenched at the idea of lying to Lily. "Should be a day, two tops," he ground out, while staring at the swaying trees. "Maybe I can come with you?" she suggested. His head whipped around. "No! I mean, you're needed here. Word has spread that you're giving inoculations. It takes people days to get here. You don't want them to show up when you're gone." Her amber brow furrowed. "What if you need medical assistance?" He met her gaze. "I’ll take John with me. That should keep him out of Karen's hair for at least a few days." She laughed. "He does seem to be quite the horn-dog. I've heard him drag himself in late most nights." "I’ll have a word with him about that," Ken said. Lily laughed and the sound washed over him. "I think he's long past saving," she said.

Ken hadn't been referring to saving John's soul, although he'd known Lily's mind would go in that direction. He'd meant he would have a word with his spotter about the amount of noise he was making. He should've been able to slip in and out of camp undetected. "Did you hear him last evening?" Ken asked. Lily shook her head. "No, but that's not a surprise since I saw him go into Karen's tent last night. My guess is they're still in there." Their eyes met and held as the attraction they'd been fighting bubbled up, swamping them. Lily's gaze dropped to his mouth and lingered, while she moistened her lips. Ken knew what he was about to do was all kinds of wrong, but he couldn't stop himself. This was the last time he'd ever see Dr Lily Houser and he'd be damned if he'd leave here without tasting her. Before he had a chance to let good sense and his conscience talk him out of it, Ken lowered his head and captured Lily's luscious mouth. He groaned on contact as her full lips softened under his assault. He'd meant to be gentle, work into the kiss, but he wanted her too bad. She tasted better than Ken had imagined, better than he'd ever dare hope. Sweet from the oatmeal and sharp from the coffee. Totally delicious. He ran his tongue over the seam of her mouth, then sucked her lower lip, luring her into the fire that was raging between them. Her fingers flitted over the front of his shirt hesitantly. He mistook the move for trying to escape. Ken's hands automatically tightened into fists, clutching her T-shirt as he deepened the embrace. Their tongues touched and need shot through him, tensing his muscles. His body made demands that were not about to be answered, but that didn't stop him from wanting

to toss Lily over his shoulder and carry her back to his tent. He wanted her naked and writhing beneath him, her firm thighs gripping his sides as they rode out the passion exploding between them. Ken wanted her more than he wanted his next breath. He knew he had to let her go before he acted upon the insane thoughts churning in his head, but his lingers refused to cooperate. He was going to hell for sure. Lily's mind spun. She knew what she was doing was wrong, but she couldn't seem to stop. She had wanted to know what it would feel like to kiss Father Ken since the moment she'd laid eyes on the man. It was so much more than Lily had ever thought possible. Pulled firm against his hard chest, her body melted into his. Lily revelled in his strength, the touch of his hands. She could feel the leashed power simmering just below the surface of his carefully constructed control. There wasn't an ounce of softness to him. Even his lips were hard and demanding. He deepened the embrace, stoking her passion until Lily feared she'd go up in flames. She squirmed to get closer as the world faded, leaving only the two of them and the vortex they'd created. Her fingers threaded through Ken's short black hair, accidentally brushing his collar. Reality came crashing back with a vengeance. What was she doing? Lily cried out and tore her mouth away. Pain and confusion marred his brow before quickly smoothing into an unreadable expression. Her hands trembled as Lily brought them to her lips. Her body was still

throbbing, demanding release. She ignored it as her mind called her every foul name in the book. "I am so sorry, Father. I don't know what got into me.” Ken stiffened. "No,” he said. "It's my fault. I should've never touched you.” Lily's face grew warm. She didn't know what had gotten into her. The fact that she'd welcomed his kiss and enjoyed his touch confused her even more. She'd never done anything like this. Had never even considered breaking this taboo until she met Ken. A faint streak of red coloured his cheeks. "Please forgive me. I don't know what came over me," he said. "You are an amazing woman and any man would be lucky to have you. If anyone is in the wrong here, it's me." "How can you say that?” Lily asked. "Don't you get it? I just Frenchkissed a priest." "I'm not—” Ken caught himself before he could refute her statement. "I better get my things packed for the trip before the sun gets any higher. Thank you for everything." Lily nodded, but couldn't look him in the eye. She'd never been so embarrassed. One minute they'd been enjoying breakfast and the next she'd been all over him. Her parents would be mortified if they ever found out about her lapse in judgment. It wasn't like she had a thing for priests. She'd simply wanted Ken the man. And for one moment, he'd wanted her, too. She groaned. The stress of the job was obviously getting to her. Maybe it was a good thing he was going away for a day or two. She had enjoyed their mornings together and was really going to miss him, but

some distance would give her time to clear her mind and do some soul-searching. They could talk when he got back or maybe by then everything would be settled and they'd never have to mention it again. They could pretend the kiss never happened. She watched Father Ken retreat to his tent and her heart sank. Who was she kidding? Lily knew she'd remember that kiss for the rest of her life. She stood up and brushed off her hands, then walked to the river to wash her dishes. A splash nearby startled her out of her musings. Lily jumpedback in time to see a cayman submerge under the muddy water and disappear. Cayman were smaller than crocodiles, but still quite deadly. She'd been so distracted by that amazing kiss that she'd nearly strolled right over the reptile. She shuddered at what could've happened. Lily looked around then quickly finished washing her dishes. She returned to camp as Father Ken exited his tent, earning his big duffel bag. "Why are you taking that?" she asked. "It holds everything I'll need for the trip," he said, capturing her gaze. Before Ken or Lily could say any more, John stumbled out of Karen's tent, pulling on his shirt. His pants were still unbuttoned and his hair was tousled. He scrubbed a hand over his face and yawned. When he caught sight of them, John grinned. "A promise is a promise," he said, then looked at Ken and frowned. "Did I interrupt something?" "No." Ken scowled. "Thought I was going to have to leave here without you." "Give me a minute and I'll be ready to go." John changed direction and

raced into the jungle. He was back in short order. It took him no time at all to gather his things and join them by the fire. "Duty calls," Ken said, staring at Lily, trying to memorize her features. "Well, I'd better get to work," she said, hitching a thumb over her shoulder towards the medical tent. "Have a safe trip." "Thanks," Ken said, then quietly added after she walked away, "Have a good life, Dr Lily Houser. It was truly a pleasure."

Four John led Ken to the hill he'd picked out. There was dense overgrowth, making the trek difficult. No one was around the primitive house when they arrived. John had moved the drag bags with their equipment closer to their target. He'd concealed the bags with leaves and vines then draped them over a tree limb covered in dense foliage. The bags contained four camouflage ghillie suits, two for their rifles and two for them, an M-16 rifle, an M-21 match-grade bolt-action rifle, two black Glocks, lighters, flash bombs, knives, communication devices and the spotter scope they'd disguised as camera equipment. Ken surveyed the area through John's scope. There weren't many places to take a clear shot, which soul-searching. They could talk when he got back or maybe by then everything would be settled and they'd never have to mention it again. They could pretend the kiss never happened. She watched Father Ken retreat to his tent and her heart sank. Who was she kidding? Lily knew

she'd remember that kiss for the rest of her life. She stood up and brushed off her hands, then walked to the river to wash her dishes. A splash nearby startled her out of her musings. Lily jumped back in time to see a cayman submerge under the muddy water and disappear. Cayman were smaller than crocodiles, but still quite deadly. She'd been so distracted by that amazing kiss that she'd nearly strolled right over the reptile. She shuddered at what could've happened. Lily looked around then quickly finished washing her dishes. She returned to camp as Father Ken exited his tent, earning his big duffel bag. "Why are you taking that?" she asked. "It holds everything I'll need for the trip," he said, capturing her gaze. Before Ken or Lily could say any more, John stumbled out of Karen's tent, pulling on his shirt. His pants were still unbuttoned and his hair was tousled. He scrubbed a hand over his face and yawned. When he caught sight of them, John grinned. "A promise is a promise," he said, then looked at Ken and frowned. "Did I interrupt something?" "No." Ken scowled. "Thought I was going to have to leave here without you." "Give me a minute and I'll be ready to go." John changed direction and raced into the jungle. He was back in short order. It took him no time at all to gather his things and join them by the fire. "Duty calls," Ken said, staring at Lily, trying to memorize her features. "Well, I'd better get to work," she said, hitching a thumb over her shoulder towards the medical tent. "Have a safe trip."

"Thanks," Ken said, then quietly added after she walked away, "Have a good life, Dr Lily Houser. It was truly a pleasure."

Four John led Ken to the hill he'd picked out. There was dense overgrowth, making the trek difficult. No one was around the primitive house when they arrived. John had moved the drag bags with their equipment closer to their target. He'd concealed the bags with leaves and vines then draped them over a tree limb covered in dense foliage. The bags contained four camouflage ghillie suits, two for their rifles and two for them, an M-16 rifle, an M-21 match-grade bolt-action rifle, two black Glocks, lighters, flash bombs, knives, communication devices and the spotter scope they'd disguised as camera equipment. Ken surveyed the area through John's scope. There weren't many places to take a clear shot, which Her head slumped. "I was worried about the men who came down here with me. They were supposed to return and no one has heard from them. I told your men that when they grabbed me. Now I demand that you let me go or take me to the US Consulate.” "You demand,” Garcia said, then threw his head back and laughed. "Take note, you are in no position to demand anything.” He lifted her bound hands and dropped them. 'You're making a mistake,” Lily said. Blood roared in Ken's ears. She was in this fix because of them. Had she

not gone looking for them, the general would've ignored her. He fought to get back some of the calm he was famous for. Garcia paced in front of her. "I don't believe you. Perhaps a few days here with my men will change your story.” Lily's eyes widened with fright. "I'm telling the truth," she said, pleading with him. "I'm a United States citizen here on a humanitarian mission.” Ken's hands tightened on his rifle. He still had a clear shot, but if he took it, Lily was as good as dead. His duty was clear. Save civilians first, take out the target second. "John, get down here. I've heard enough,” he said. John came back thirty minutes later, moving slowly over the shrubbery to avoid giving away their position. "What are we going to do?” "We don't have a choice. We have to get her out of there," Ken said. "It's our fault that she's fallen into Garcia's hands." "And exactly how are we going to do that?" he asked. "We didn't exactly come prepared for a rescue mission." Ken's head slowly lowered until his forehead touched the ground. "Give me an hour and I'll figure something out," he said. "Why did she come looking for us?" John asked. "We told her we'd be gone for a few days." Ken clenched his jaw. "Because that's the kind of woman she is," he said. "She takes her responsibility as team leader seriously. It's my fault. I should've told her we'd be gone longer." "Damn foolish if you ask me," John said.

"Well, no one did," Ken snapped. "You may recall we have a similar code: Leave no man behind." John sobered. "No offence, sir." "None taken." Ken stared at the little shack that now housed Lily, their target and a growing army of his men. Howwashegoingto get her out of that place alive? He couldn't shoot them all. He was good, but with a boltaction rifle he wouldn't be able to reload fast enough. Rescuing lily was going to take stealth and distraction, not force. He didn't even want to think about how mad she was going to be when she saw him again. Ken couldn't worry about that now. The only important thing was getting her out of there alive. He swung the scope to the left and saw a man walking back to the house with a bucket of water. Conditions in the place must be as primitive as they looked from the outside. "They may have to allow Lily to go outside at some point,” Ken said. The thought of Garcia's men having their way with her brought out protective instincts Ken didn't realize he had. It was only his years of training that kept him in position. "What if they don't let her out?” John asked. "Then we'll have to drive them out like vermin.” John inched closer. "How?" "Fire," Ken said. "Not sure if you noticed, but the humidity here is about ninety per cent. I’m not sure that house would burn even if we dropped gasoline on it,"

John said. "And there's always the chance they'd leave her in there to fry and save themselves. Unless you packed your asbestos underwear without telling me, neither one of us is equipped to run into a burning building." "We just need to get her to the river. I'll attempt an extraction from there." John snorted. "That water is crawling with hungry cayman and anaconda." Ken looked at him. "That's what I'm counting on. I need them to believe she's been eaten. It'll be the only way I'll be able to get her out without them following." "And what am I supposed to do while you're getting your ass snapped at by man-eating carnivores?" John asked. "Go back to Cielo Bonita and get the medical team to safety 7, then create a distraction. We need something that goes boom." John grinned. "I like making those kinds of noises." "I know you do." Ken clapped him on the shoulder. "Now get moving." Lily stared at the man who'd introduced himself as General Juan Garcia. He was a squat man with slick black hair and a sharp moustache that curved down at the ends. An ugly scar bisected the right side of his face. A knife wound no doubt. Whatever had caused the injury, the wound hadn't been properly treated, leaving the skin to pucker unnaturally around the snaking length of slashed flesh. She still couldn't believe he'd accused her of spying. All she'd done was ask after her men to see if anyone had seen them. Obviously that was

enough to constitute spying in this part of South America. Ridiculous. She'd never seen the general before and she'd certainly never heard of him. Lily wondered, not for the first time, if he'd found Ken and had him killed. Her chest ached at the thought. She reminded herself again that despite the collar ordaining him, Ken wasn't a little man. He looked like he could handle himself and he hadn't been alone. John was the type who could talk the underwear off a nun. Surely he'd be able to talk their way out of trouble if they'd encountered Garcia's men. Nervous laughter bubbled up in her throat. In all likelihood, they were fine. She was the one in trouble now. Garcia's men kept eyeing her. Lily tried to ignore them, but it was impossible to do with them leering at her. Were they waiting for the goahead from the general or had he told her that just to scare her? He didn't look like the kind of man who'd bluff. His black eyes had seemed lifeless and cold as he'd stared at her. She meant nothing to him. To Garcia her life was worthless. Even if she had information, Lily doubted that it would be smart to share what she knew. The second she did, she was a dead woman. She banished the unpleasant thoughts. Lily refused to spend what might turn out to be her last hours on earth dwelling on the negative. Her mind wandered instead to Ken and the kiss they'd shared. He hadn't kissed like a man who'd been celibate. In fact, he'd kissed like he had years of practice. Despite the danger she was in, her toes were still curled from that impromptu embrace. And there was no doubt in Lily's mind that he hadn't planned it. The look on his face showed as much surprise as she'd felt.

It didn't matter now. He was probably traipsing around the jungle thumping bibles while she was stuck here. Lily needed to find a way out. She understood enough Spanish to know the general had no intention of letting her go. He was toying with her, playing on her fear for his perverted pleasure. Her team would try to help, but ultimately there'd be no rescue. Lily knew in the end, she would have to save herself.

Five Five hours later the flash bombs went off. Ken thought he'd heard them, but he was sure when six of Garcia's men rushed out of the house towards a Jeep. Someone had obviously radioed to let them know that the town was under attack. Ken knew that they wouldn't ignore a threat to their territory. They couldn't if they wanted to remain in control. Yet they weren't stupid enough to leave Garcia completely unprotected. Birds squawked, their wings flapping wildly as they launched into the air. Monkeys screamed, leaping from tree to tree. The men sped away, mud flying up behind their wheels as they took the first corner sharply. There were at least five men and the ex-general himself, Juan Garcia, still inside. Ken slithered through the jungle like his namesake the viper. He came across a tripwire thirty feet away from the house and stopped. He was close enough to be able to lob a flash bomb into the building, but Ken wasn't sure he'd be able get to the river in time. Besides a flash bomb wouldn't start the fire he needed. He backed away, slipping into the brush as three men rushed out of the house and began searching the perimeter of the house. They were alert and

on edge. One snap of a twig and they'd open fire. Ken hadn't been able to see Lily through the windows, which meant they had her shoved somewhere towards the back of the house. He'd have to firebomb the front to drive everyone out the back. They could always decide to go out the windows, but it was unlikely. Ken couldn't worry about that now. The plan had to work. And for it to work, he had to be at the river when they rushed outside. There was no other option in his mind. John would keep the men who'd stormed to town busy long enough for Ken to snatch Lily. The soldiers assigned to guard the house finished their search and went back inside. He pulled out the Molotov cocktail he'd created using the lighters and a discarded soda bottle. Ken threw the home-made accelerant into the window along with a flash bomb, then ran through the brush for the river. He'd stripped out of his ghillie suit earlier, leaving on his green camouflage clothing to make swimming easier. Ken took out his knife and waded into the water. He heard splashing and hoped it was cayman. He wasn't sure he could tangle with an anaconda and win. He blocked the sound out, focusing instead on where the men, and hopefully Dr Lily Houser, would appear. A few seconds later, the men came rushing towards the river. Garcia was dragging Lily. He shoved her towards the water, shouting at her and the men. One of the men rushed back inside the house and came out earning buckets. Two of the others began to scour the jungle for the culprit behind the firebombing. Garcia pointed towards the water and ordered Lily to step into the river. She shook her head no.

"Come on, honey. Do what he says," Ken murmured. Garcia pulled out a pistol and pointed it at her head. Lily hesitated, glancing at the water. The tyrant shouted something in Spanish and she flinched. Ken forced himself to wait in the vines. He needed her to get deeper into the water before he made his move. He'd only get one shot at this. Lily stared at the muddy water. Between the parasites, anacondas and the cayman, she was terrified. But Garcia wasn't bluffing. If she didn't get in the water and start handing his men the buckets, then he'd shoot her. Death by cayman or death by bullet: not much of a choice. She waded into the water. The current swirled around her legs. The mud on the river bottom squished under her boots, sucking at her ankles. She scooted her feet to prevent stepping on a cayman that might be resting on the bottom. Now that she was in the water, Garcia didn't pay much attention to her since she had nowhere to go. It wasn't like she could swim off and get very far. If the cayman didn't get her, Garcia's men would. Lily filled the buckets and handed them to the men as they raced to put out the fire. She still didn't understand what had happened. One minute they'd had her tied in a back room, the next they were screaming. She scooped another bucket of water out of the murky depths. Something chirped near the shoreline across the river. She stared at the rippling water. Did caymans attack above water or below? Lily shifted her legs and nearly dropped the bucket. Garcia chastised her for her clumsiness. She focused once more on the task at hand. It wouldn't take long to put the fire out.

Lily wasn't sure what made her look to the right in time to see a wake caused by something large just below the surface of the water. There'd been no sound. No warning. But the wave was getting bigger the closer it got. She tried to take a step towards shore, but her boots were stuck in the mud. Something grabbed her legs, yanking her feet out from under her. Lily had a second to scream then she was swept under. She fought like a mad woman despite her bound hands, kicking, punching and thrashing to no avail. The predator's tight grip on her refused to be broken. She gulped in panic, taking in a huge breath of water. Her lungs screamed in agony. There'd be no escape. Ken swam for all he was worth. It was hard with Lily fighting him, but he had to get them away from Garcia and his men. The river current helped move them, making them glide downstream quickly. When they'd travelled approximately 200 yards, Ken forced them to the surface. His lungs burned as he gulped in air for his starving body. Lily was no longer fighting him. Several yards back, she'd gone limp in his arms. He kicked towards the shore, knowing he had to act fast. Ken pulled Lily on to the bank and began CPR. "Don't you dare die on me," he pleaded as he took a deep breath and pinched her nose to breathe into her mouth. Her chest didn't rise. Ken adjusted her chin and blew another breath into her body, watching her chest rise this time, then began the first of fifteen compressions. Sweat and water dripped from his forehead. The sounds of the jungle crashed in around him. He could hear Garcia and his men shouting in the distance, but their voices were growing fainter. They were moving away

from their position. He gave his last compression and two more breaths, then pressed his lips to her ear. "You're a fighter, damn it. I need you to fight!" He started compressions again. "Fight for me, Lily. Fight for us." Ken had been about to give her two more breaths when Lily choked and sputtered, spitting up water. He carefully turned her on her side, so she could get all the water out, then gently laid her flat. Her green eyes fluttered open and widened as he came into focus. "Glad to have you back, Doc," Ken said, sitting back on his haunches. "Thought for a minute I’d lost you." The words caught in his throat as profound relief flooded him. "How?" She frowned, her gaze dropping to his camouflage clothing. “What are you wearing?"

Ken knew the second she'd put two and two together. Her eyes narrowed and she sat up abruptly. Her hand went to her head and he reached out to steady her. "They were after you all along," she growled, then coughed some more. "And here I was worried that something had happened to you. I should've known." He leaned in next to her ear. "Keep your voice down. We don't want your friends to find us unless you want to go for another swim." Lily shuddered. "I thought a cayman got me." She glanced down at her legs in disbelief, then slowly felt her limbs as if to reassure herself that they were still intact. Her clothes were sticking to her like a second skin, leaving nothing to the imagination. Despite the warmth, she began to

shiver. "That was the intention." Ken's gaze followed hers and the heat around them intensified. She was glaring at him by the time their eyes met again. "If you feel up to it, we need to move. I have to get you to the fallback position." Lily stood, brushing his hands away. "Fin not going anywhere without my people.” Ken's jaw firmed. "You can't go back. That's the first place Garcia and his men will look for you." She hugged herself. "What about my medical team? Garcia is not fooling around." "John has made sure that they're safe." Her hands moved to her slim hips. "I should've known he was part of this, too. You're not a real priest, are you?" Ken's lips twitched. "Don't sound so disappointed." His heart was still pounding over how close he'd come to losing her. "If I was a priest, I never would've kissed you. But I can't say I wouldn't have thought about it. Any man breathing would have." “I’d

rather not discuss that. . . that incident." Lily's gaze dropped to his

mouth and lingered. When she realized what she'd been doing, she kicked the dirt at her feet. "It's your fault that I'm in this mess, Father . . . is Ken even your real name?" "My name is Ken Thompson, but my friends call me Viper." She scowled. "I suppose that's some kind of Freudian nickname."

Ken laughed. "Why don't you tell her?" He looked over his shoulder at the trees. Like a phantom materializing, John stepped out of the brush completely camouflaged. "He got the name because he can move through the jungle as silently as a viper. Of course, I have heard rumours about his ... other endowments." Ken punched John in the arm. "You aren't helping. Did you get the medical team out of the line of fire?" John nodded. "I had one of the villagers with a boat move them over to Santa Clarita. They'll be safe there until they can be extracted. Garcia's wound up like a wet hornet." "That's what happens when you firebomb his house and snatch his hostage. I also left an incriminating trail in the brush to make it look like a small army was around. That should keep him busy until we come back. I thought I told you to meet me at the fallback position." John shrugged. "Wanted to make sure everything went off without a hitch and that my partner didn't need me," he said. Ken nodded. "Thanks, but next time I expect you to follow orders." John saluted in response. "What do we do now?" Lily asked John, ignoring Ken completely. "We need to get the hell out of here," he said, pointing in the direction he'd appeared. "Lead the way," she said.

Lily refused to look at Ken, even though he tried repeatedly to catch her eye. Her emotions were so mixed up. Pail: of her was relieved that he was alive and had managed to save her, while part of her was furious that he'd caused her to be in this mess in the first place. She felt betrayed. He knew how important this clinic was to her, and yet he'd been lying to her from the beginning. It angered Lily no end that, despite everything, she was still attracted to him. They hiked through the jungle, sweat dripping from their bodies by the gallon. Several hours and many false trails later, they reached their fallback position. They'd be safe here for the night or so she'd been told. Lily didn't think she'd feel safe again until she was back in San Diego. "I'm going to do a perimeter check.” John glanced at his watch. "Should take me an hour or so," he said. "You kids behave. Don't do anything I wouldn't do.” He winked at Lily. She smiled in spite of herself. "He's incorrigible. How do you put up with him?" "You get used to it,” Ken said, checking his weapons. "How are you feeling?” "Exhausted, wet, dirty and hungry," she said. 'You're alive,” he said softly. "That's all that is important." Ken still couldn't believe how close he'd come to losing her. His hands shook as he zipped the drag bag closed. She pressed her fingers to her ribs. "My chest hurts.” He glanced at her. "Sorry about that. They'll be bruised for a couple

weeks. I had to give you CPR. You weren't breathing.” Lily's hand moved higher until it rested above her heart and her expression grew pensive. A few minutes later, she said, "Thank you.” Ken shrugged. "Figured it was the least I could do after causing you so much trouble.” She wrapped her arms around herself. "What's going to happen now?” "First, I'm going to kiss you,” he said, moving closer, giving her every opportunity to say no. When she didn't, he grasped her waist and pulled her into his arms. "Then once I've gotten you to safety, I'm going to finish the job I came here to do.” Her eyelids fluttered closed. Ken's lips brushed Lily's, gently at first, then more insistent. "I never meant to hurt you,” he murmured, grazing the side of her mouth. "I almost died when I saw Garcia's men pull you out of the Jeep. I thought for sure I'd lost you.” He deepened the embrace, pouring his heart and soul into the kiss. "Please tell me that you'll give me another chance.” Lily's body thrummed. He was kissing the good sense right out of her head. She pulled back until mere inches separated their mouths. "What am I going to do with you soldier?” He smiled and her hearted skipped a beat. "You can start by kissing me back.”

Epilogue Ex-general Juan Garcia never felt the bullet enter his head. It had been fired from over 1,500 yards away. No one saw the two men dressed in ghillie suits slip back into the jungle. Nor did they notice the Black Hawk that extracted them under the cover of night. The next day the local paper announced another failed coup.

Eight months later . . . John Ekle stood at the side of his friend and partner, Ken Thompson, just like he'd done hundreds of times before. And just like before, they wore matching suits - except these suits weren't meant to conceal them. They both turned to face the doors as the organist began to play. A vision in white silk, Lily walked down the aisle clutching her father's arm. "Sure you know what you're doing, sir?" John asked. "Might be your last chance to scrap this mission.” He laughed. Ken glanced at him, but couldn't seem to keep his eyes from straying back to his bride. "My target has never been clearer, soldier." "Last chance," John said. "We have a fallback position located near the side entrance." He glanced at his friend. "Don't you have something you could be spotting?" Ken watched John scan the row of bridesmaids like a connoisseur picking out a fine wine. He stopped when his gaze landed on Karen Matthews. The nurse wore an emerald-green dress, which accentuated her figure and fiery red hair. Their eyes met and something unspoken passed

between them. "Target spotted, sir. Permission to engage?" Ken looked at Karen and laughed. "Permission granted," he said, knowing that John didn't realize he was the one being targeted this time. He'd figure it out eventually. Probably when they were walking down the aisle. Lily's father gently placed her fingers on Ken's arm and firmly shook his hand. He kissed his daughter's cheek, then discreetly wiped a tear from his eye before taking a seat next to her beaming mother. Both their families were here to celebrate their union, along with half of Ken's unit. It had taken precision planning to make the wedding go off without a hitch. Lily had done an amazing job. Ken smiled at his bride. Love showed in her misty green eyes. "Thanks for giving me a second chance," he said, whispering in Lily's ear. "And a third . . . and a fourth ..." Her rosy blush matched the fresh blooms in her hands. "Did I have a choice?" she asked, arching a brow as a smile ghosted her face. Ex-general Juan Garcia never felt the bullet enter his head. It had been fired from over 1,500 yards away. No one saw the two men dressed in ghillie suits slip back into the jungle. Nor did they notice the Black Hawk that extracted them under the cover of night. The next day the local paper announced another failed coup.

Eight months later . . . John Ekle stood at the side of his friend and partner, Ken Thompson, just

like he'd done hundreds of times before. And just like before, they wore matching suits - except these suits weren't meant to conceal them. They both turned to face the doors as the organist began to play. A vision in white silk, Lily walked down the aisle clutching her father's arm. "Sure you know what you're doing, sir?" John asked. "Might be your last chance to scrap this mission.” He laughed. Ken glanced at him, but couldn't seem to keep his eyes from straying back to his bride. "My target has never been clearer, soldier." "Last chance," John said. "We have a fallback position located near the side entrance." He glanced at his friend. "Don't you have something you could be spotting?" Ken watched John scan the row of bridesmaids like a connoisseur picking out a fine wine. He stopped when his gaze landed on Karen Matthews. The nurse wore an emerald-green dress, which accentuated her figure and fiery red hair. Their eyes met and something unspoken passed between them. "Target spotted, sir. Permission to engage?" Ken looked at Karen and laughed. "Permission granted," he said, knowing that John didn't realize he was the one being targeted this time. He'd figure it out eventually. Probably when they were walking down the aisle. Lily's father gently placed her fingers on Ken's arm and firmly shook his hand. He kissed his daughter's cheek, then discreetly wiped a tear from his eye before taking a seat next to her beaming mother. Both their families were here to celebrate their union, along with half of Ken's unit. It had

taken precision planning to make the wedding go off without a hitch. Lily had done an amazing job. Ken smiled at his bride. Love showed in her misty green eyes. "Thanks for giving me a second chance," he said, whispering in Lily's ear. "And a third . . . and a fourth ..." Her rosy blush matched the fresh blooms in her hands. "Did I have a choice?" she asked, arching a brow as a smile ghosted her face. Ken shook his head. "No." The minister cleared his throat to get their attention. Ken's heart swelled as they said their vows. It had taken time and lots of persuasion, but Lily was finally his to have and to hold. He'd get to wake up to her glowing face for the rest of his life. Ken couldn't imagine a better mission as he slipped the ring on to her linger, and then kissed the bride.

Overkill E. C. Sheedy

"I want your best man, Holister. And that's Tanner Cross." "Impossible. He's in the Congo." Holister tightened his grip on the phone, unable to believe what he was hearing. "Then get him out of the Congo and have him in London tomorrow."

"I need to get this straight. You want Cross to come to London . . . to kill you." "Call it 'euthanize' if that goes down easier. Or better yet 'neutralize'." "Jesus." Holister didn't like this order one bit even though it did come from Joseph Derek, his boss, and the man who, twenty years ago, founded the Raven Force. Financed by Derek's billions, the Ravens were a covert, privately controlled, government-sanctioned squad created to destroy illegal weapons cartels. "Joe, be reasonable. Chances are you'll come out of this better than new." 'They're opening my skull, Holister. Poking around in my brain - and they won't give me any guarantees. There's a chance of dementia, loss of memory, altered personality. Who the hell knows what else." "I'm just saying, what you're proposing? It's overkill." "It's also an order." "At least wait until after the surgery- see how it goes." When he spoke again, Derek's words were still heavy with intent, but more personal. "You think I want this? Going under and not knowing if I'll wake up with the intelligence of a cabbage or, worse yet, not be in control of information that - if it fell into the wrong hands - would put all of the Raven Force at risk?" A pause. "I'd prefer not to wake up at all." "There has to be another way." "There's no other way," Joe said. "Let me know when Cross will arrive at Heathrow. My daughter will see that he is picked up. I've told her I'm expecting a replacement on my personal security team. That's all she

knows - make sure you keep it that way. The surgery is Thursday." "Can I ask you this: why Tanner Cross?" "Because he's a lot like me. He thinks, but he doesn't blink." He was right about that. Tanner was stone-cold effective working in the field, Raven's best operative. But he was also unpredictable and insubordinate when it suited him. "I think—" "Don't think, Holister. Just do." A beat of silence. "And don't let me down. Please." Derek hung up, leaving Holister with no other option than to deploy his killer. He got up from his desk, paced for ten minutes, cursed the room blue, then picked up the satellite phone. "This is a joke, right?" Tanner Cross sat on a cheap bed in an even cheaper hotel in Loubomoin the Congo Republic. He was counting money. He was also naked, tired and, as of two minutes ago, when he'd stepped out of his first shower in two weeks, actually clean. A month of sleep, a haircut, and he'd be human again, although last he heard humans weren't called on to kill their superiors. Holister had to be smoking something. Either that or he was speaking in code. "No joke. Book a flight. Laine Derek will have you picked up and taken straight to the Dereks' home in Mayfair. Security knows you're coming in as a guest. And it's best you stay clear of Laine. She'll ask questions. The woman is a tiger when it comes to her father's security." "No problem. I prefer my tigers in my gas tank or, better yet, my bed." "Funny."

"I take it she doesn't know what her father does when he isn't making billions for Derek Industries." "No. And it's your job to keep it that way." Jesus! He tossed a wad of hundreds on the "counted" side of the bed, and ran a hand through his wet, tangled hair. He'd been with Raven Force for eight years, run ops from the seething East-bloc to war-infested Africa, but he'd never received an assassination order before. Abort mega weapons deals and kill the bad guys, sure . . . and get their money - that was the best part. But terminate the man who masterminded Raven Force? A man whose brilliant, Byzantine plots had saved thousands of lives - and taken down dozens of murdering warlords? This order had to be bullshit. Had to be, 'You sure about this, Holister?" Tanner heard a hard breath come down the line. "He specifically asked for you - says you 'don't blink'. So get your ass to London ASAP." Pause. "And clean up before arrival, OK? Suit. Tie. The works. The Dereks don't do casual." "Oh goody, a shopping spree." Holister ignored the joke. "And remember this is what Derek wants. This is his plan. And whatever that man wants, he gets." "Even to choosing his own time and place to die." Tanner rubbed his jumpy gut. Silence, a full five seconds of it, then a hard exhale. 'Yeah, even that." Tanner took just as long to answer. "Shit," he said, because there was nothing else to say. But a lot to think about. Like why in hell Derek asked

for him. You owe the man. Cross, maybe this is his way of calling in the debt. And like it or not, this was an order. When Holister hung up, Tanner stared at the phone, working to get his thoughts in a line that made sense. He didn't know what was worse, being ordered to kill Joe Derek, or seeing Laine again. He picked up his beer from the floor beside the bed and took a long pull. Hell, chances were good she wouldn't even remember him. He didn't know how he felt about that either. Laine Derek waited in the stretch limo outside Heathrow, her legs crossed, the index linger on her left hand making slow circles on the leather armrest. Her right held a chilled bottle of Perrier. Tanner Cross - after all these years. The last time she'd set eyes on him was at their home in Chicago. Back then she was an achievement-obsessed A student destined for Harvard; Tanner was a badass troublemaker destined for Cook County Jail - until her father stepped in, muttering something about not letting potential go to waste. How he'd seen potential in Tanner Cross escaped her. Not much evidence of that potential at school unless you considered the wishes and dreams of the girls who ogled him, the ones with a taste for fun - and trouble. Tanner offered plenty of both. Or so she'd heard. Given she wasn't exactly the fun-and-trouble type, he'd barely shot her a glance. Whenever he did, she'd skittered away like a frightened cat then, two minutes later, berated herself for being an idiot.

He was damn fine to look at. . . A couple of times, he'd come to the house to talk to her father, but their conversations came through the study door as an indecipherable mumble. She should know, having had her nosey nose pressed against it. The memory made her wince, then smile. Maybe she wasn't as immune to Tanner Cross as she pretended. The last time he was there, he'd bulleted out of her dad's study with a face like thunder, almost knocking her over. He'd grasped her upper arms to steady her. She remembered his strong fingers digging in so hard they'd hurt. Her father yelled from inside the study, "Your decision, Cross. A chance to do something good in this world or ... not." Tanner ignored her father, instead looking first at his hands gripping her arms, then at her. His blue gaze, framed by thick dark lashes, was laser intense. He made a backwards gesture with his head and asked, "That old man of yours .. .filled with crap or on the level?" She had no idea what he was talking about, but she did know her dad was not full of crap. Adoring her father was what she did back then - and what she did now. Which made her the tiniest bit defensive when she replied. "On the level. Crap's your thing, Tanner." What she'd said didn't seem to bother him. "Yeah, I think you're right." Then he'd slowly ran his hands down her arms to her elbows, tugged her closer and - shockingly - kissed her on the forehead, just above her stupid glasses. When he stepped back, he straightened her glasses on her nose, then tapped the kissed spot with his finger and smiled. "See you around,

Laine." With that he was gone; she hadn't seen or heard a word about him since. Her father said he'd joined the army. Strange though it was, she'd never quite forgotten him. Tanner barely made his connecting flight to Heathrow, let alone found time for shopping. And damn it he was already freezing his ass off. Transitioning to London from the Congo was like stepping into a meat locker. Wearing khaki shorts, a cotton shirt with a passion-flower pattern bright enough to fry eyeballs and a pair of sneakers, he was conspicuously underdressed for London's November weather. And for a supposed guest of a family hot-wired into mega money, big business and high society, the outfit was a definite fail. He'd snagged the threads from a street vendor outside the women's clinic where he'd dropped off a cash donation before heading for his flight; his way of making some dirty gun money do something good for a change. Spotting a guy in a neat blue blazer holding a sign that said CROSS, Tanner flagged him, and headed out of the arrivals area. "I'm Cross," he said, standing in front of him. "Collier. The Dereks' driver." Not a smile. Not a facial tic. Nothing. Just a slow detail-grabbing body scan. A driver maybe, but a whole lot more. "May I see your passport, please?" "Sure." Tanner dug his passport out of the pocket on the leg of his shorts. Smart move, asking for ID. But then everyone working around the Dereks and their fortune was paid to be smart.

Collier gave the document a thorough once-over, handed it back, and said, "This way." He headed for an exit. Tanner slung his duffel bag over his shoulder and walked in lockstep. "Mind if we make a stop before hitting Mayfair?" He plucked at the bilious shirt. "I need to get some clothes. Take me fifteen minutes tops." Collier eyed him, raised a brow. "Fifteen hours more like it. Another two in the barber's chair." "You're American." He didn't answer. "Over here." He stepped up to a sleek grey limo. "And re that shopping stop, you'll have to ask Miss Derek." Collier opened the rear passenger door. "Yeah, well I'd like to clean up before I meet the lady, if it's all the same to you." This guy was starting to piss him off. Collier smirked. "I think a short stop at Harrods can be arranged.” The words came from inside the car, seconds before the woman who said them leaned into the light offered by the terminal's halogen. She smiled. "Nice to see you again, Tanner. It's been what? Twelve, fifteen years?" The voice stopped him cold. "Yeah. Something like that," he managed to mutter, while his oxygen supply turned to sludge in his lungs. And what was with that deafening alarm going off in his head? Damn thing sounded eerily similar to the one that had, on more than one occasion, stopped him from driving over an Iraqi road bomb. Now it had him hesitating outside Laine's limo like a damn schoolboy.

Jesus, she looked good! If he'd been wearing socks, she'd have knocked them off. And that perfume she was wearing, wafting out from the car's warm interior - if it was perfume - hit him like nerve gas. Too long in the jungle. Cross. Way, way, too long. "Get in," she urged. "You must be freezing." Collier, still standing beside the open door, coughed discreetly. Tanner, sucking in some bracing, cold night air, slid into the dimly lit limo and the privileged life of Laine Derek. When the car was underway, Laine asked, "Would you like a drink?" She pushed the button that closed the privacy panel between them and Collier, then the one that opened the built-in bar. "We only keep a limited selection, but it's decent enough. I'm sure there's something you'd like." And I have to do something so I can stop staring at you. His face mesmerized her, had ever since he'd got in the car. His expression, one of speculation and strange deliberation, seemed to immobilize her. His gaze was fixed on her now when he answered, "No, I'm fine. Thanks." Indeed you are! Very fine. The years had been monstrously good to Tanner Cross. He had the same shiny dark hair she remembered, thick and straight - and at present, rakishly long - the same potently blue eyes, the same stubborn jawline. The scar on his neck, which appeared drawn by a fine blade, was new, as was his sub-Saharan tan. And he was harder looking, deeply self-contained. Somewhat intimidating. And utterly compelling. He took her breath away.

She got herself another Perrier to occupy her fidgety hands and leaned back in the seat. Laine Derek didn't fidget; she oversaw her father's vast empire, hired and fired the best in the corporate world, and hop-skipped across the globe managing her own investments. She straightened her shoulders. You, Laine Derek, are focused, determined, and successful — you do not faint and swoon over a good-looking man. At least you haven't so far. And today she had a job to do: ensure her father's security remained steel-plated. Tanner Cross might be sinfully handsome, but that didn't mean he was the right man to protect her father. And with the surgery now imminent - her stomach clenched, as it always did when she thought about her father being ill. God, stop thinking about it, Laine. It will be fine. All the doctors say so. "So . . . I'm told you've been in the Congo,” she said, adopting a warm and casual tone. "It shows - you picked up a great tan." She took a sip of her water and managed another smile. This was all about being professional, and God knows she was expert at that. "Where were you exactly?" "Wherever my employer wanted me to be." He shifted his gaze from her face and glanced out the window. "And who exactly was your employer?" She was feeling more comfortable now. Again he fixed his blue gaze on her. "Are you looking for references?" "I usually do." "I thought Holister filled you in on my background."

"He did." "And his word isn't enough?" "Of course it is. He's been a friend of my father's for over twenty years." "So why the questions?" Laine frowned, not sure how she'd become the answer-woman rather than the questioning one. She didn't like it. "Just looking to fill in some blanks." "If there are blanks, there's a reason for them." He shifted in the seat, faced her more directly. "Look, I've been hired as additional personal security for your father, posing as a guest." He went on, “I’ve been told the job is 24/7 until after the surgery. Simple enough." His gaze raked over her face. "And if it makes you feel any better. I'm good at my job. Nothing will happen to your father on my watch." She damn near spilled her drink. "What do you know about the surgery?" Her father's health and the planned operation were top-secret. If word got out, Derek stock would plunge on markets from London to Tokyo. They'd lose millions. She couldn't imagine Holister being this indiscreet. "Nothing." Again he glanced out the window, as if he couldn't bear to look at her. "Have you mentioned the surgery - to anyone?" OK, so she sounded the tiniest bit strident. He scowled at her, but said nothing, looking for all the world as if she'd insulted him.

"I'll prepare a confidentiality agreement," she said. "You'll have to sign it immediately." He nodded, indifferently, looking as if something a lot more important than legalese had caught his interest. Tilting his head slightly, he said, "You got your law degree then - along with your MBA." "Yes." The abrupt change in subject from his work to hers took her mind off the document she'd already started composing in her head. He half smiled, and said in a low voice, "Hell. . . That's really something. You're something. Beautiful and brainy. That's what I call a killer combination." There was a trace of awe in his tone. Laine should call his comments out of line - she was his boss after all - but instead, caught in the lingering warmth of his curved lips and warm eyes, she reddened. She was suddenly very, very curious. "And you, Tanner? What have you been doing all these years?” The smile left his face, like a ghost turning from the light. Rapping on his side window with his knuckle, he said, "Looks like we're here." He was right. There was no mistaking Harrods' green canopies. Collier pulled the car to the kerb. When Tanner put his hand on the door handle, Laine put her hand on his bare arm. Heat. A fine spray of hair. Hard muscle. Swallowing, her fingers tingling, she pulled her hand back. "My question wasn't an interrogation. Just... friendly interest.”

He smiled again, but this time it was fuller and, when paired with his eyes, bordered on mockery. "'Friendly interest?” don't think so.” He looked down to where her hand had briefly rested on his arm then lifted his gaze to her. A gaze both seductive and impenetrable. A gaze that offered and took away. A gaze that made her heart pound and her brain soften. A gaze that saw a dangerous road ahead and ... didn't give a damn. "You and I will never be friends, Laine.” "I don't know what you mean," she said, as stuffy as a parson's wife. She knew exactly what he meant, but some obscure instinct said the game had to be played, surface words spread like a cool cloth on a fevered brow. But the words were useless against Tanner's hot blue eyes. 'Yes, you do.” "Don't worry. I’m not putting a move on you. And I won't. You're the boss, so we do things your way." His stare speculative, he added, "If we do them at all.” With that he was out of the limo and striding into Harrods. Breathing deeply, she watched his broad back disappear, her normally logical mind numbed by possibilities. Tanner Cross as a lover. After all these years ... That thought ended her efforts at deep breathing and set off heart palpitations. Dear goddess, where were the smelling salts when she needed them! His words echoed. "You're the boss ..." Tanner cursed himself and then he cursed Laine Derek. Himself for losing

his grip on whatever cool he;d managed to salvage from the jungle and panting after a woman he hadn't seen in years, and her for turning out to be exactly what he'd expected - the woman who'd starred in his adolescent fantasies, and quite a few since then. Not that she knew it, nor would he tell her, but it hadn't been fifteen years since he'd seen her. No. He'd clapped eyes on her twice in the last six years: Cairo first, then Madrid last year. She'd made his knees weak then, and she did the same now. Not good, considering his current job description, and the fact that he was as far from being Laine's type as a lion was from a Siamese cat. So shut the fuck up. Cross, and quit with the sex signals. Get yourself some working clothes and get away from her as fast as your ass will move. The menswear department was on the ground floor, so he headed straight for it. He pulled a half-dozen white shirts off the rack, found a clerk, told him his sizes, and asked him to bring him three suits, one navy and two black, whatever ties would work, and some dress shoes - his feet hurt just thinking about them- and to toss in some jeans and underwear while he was at it. After a double take on Tanner's African-market-chic outfit, the clerk gave him a quick "Yes, sir”, and set out as though on a mission to save a dying species. Tanner had to hand it to the guy, he worked fast; in no time he was back swishing expensive clothes under Tanner's nose. "Will these be suitable, sir?" he asked.

"Fine." Tanner pulled out his credit card and handed it over. "Wrap 'em up." "You'll need a tux." Laine stepped up beside him, her eyes scanning the clothes laid out on the counter, while the clerk did his tally. "I suggest Armani. And switch one of the black suits for a grey. And maybe add a couple of pale-blue shirts." The clerk looked at her, then him. Tanner dropped his gaze to hers; she was smiling. Without looking at the clerk, he said, "What the lady says." “And

put them on my account."

Again the clerk looked at him. "Negative that." Laine shrugged. "What the man says." When the clerk left to make the changes, Tanner looked down at Laine; raised a brow. "You trying to buy me." "It crossed my mind . . . given you've ruled out friendship." She wandered away, fingering suits, shirts, whatever, as she went, and occasionally glancing back at him. He followed her. Like a damn puppet on a string. Towards the private dressing rooms. They paused outside a door. Tanner opened it. Laine stepped inside. They were alone in the heart of London. Tanner planted his hands on the wall, one on each side of Laine, careful not to touch her. But he could feel her warmth through his cheap shirt, see

her heart pounding under the silk of her blouse, smell her million-dollar perfume - the million-dollar woman. If there was sound outside their tight and cosy world, he didn't hear it. What he heard was the whisper of her breath, the flurry of it on his throat. "You sure about this?" he asked. She placed her hands on his chest, and his lungs damn near stopped pumping. "Absolutely not." She moved her palms, grazing his nipples. He sucked in a breath. Their eyes met. Held, ''Are you?" He brought his mouth down, brushed it over hers. A taste. The barest of tastes. I’m sure if s the biggest mistake of my life." "Good." He cocked a brow in question. “

We never forget our mistakes." She slipped her arms around his neck.

Running her hands through his hair, she pulled his mouth to hers. Took it hard and greedily. And in that moment, he went deaf, dumb and blind to everything but her lips pressed to his. On a moan, she took his tongue, played with it. His temperature shot to stratospheric, and the down-low, intelligence-starved anatomy behind his cheap Congo zipper turned to hot steel, raw and rough with lust. Wanting closer, wanting in, he ground himself against her, his reward only the crush of her breasts to his chest. He tugged at her blouse, slid a hand under the silk of it, then over the satin and lace of her bra. He pressed his thumb against the pebbled jut of her nipple and she pushed back, whimpered. The kiss deepened - him? her? - he couldn't tell just who was responsible, but when she sagged in his arms, he locked her body to his,

his hands sliding over her hips, her ass. He wanted her. He wanted her now. Here! In a fucking Harrods changing room? He pulled back. "Jesus ..." He put his forehead to hers. Their uneven breathing a storm between them -hot, gusty and trapped in a dense silence. "Well, that was, uh, interesting," Laine finally said, burying her face in his shoulder. "That's one description." His voice sounded broken, too low. "And yours?" "A hell of a good beginning." He looked around the well-appointed dressing room and smiled. "But your choice of venue is seriously lacking." She gave him a small smile in return, and started tucking in her blouse; her hands were trembling. "I didn't exactly plan ahead for this." He pulled her to him, again brushed his lips over hers. Damn near killed him to holdback. "But you did plan." She studied him intently. "I'm not sure I did." Frowning, she added, "I just suddenly felt... wild." "And now?" "Now? I don't know what I feel." Turning away from him, she said. "Except we'd better get out of here. I think Harrods would agree." When they arrived at Joe Derek's Mayfair mansion, Laine asked Collier to show Tanner to his room. And "And now?"

"Now? I don't know what I feel." Turning away from him, she said. "Except we'd better get out of here. I think Harrods would agree.” When they arrived at Joe Derek's Mayfair mansion, Laine asked Collier to show Tanner to his room. And yes, she might have been brusque, but she was more than a little desperate to get away from him - and do some thinking. Something she hadn't managed to do when she'd seduced him in a men's dressing room. Tanner gave her no argument, but the last look he shot her before turning to follow Collier told her he was making a pretty good guess about what was going on inside her. Good for him, because she had no idea. Still light-headed, she drifted into the library to wait for her father. She might not understand her body's response to Tanner Cross, but what she really wanted to know was why her father had brought him here. Why him? "Hello, love." Her father strode into the room, walked directly to her and gave her the usual kiss on the cheek. His valet, Jacobsen, came in a few steps behind him. "Is there anything you need, Mr Derek?" He nodded in her direction. "Miss?" "No, we're fine. Thank you, Jacobsen." "Very good," he said, in his odd stiff way. "I'll be in my room if you need me." When Jacobsen was gone, Laine eyed her father's suit and tie. "Are you going out?" "A late meeting."

She wished he wouldn't tire himself, but knew it was useless to tell him so. "I'd have thought you'd want to see Tanner. I brought him here straight from the airport." "Really? You picked him up?" She nodded but offered no explanation. How do you explain a whim fed by curiosity? "I understand he's joining your security staff." She studied her father closely, as she'd taken to doing ever since his diagnosis. It always surprised her how well he looked, tall, straight - thinner than six months ago, but his colour was still good. Other than looking tired he wore his sixty-three years with polished grace. She called him her grey fox. A grey fox she was terrified she'd lose. "I've got a few minutes. Would you like a drink?" He walked to the bar, poured himself a brandy. "No. And don't try changing the subject." He sighed and, despite her refusal, poured her a glass of Chardonnay. Handing her the glass, he said, "That's what I get for raising a too darn smart, pit bull of a daughter. I can't get away with anything." "Tanner said he was hired by Holister. That Holister told him about your surgery. Why? Holister has never had anything to do with Derek security before. Why now? Why didn't you use our usual firm?" She paused, softened her tone and tried not to show her fear. "What's going on, Dad? Is there something -some threat - that I don't know about?” "No, darling, nothing like that. Tanner's just a temporary replacement for one of my men who needed some unexpected time off. When I mentioned the situation to Holister, he brought up Tanner's name. I

remembered him, of course, and I thought it would be interesting to see him again." He smiled. "Nothing dire, no devious plots." 'You're sure?" “I’m

sure."

"He knows about your surgery. You're OK with that?" He shrugged easily. "Security is the man's business, Laine. If Holister trusts him to be discreet, I accept his judgment. Besides, in a few days the surgery will be behind us, and Tanner will be gone. Let's not make a big thing of it. All right?" Something wasn't right... She had a million questions, but rather than cause her father stress, she lifted her glass and nodded. "And in those few days, you'll be on the mend and driving the staff crazy." She forced a smile. He tapped her glass with his, his expression oddly grim. "Amen to that." Tanner dropped his duffel bag on the bench at the foot of the four-poster bed. His room, with its lofty ceilings, ornate mouldings and antique furniture, was as far from the jungle as a man could get in one day. Walking to the window, he watched Collier from the corner of his eye, as the driver grudgingly hung Tanner's newly acquired Harrods haberdashery in the closet. Tanner couldn't resist issuing an instruction. "Leave the jeans on the bed. I'd appreciate it." Collier shot him a fiery look. 'You're a pretend guest, Cross. Don't push it." Tanner turned away from the window - nothing but a street outside with slow-moving traffic - and sat his butt on the edge of the window seat.

"How long did you say you'd been with the Dereks?" "I didn't." Collier faced him, his face tight. Not a man used to taking orders, Tanner thought, or being asked questions. "Four weeks. Not that it's any of your business." "Cushy job, driving a beautiful woman around." Collier said nothing, then, "If you're finished asking me about things that are none of your business, I have to drive Mr Derek to a late engagement." His expression was dark as if something black and ugly was on his mind. "There's a dinner tomorrow night. You're expected to be there. Try not to be a complete asshole." He strode from the room, his back as rigid as the doorway he walked through. Tanner watched him go and smiled. Cross, you really need to work on your people skills. A half-hour later - he was coming out of the shower - the phone rang. It was the woman on his mind. Laine. "I don't imagine you've eaten," she said, her tone brisk. "Some plastic-wrapped stuff on the plane." "Come down to the kitchen then. We can talk while we eat." Being a man of few words, he decided to use some, "Laine, about what happened—" "See you in fifteen minutes." She hung up. When he found the kitchen, three floors down, Laine was already there. Cooking! "I thought you had a chef for that." He gestured towards the pot in her hands.

"We do. But when I get the chance, I like to do it myself." She moved the pan off the heat. "And this is pretty simple stuff. Some pasta and chicken." With her head she gestured to the table and chairs by a window that looked out over a small terrace. "Sit." He sat, and in seconds she'd filled their plates and joined him at the table, already set with cutlery and two glasses of wine. "Laine, I-" "Eat, Tanner. Just eat. Please." Damned if her face wasn't pink. "Not before I apologize. That kiss.. . I stepped over the line." And I'd do it again in a heartbeat. She shook her head. "And I stepped out of character." Looking at him, she added, "Which didn't make it any less ... fantastic." She put down her fork. "But I didn't ask you down here to talk about our misguided kiss." He let the "misguided" comment go and stayed on the "fantastic". Picking up his fork, he asked, "Now what?" "I want to talk about my father." She gave him her full attention. "And I want to know why you're here." Tanner looked into her keen, searching eyes, and didn't miss the cool intelligence behind them. Years ago, those eyes had been hidden behind glasses with big dark frames. Now nothing hid them, not shyness -and she had been shy - not uncertainty, and not her innate intelligence. Laine Derek had grown up to be the smartest, toughest, sexiest woman on the fucking planet, and he wasn't going to disrespect that. "You're not going to like it," he said.

"Try me." "I came here to kill your father." She blinked and her clear brow furrowed, then she pressed a hand to her throat as if to regulate her breathing. "Say again." "You heard it right the first time." For a moment, she sat still as marble, then she brought her hand back down to the table. "If you're telling me this, I have to think: a) you've changed your plan, or b) you also plan to kill me - maybe with your pasta fork. After you've eaten, of course." He curled some pasta on the fork in question, but answered her before putting it in his mouth. "First off, I never had a plan, I'm only the hired gun." He ate the pasta, wiped his mouth with the napkin. "And second, I'd cut out my heart before I hurt Joe Derek." Or you. "I don't understand.” Tanner, tired of playing it cool, and wanting some answers of his own, put down his fork and picked up his wine. "It's your father's idea. He wants me to kill him before he goes under the knife." She stood. "That's insane! Why on earth would he want that?" Roughly, she shoved her long dark hair behind her ears, held it there, a look of utter confusion on her beautiful face. "He says he's afraid to wake up and not be the man he was." "The surgery isn't without risk, of course, but the doctors are confident— This makes no sense!" She turned away, then back. "And why you? Why did he choose you? Is that what you are? A killer for hire?" The words

were no sooner out of her mouth than she held up her hand, palm towards him. "Damn it! You're a Raven, aren't you?" How the hell did she know about the Raven Force? "What are you talking about?" The look she gave him was withering. "Do not treat me like an idiot, Tanner. I've known about my father's . . . sub rosa operation for years. I run Derek Industries, for God's sake. That means I follow the money. Raven is very expensive." "I see." One smart lady. And damn it, he was a sucker for smarts. His chest tightened over an alien surge of panic. A red alert. He could fall for this woman - fall hard. Do not go there. Cross. Focus! "How much do you know?" She faltered. "No details. I know the work involves the illegal arms trade, sometimes drugs. In the last few years, anti-terrorism." She paused. "And I know it's important to my father." "The Raven Force is your father. And it's not only the money. He's a genius strategist, connected to the highest levels of government, both here and stateside. He knows - hell, he vets - every operative in the force. That kind of power attracts equally powerful enemies, for him, and the Ravens." He rubbed his jaw. "My guess is that's what this death wish of his is all about: what he knows and who he knows. He's thinks this surgery will make him a danger to everyone involved." She eyed him warily, suspicion darkening her startling green eyes. "Maybe you agree with him. Maybe you'll do anything to protect the Ravens."

"I will." "I thought you said ..." She straightened. "I'll kill you if you hurt my father, Tanner. I mean it." "Jesus, I am not going to hurt him! Get that in your head and keep it there." Running a hand through his hair, he added, "I'd rather hurt the other guy." "Other guy?" "Joe knows hiring a Raven to kill him is not a sure thing. Especially this one." He smacked his heart."Hell, I'd be a nowhere man if it wasn't for him turning my life around, getting my ass in the army, taking me on as a Raven.” He took a beat. "I think he's got back-up." "Then why call you in at all?" He fired his finger at her. "Two points for the question. Another twenty if you have the answer." Silence. Laine paced a bit, shoved her hair behind her ears again. She stopped abruptly. "Plan B. Of course!" She nodded her head as if to herself. "Dad always has a Plan B, and that plan 'must run parallel and be as foolproof as the first'." She looked up at him, her eyes wide. Tanner nodded. He'd heard Joe say those exact words a dozen times. "Now all we have to do is figure out Plan B." "Come with me." She marched towards the door. A few seconds later, they were in the library with its walls of books, expensive carpets and massive male-sized furniture.

Laine went directly to the fireplace, ran her hand along the carved mantel and gave it a tug; the fireplace swung open like a gate. Tanner arched a brow in the direction of the many bookcases, the usual cover for secret rooms. She followed his glance. "Too predictable. Dad had this—" she nodded towards the electric fireplace "—put in when we first bought in Mayfair." "And he told you about it?" "Not exactly. I pay attention." "Remind me never to cheat on you." Before she ducked to enter the small space behind the fireplace, she shot him a questioning look. A few seconds later, she emerged waving a leather notebook. "Here it is." She plopped it on the desk and pulled the desk lamp closer. He read over her shoulder, then cursed, and paced halfway across the room. Her eyes followed him - like a pair of damning lasers. "He wants you to succeed him as head of Raven Force, and he's putting a billion-and-a-half dollars at your disposal for its operational expenses. The papers governing the funds are all in Switzerland. That's why you're here! First you prove your loyalty by not killing him, then you take over after someone else does." She slammed the book closed. "God, how serpentine is that. And so damn like him!" She turned on Tanner, eyes blazing. "And it gives you a powerful reason to want my father dead." He strode towards her, pulled her to him and kissed the spite out of her. When he finally lifted his mouth from hers, he said, "What I want, Laine

Derek, is you. You figure I have a chance at that if I murder your father on the road to our happy ending." She shook her head. "Not a chance in hell." "Then shut up and let me kiss you." The kiss was rough, then soft, and about the time he thought he'd drown in it, he pulled back. He was damn pleased that she looked dazed and confused. "I told you we couldn't be friends.” Silence. "So you did." She gave him an unreadable look, half frustration, half confusion. "I just didn't believe you.” "And now?” He let out a long breath, frustrated that he didn't have time to take the kiss where it was meant to lead. But, given he had a killer to stop, sex just wasn't on the agenda. Yet. He stepped away from her. She gave him a hard but thoughtful look. "I'm getting it. Not sure what to do about it, but I'm definitely getting it." "Then hold that thought, because right now we have to talk about your father." He took a couple of steps. "He's scheduled to go to the hospital —"he

looked at his watch"—in thirty-one hours. Right?"

"Right." "Then the kill has to be set for tomorrow night." At his use of the word "kill" she turned ashen. He wanted to take her in his arms, tell her everything was going to be OK. He also didn't want to make promises he couldn't keep. Right now they both needed to think, not feel. "No one wants to die a second before they have to, plus he's planned a dinner for, according to Collier, his

closest friends." He looked at Laine, who'd put a hand over her mouth, as if to contain her distress. "Joe Derek doesn't plan to wake up." Laine leaned heavily on the edge of her father's massive desk. What Tanner said made perfect sense. Her father had been planning tomorrow night's dinner for a month now. A reunion dinner, he called it. He'd flown old friends in from Chicago, New York... Damn him, he was saying goodbye! "What's wrong?" Tanner asked, taking a couple of steps towards her, then stopping. "Thinking about him . . . planning all this, while I fussed and worried about him coming through the surgery." She shook her head. "Bringing you here. Hiring his own killer! Damn it, I could kill him myself! When he gets home, I'm going to call him on it and—" "No, you're not." He came to stand in front of her, lifted her chin. His blue eyes were dead serious. "I need to know if he's hired a Raven for this job. You tip Joe off and that won't happen - he'll find another way. Maybe cancel the surgery." Her stomach sank. He was right. If her father was anything, he was determined. "Then what? How do we stop this insanity?" He took his hand away from her face. "We play his game. But starting tomorrow night, after the dinner, your father doesn't leave my sight until he's on that operating table, meaning whoever he's hired has to get to him through me. And that's not going to happen. That's a positive. OK?" "You're sure?”

"I'm sure. But judging from that look in your eye, you're not. So you're welcome to keep those suspicious eyes on me if it will make you feel better." "It will." "Fair enough." Brushing her hair back, he took her face in his hands and kissed her forehead in the way he'd done so many years ago. Then he touched his lips to hers, and her knees turned to rubber. "I don't entirely trust you, you know." She sounded too breathy. "No matter how much you kiss me." "I wouldn't trust me, either." He kissed her then, softly, slowly, his mouth whispering over hers. Her arms went around his neck, pulling him closer, until the hard length of him was flush between her hips. He felt so good, so right... "Have I told you how beautiful you are," he whispered, taking the kiss deeper. "How much I love your mouth, that soft sound that purrs from the back of your throat when we kiss." His mouth hovering over hers, his voice hoarse, he said, "I want to make love to you, Laine. I ache with wanting you." He lifted his head, looked into her eyes. "When this is all over ...is that going to happen?" She should have hesitated, done at least a second or two of the I'm-notthat-easy routine. She didn't. "Yes. That's most definitely going to happen. If—" "Shush." He put a finger to her mouth. "I know the 'if." The dining room was immense, the table a mile long and the guests formal.

Tanner donned the tux, which, thankfully, was soft-structured. He was comfortable enough at the dinner party in the role of "old friend", and the swirl of conversation, clinking glasses and occasional bursts of laughter provided enough distraction for him to keep a close eye on the dinner guests. Other than an initial clap on the shoulder, Joe Derek kept his distance. No surprise. Wearing some kind of soft pink body-hugging satin thing that had him drooling, Laine sat at the far end of the table near her father. Tanner feasted his eyes on her every chance he had. Definitely going to happen. If. . . her father stayed alive. Speaking of whom, Joe Derek was one hell of an actor. Watching him in the role of gracious host, you'd think he was planning a holiday, rather than a meeting with the grim reaper. Collier stood in shadowy attendance, his face grim. Holister was the last to arrive and, not surprisingly, he was seated next to Tanner. They'd played casual acquaintances for the last couple of hours. Finally, Holister leaned closer and whispered, "Everything on track, Cross?" Tanner didn't answer, just picked up his water glass, took a sip, and asked, "I assume you're staying the night." "No. I’m heading for the airport. As a matter of fact—" he glanced at his watch "—I'd better move on. Say my goodbyes to Joe and Laine." Tanner watched him go, greatly relieved he could remove him from the

suspect grid. Holister's departure initiated a flurry of leave takings and within a halfhour, Joe and Laine were in the grand foyer saying goodbyes to the last of the guests. The Derek staff descended on the table like a school of piranhas on speed, and within minutes the table was cleared and its brilliant floral table centre perfectly repositioned. Tanner intended to be equally as efficient dispatching Joe's hired killer. He headed for Joe Derek's room on the third floor and let himself in. Not a second later, the barrel of a gun was lodged against the back of his neck. "What the fuck are you doing in here, nosing around where you don't belong?” "Collier. I was really hoping it wasn't you. Figured we might get to be pals, you know?" "Fat chance. Turn around, Cross, and make it fast." Tanner never argued with a gun - particularly one in a position to splatter his brains over Persian rugs. He turned. The sound of voices filtered in from the hall. "Fuck!" Collier appeared to panic, glancing left then right. He grabbed Tanner's shoulder, spun him. "The window. Behind the drapes. Now!" He shifted the gun to Tanner's back. 'You're kidding me. Behind the curtains?" "Shut up and move." He moved. In seconds they were both hidden by rich damask, a second

later Derek and Jacobsen walked into the room. Tanner had a half-assed view of the room through the panel break in the draperies. He guessed Collier had about the same. Joe said clearly, "Have you got it?" He took off his jacket, placed it on the bed and started rolling up his sleeve. "Yes, sir." Jacobsen opened a small box and pulled out a syringe. "You can leave it," Joe said. "I'll do it myself tonight." What the hell... Ignoring the gun Collier had parked on his left kidney, Tanner threw back the curtain. "Stop right there." The men froze in place: Joe with his hand holding his shirt up above the elbow; Jacobsen, the hypodermic in his hand; and Collier, his gun now pointed at empty space. Tanner strode to Jacobsen and grabbed the needle from him. Turning to Joe, he said, "Game over. Nobody's dying here tonight." Jacobsen looked faint. Fainter still when Collier stepped from behind the curtains, and pointed a gun at his gut. "Stay put." Joe Derek closed his eyes a moment then let out a long breath. "Let him go," he said to Collier. "He thinks it's a B12 shot. I've been taking them for months now." "But this one's not B12, is it?" Tanner said. "No." "Let me guess . . . a heavy-duty barbiturate, like maybe enough to kill an elephant?”

Joe rolled down his sleeve and did up his cuff. "I knew you wouldn't kill me, Tanner, but I didn't expect you'd ride in on a damn white horse figuratively speaking." He glared at Collier. "What the hell are you doing here? And get rid of that." He nodded to Collier's gun. Collier shrugged, holstered the gun. "I didn't like the way this guy's been sneaking around. Plus he made one too many trips to buy Pharmaceuticals. I figured whatever he was up to, it wasn't good." "I have not been 'sneaking around' as you put it. I have been following instructions." Jacobsen came to life and turned on Joe, his back valet straight. "Mister Derek, I have been happily in your employ for ten years, and it pains me to submit my resignation, effective immediately. But what pains me more is that you would use me in such an underhand way. You were selfish to do so, and cowardly in the extreme. Before I go, may I suggest you do the honourable thing? Face your fate from your surgery with courage and resolve. And, as they say, let the chips fall where they may." He looked around the room, his chin high. "Gentlemen, I bid you goodbye." Three pairs of eyes watched Jacobsen leave the room. Then Collier gave a curt nod and followed him. When they were alone, Tanner nodded to Joe. "Couldn't have said it better myself." Joe gave a shaky laugh. "Looks like Robbie Burns was right - 'The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.' Including mine." He walked to a cabinet near the window; atop it was a decanter of brandy and some glasses. He lifted the decanter. "Drink?" "Sure."

Joe brought him his drink and they sat in the two chairs in front of the fire. "Does Laineknow?" "Yes." He cursed softly, put his head down, rubbed his forehead with the glass. "Now what?" "You're asking me?" "About now I'm supposed to be a dead man, so I'm fresh out of ideas." Joe downed his Scotch in one jerky movement. He's finding it harder to face the unknowns of the surgery than death itself, Tanner thought. He got that, figured he might be the same in his shoes. "You want a plan, here it is. First, I don't leave your side until they wheel you into that operating room. Then—" he took a drink, leaned back in his chair "—we take Jacobsen's advice, 'let the chips fall where they may'." He gave Joe a steady-on look. "And if you're concerned about the Raven Force, don't be. I've got your back, for as long as it takes," "I arranged for you to take charge, you know. The money, the contacts, all of it." "I know." Joe raised a brow. "Laine found your notebook.” He cursed, rubbed his forehead again. "That girl is so smart it's scary." ''Won't argue with that."

"About the surgery . . ." Joe looked at him a long time, his expression that of man who wanted to be convinced, but wasn't. "The best 'chip' would be my dying on the table. Better for the Ravens." "Negative that. The best chip is your waking up at a hundred per cent, and a few months from now, giving me your blessing to marry your daughter."

Two months later Laine rested the back of her head on the tub's porcelain rim and closed her eyes, fragrant minty bath oil wafting up her nose. "I think there's a law against this. Has to be. Somewhere." Tanner, occupied with massaging one of her soapy feet, said, "And what law would that be?" "I don't know . . . something about not being allowed to be this happy. Like, Thou shalt not have more than your share of bliss/" "Nope. No such law. You can have all the bliss you want." "We're not really right for each other, you know." "I know." He gave her foot a nip before releasing it back into the water and rested his arms along the sides of the tub. "I knew you were wrong for me the minute I met you. Trouble, that's what I thought." Laine pulled herself up, happy to see Tanner's attention gravitate to her naked breasts. Breasts were a nuisance when you were trying to fit a damn bra, but absolutely great at times like this. "You like trouble, Tanner Cross." She lowered herself over him, and he did what she wanted him to do,

cupped her breasts. So good... He licked each nipple, then kissed them. "That I do." "I taste like soap." "You taste like heaven." She knelt between his legs, and took the length of him in her hands. His inhalation was sharp and powerful. "God, damn it," he whispered, "I love your hands on me." He closed his eyes, and she stroked him until his broad chest quaked under his short, rapid breaths. Finally, he grabbed her hand, inhaled deeply, and in an urgent tone said, "Let's get out of this tub and—" Her own breathing no better than his, she managed a smile, "—go find some trouble?" Returning her smile, he said, "All you can give me." Two hours later, the only light in the room from the dying fire, Laine woke up to find Tanner looking at her. Did his dark-blue gaze wake her? She didn't know, but with the firelight dancing across his features, she'd never seen him more . . . beautiful - or intense. His face, cast in shadow and gold, appeared almost stern. She touched his cheek. "Tanner?” "I love you, Laine." The words took their place between them, whole, fresh and full of promise. What took you so long, you mule-headed male! But, oh, she loved him for waiting. "I love you, Tanner," she said, her heart near to collapsing under the weight of it.

"Thank, God. I'd have felt like an ass, if you'd said I was just your boy toy." "Well, you're that, too." He grinned, took her hand from his cheek to his mouth and kissed her palm. "I've been waiting to tell you. Actually, I've been biting back the words since that kiss in Harrods' dressing room." "Why?" He propped himself on an elbow, looked down at her. "I thought if I said it too soon, the words would... lose value. And because I wanted to be sure your father was in good enough health for us to make plans." She laughed at that. "My father, it seems, is indestructible." He nodded, turning serious again. "You understand I’ll be taking over the Raven Force? Your father asked, and I've accepted." "Uh-huh." "You know what that means?" It means danger, separations, distance and endless secrets. It means I have to share you with your job

—

your calling. "Yes, I know what it

means." 'You're good with it?" He held her with his eyes. So blue, so intense, they burned. "Negative that." She smiled, touched his jaw. "But if my boy toy promises to spend every hour of every day that he's not saving the world with me, I'll make it work." "We'll make it work," he said, kissing her again.

"Yes ... we'll make it work."

The Grey Man Caitlyn Nicholas

"Oh. Shit. Ow." Amelia dropped the sea snail on to the sand. Stunned, she looked from the barb buried deep in her hand to the pretty shell it'd come out of. An intense painful itch that grew and burned until it was unbearable made her whimper. Panic blossomed. Those things weren't venomous, were they? She took a step and almost collapsed. The same unbearable, itching, burning pain sped up her leg. Must. Not Panic. She dragged in a breath. Her chest felt like it had tight elastic bands wrapped around it, squeezing. Slowly and deliberately she limped up the tropical East Timorese beach, putting one foot in front of the other until she got to the path that led to the Maubara orphanage. Breathing became more difficult with every step, and when the glaring white walls and red tin roof of the orphanage came into view, she tried to call for help. But she couldn't pull enough air into her lungs to get the words out. Must. Not. Panic. She made it to the cool dusty porch, grabbed the cord of the bell used to

call the children in from lunch, then sank to her knees while the bell rang. "Amelia, what is the matter, child?” Clara Eisenberg appeared at the door, and was on her knees beside her in a second. "Shell... my foot..." wheezed Amelia. "Can't... breathe." This could not be happening. A creeping numbness settled over her shoulders and crept downwards towards her heart. "A pretty shell? Gold-coloured, with black and white? You stood on it then picked it up?" Amelia nodded - that was exactly what she'd done - then rested her head on the rough cement and concentrated on trying to breathe. Clara was shouting something in Tetum - the local Timorese language -to the orphanage staff. Her voice had become distant, and Amelia could not follow what she said. Grey spots appeared at the outer edges of her fading vision. "I'm calling your father,” said Clara, her face summing close. "No," gasped Amelia. It’d be the end of everything. The world faded to black. "Ahh, shit." Mick was halfway across the river when the downpour hit. Seconds later an odd rumble beneath his feet made him glance upstream. He had a moment to realize that there was a wall of black water hurtling towards him, before he - still attached to his forty-five kilogram pack - was

sucked into a churning, whirling hell. No oxygen, not even sure which way was up. His rifle was ripped out of his hands by the torrent. It was 3 a.m. Somewhere in a river in the depths of the Liquica district of East Timor. And he was about to drown. Screw that. The need for oxygen began to nag. His webbing vest, loaded down with ammunition, and the backpack were making it almost impossible to get to the surface. He tried to lose the backpack, but something cannoned into the side of him with bruising force, knocking the remaining air out of his lungs and sending his arm numb and clumsy. He broke the surface and dragged in a desperate breath before being sucked back underwater. Finally the backpack came off and he struggled upwards again. In the manner of all flash floods, the torrent was ebbing around him and it was easier to surface this time. He tried to get his bearings, but it was pitch black. The gush of water eased more, solid ground scraped beneath his boots. He kicked sideways, found his feet and, within seconds, managed to crawl on to the muddy shore. Panting heavily. He was torn between frustration that he;d just potentially screwed up a mission and relief that he was out of the water and not dead. Below his elbow, his left arm felt prickly and strange. The cloud cleared as quickly as it had appeared and a huge gibbous moon

lit the area. He pushed himself up to sitting and examined the damage as best he could. Blood - he could smell its sharp metallic odour -and quite a lot of it. Black on his fingers. His forearm had been laid open from his elbow to his hand, and a gash spiralled across the veins of his wrist. "Bugger." He downgraded "not dead" to "not dead yet". Aware that in the Timorese tropical climate a wound like that would fester incredibly quickly, if he didn't bleed to death first. It started to throb and sting, and the pain gathered momentum. He dragged off his soaked shirt, wadded it up and held it against the wound. He needed help. The rest of his team would find him, eventually, but the terrain between them was steep, covered in thick jungle and likely swarming with Indonesian patrols. It could take a while. He paused. Listened. Sniffed the air. He could smell smoke. Wood smoke. He scanned the area more carefully and, sure enough, he could see a distant dim glint of a light, barely perceptible against the bright moon. He dragged himself up to his feet and, stumbling in the flat moonlight, made his way towards it. Could be a village. Could be the Indonesian army. Both had numerous pitfalls. What he hadn't been expecting was a nunnery. Amelia drifted in a semi-conscious daze. Her heart stuttered and jittered in her chest, every breath was almost impossible to take as the paralysis took its hold. Voices came clearly through the haze. It was true, what they said, about hearing being the last sense to go. Clara, unusually high-pitched and

upset, was desperately trying to get medical help, though Amelia couldn't hear the children, their chatter was silent. She'd miss them. They'd taught her so much. She couldn't speak, couldn't swallow, couldn't blink, couldn't move. Death hovered. She could sense it. It had never looked so good. Aware that he hadn't washed in the three weeks that he'd been on patrol, and that he was dripping blood all over their immaculate porch, Mick hammered on the door, below a small statue of Christ on the Cross. He heard movement on the other side and a small peephole opened at eye height. For an insane minute he was reminded of getting into a very dodgy club in Kings Cross last time he was on leave in Sydney. "Ajuda. I'm Australian. Ajuda," he said, summoning the Tetum word for "help" from somewhere. Languages had never been his strong point. "Espeva" she said. Wait. So he leaned his forehead against the door and waited, listening to the pat, pat, pat of his own blood dripping on to the ground. An age later the peephole opened again. "Are you in trouble?" asked a calm, precise voice. He felt soothed just hearing it. "I'm sorry. I got caught in a flash flood and I'm badly cut. Do you have bandages? You could throw them out here. I don't need to come in." The door opened to reveal a nun, neatly dressed in a white habit despite the hour. Her lined face looked older than time itself, and deeply wise. "We have never turned away a person in need and are not about to start now, young man," she said in perfect English.

"I'm sorry. I've bled on your porch." He held out his arm. It was the first time he'd seen the wound properly and it took him a moment to realize that the white glint amongst all the blood was bone. A wide strip of flesh had been ripped away and was dangling from his arm. It looked so horrific that his brain was having difficulty processing the fact that it was his arm. A weird disconnected feeling kept telling him that it must belong to someone else. He pressed his shirt back on to the wound, afraid he'd offended the nuns with the sight of it. "No!" There was a gasp of consternation, and he realized that behind the nun who had opened the door there was a small group of women. "That rag is filthy. Don't do that. Come in at once,” said the nun. They ushered him through the dark halls of the nunnery. It was large. He guessed it was the one in the hills behind Maubara. Which meant the flash flood had dragged him a long, long way from his patrol. They'd come to find him. Without doubt. But the mission was screwed. They'd spent the last three weeks in the Timorese jungle, on patrol as part of Operation Astute, a United Nations initiative led by Australia to keep peace in East Timor. And now, just when they'd had concrete reports of the militia stirring up trouble, this accident would drag them away from where they could do any good at all. He groaned, quietly, deep in his chest. There was going to be hell to pay. "Not far now,” said the nun, misinterpreting his groan as one of pain.

"We're going to the infirmary. We'll stitch you up there.” The thought of stitches made him queasy and he glanced at his arm again. Everything had a strong dreamlike sense of unreality about it. He realized he was in shock and shivered suddenly, the movement making the horrific wound tense and stab painfully. This time he did groan in pain. In the infirmary they irrigated the wound to clean it and stitched the hanging flesh into place as best they could. They had no pain relief to offer him, and he would not have accepted drugs anyway. Alone, in an area where there may be militia activity, and where local violence could break out at any minute, he wasn't taking anything that'd slow him down. He sat in a hard wooden chair, arm laid across a table draped in a clean white sheet. He squeezed his eyes shut, but found it only made it all worse, so instead distracted himself by telling Sister Mary Francis -the nun who'd opened the door - about his home in Sydney. A younger sister worked on his arm, and he had to stop speaking each time she pierced him with the needle. When she'd finally finished, and bandaged him from wrist to elbow, Sister Mary Francis offered him a room with a bed to wait until his patrol found him. He accepted gratefully. "Wash first,” instructed Sister Mary Francis, flaring her nostrils and directing him to a utilitarian bathroom. He washed carefully in a basin of cold water, keeping his bandaged arm dry. The pain made him hazy and he had to concentrate to stop it becoming overwhelming. A sister tapped on the door and he yelped in fright. "Clothes,” she said. The door opened a crack and clothes were dropped on

the floor. He pulled them on. They were far too small. But he zipped up the trousers and decided that if he had to sit down, the pain of squashed testicles would take his mind off his arm. Sister Mary Francis waited for him when he emerged in his new outfit. A ghost of a smile flittered over her lips when she saw him. "This way. You can sleep now. I'll send a sister in with some herbal tea. It will help with the pain." "Thank you," he said. He glanced out the window of the room they'd given him. Dawn was creeping over the hills to the east. Another nun came quietly in. Shy and withdrawn, she didn't look at him. He stepped back into the corner, cradling his arm and trying to give her as much space as he could. Being over six-foot tall, he was keenly aware that his size often frightened the local women. Poor diet and practically no modern medical help meant that the average height of a man in Timor was around the five-foot mark. His dark-red hair made them hesitate as well. Hoping that no one else was planning to visit, and unable to stand the tight trousers a moment longer, he peeled them off awkwardly and slid between the clean sheets of the narrow bed. It felt like lying on a cloud after weeks of roughing it. The pain in his arm intensified quickly when he lay down, clawing at him, so he struggled up to sitting, and that seemed to ease it a little. Under the bandage, it felt like a thousand ants were biting him, and he was sure it was infected. He glanced at the tea, realizing how thirsty he was. It was herbal - how

much harm could it do? He sniffed it. It smelled like hay. Grassy and outdoorsy. It was a nunnery, for heaven's sake! They were hardly going to be giving him something laced with opium. He sipped the tea. It tasted completely innocent, so he finished the cup. After a few minutes the pain in his arm began to fade rapidly and as day broke outside the window he drifted into a weird semi-conscious sleep. When he woke it was pitch dark again. He'd been dreaming vividly about ants crawling into his arm and biting him, and he'd woken with a start. Heart pounding, his skin felt hot and tight. A breath, cool against his cheek and smelling like mint, made him reach out. Someone was there. Something was very wrong. He never slept deeply enough for someone to creep up unawares. He tried to sit up and jarred his arm. Pain screamed through him. The covers slid off his heated body. He reached out again. Silken hair brushed against his fingers, and the velvety curve of a breast. Hazy desire shot through him. This was one weird dream. It must be a dream . . . What the hell was in that tea? She pressed her lips to his. Any sense of reality7 vaporized into mindnumbing desire. When he woke again there was soft daylight in the room, giving everything a surreal feel. The woman was there. She stood, with her back to him. As he watched through half-closed eyes, she shrugged into a long white dress that slithered over her round bottom and long legs. Beautiful body. Her

hair was long and blonde; her skin tanned. Her hand was bandaged, just up to the wrist. It hadn't been a dream. There had been no hallucinating. The unforgettable night was real. He realized what had woken him: the sound of a motor. It was getting louder and louder. A helicopter, but not one of the army's Black Hawks -he'd know that sound from miles away. He shifted a little and she glanced around, almost frightened. "Who are you?" he whispered. Her eyes widened. There was a blankness there, an emptiness, like nobody lived behind those incredible eyes. "I'm not sure," she said in an Australian accent. "I can't remember.” She looked out the window at the helicopter, descending noisily into the clear area beside the nunnery. "They're here for me. I have to go.” "I'll find you," said Mick, raising his voice over the sound of the machine. He would find her. Just because. Then she hurried from the room, lithe and light even though she was limping, barely putting weight on one foot. It was bandaged as well, he saw. Mick sat up slowly. The room rocked and swayed, and it felt like the helicopter blades were ricocheting off his forehead. He peered out the window. A sleek black machine - a corporate number with AUSTRATIMO OIL emblazoned on the side - had landed. A man climbed out, ducking low under the slowing blades. He reappeared moments later, his arm protectively around the blonde woman's shoulders, hurrying her

along. She stumbled and sank to the ground. Mick stood quickly, nose millimetres from the glass, as if he could leap through it to help her. In a swift movement the man scooped her up in his arms, her head lolling against his shoulders. "Look after her,” Mick muttered as the helicopter roared into the sky. Movement from the jungle at the periphery of the nunnery drew his attention. He smiled faintly as he saw his patrol materialize from the dense scrub. The medics would have antibiotics and would get him home. They waited as the helicopter took off then headed purposefully towards the nunnery. Sitting at the computer, even with the air conditioning on and the curtains closed against the unrelenting Sydney summer glare, Amelia was too hot. Midsummer pregnancy in Australia sucked. The baby wriggled, as if to say, "Hey, it's thirty-seven degrees in here all the time, what the hell are you complaining about?" She smiled and stroked her belly. "Hey, sweetie. Are you awake?" The baby stretched, making Amelia's belly undulate. She continued her email to Clara. So the pregnancy continues to go very well. My parents are still extremely angry; they think I'm keeping the identity of the father a secret and that my time in Timor was spent having some illicit assignation. But they're coming around slowly. At least my friends have stopped telling me to give her up for adoption. The very thought of losing my little girl makes me feel stabbed in the heart.

Give my love to everyone at the orphanage. The baby and I will be visiting just as soon as we can. And thank you once more for your love and support. She hit the Send button as the door to her study was pushed open. "Joss, you are the best," she said to the housekeeper, who had appeared with a cup of peppermint tea. Trotting along behind her was Kissy, Amelia's Pomeranian. "Hello, beautiful," she said and snapped her fingers. The little dog jumped up on to her lap, scrabbling for balance when she found less room than she'd expected. "How are you feeling?" asked Joss. "Good. No nausea at all today. I'll take Kissy out for a walk later, before I go up to the big house for dinner with Mum and Dad." Joss nodded. "I'm heading up there now. Your mother is unhappy with something Chef produced for last night's dinner party, and I want to be on hand when they discuss it. Just to make sure nobody kills anybody." She grinned and rolled her eyes. "She was here this morning moaning about it. Serving sardines to the Premier of New South Wales or something? Knowing Chef I bet they were spectacular." When Joss had gone Amelia tried to concentrate on sorting out her latest fundraising scheme for the orphanage, and drank her tea as the baby shifted and moved languorously. But the twinges in her back changed from annoying to painful and soon it was unbearable to sit still any longer. The sun's scorching midsummer rays had lengthened into afternoon and the intensity of the heat had waned a little.

"C'mon, Kissy," she said and went to find the lead. Mick stood outside the tall iron gates of the north-shore mansion. She hadn't been difficult to find. The nuns had told him that she was Amelia Dubonnier. Of the mega-wealthy Dubonnier family, who owned almost every oil rig in the stretch of ocean between East Timor and Australia. Nobody had been quite sure how she came to be in Maubara. The fact she inhabited the upper echelons of society did not really penetrate his brain until he saw where she lived. The massive garden was surrounded by a high brick wall, the top studded with broken glass. Distantly, set in the middle of the lush oasis, was a mansion, white and ornate. It looked like a wedding cake, and was surrounded by smaller buildings - garages, no doubt, housing a huge car collection. There was movement at the front of one of the nearest buildings. The door opened and his heart stopped dead in his chest. There she was. Amelia. The woman who had haunted his thoughts for the past six months. Blonde hair pulled back from her tanned face. Wearing a dark top and three-quarter-length jeans. He'd tracked her down out of curiosity. With no more intention than to see where she lived, he'd continue to hold her in the corner of his heart where it seemed she'd taken up permanent residence. She had some kind of fluffy dog on a lead that she was taking for a walk. She bent awkwardly to pet it and his only recently started heart stopped dead again. Amelia was pregnant, the bulge obvious beneath her loose top.

Disappointment shot through him, driving a spike into the centre of his heart, and he walked quickly away. She belonged to someone else. He should never have looked for her. The entire idea had been insanity. He'd only gone a few hundred metres up the street when the fluffy dog shot past him. Reflexively, he stepped on the lead, bringing the pooch up short with a strangled yelp. He bent and picked up the lead slowly, giving his shell-shocked emotions a few seconds more to settle themselves. He was going to have to talk to her. He was going to have to look at her, and finally find out the colour of her eyes. His mind went blank and he couldn't think what to say. She made her way slowly up the steep street towards him. Large sunglasses covered her eyes, but she was smiling. Every bit as stunning as he'd remembered. He walked down to her, nerves churning in the pit of his stomach. "I've got your dog," he said and cleared his throat. Excellent start. She could quite plainly see that. She grinned as they stopped, a few metres apart. "Thanks. She's a pest." "No worries,” he shrugged, taking in every detail of her face: the fine straight nose, full red lips and smooth creamy skin. "Nice dog. Very, er, fluffy." "Have we met before?” she asked. She pulled the sunglasses off. Beautiful soft brown eyes, just like he'd hoped. "It's just you seem so familiar.” She kept smiling, curious, friendly and polite. And likeable. So likeable.

The warm feelings he'd kept quietly in his heart expanded. "No," he lied. "I'm based in Perth. Just on my way to visit the zoo." 'You’ve come the wrong way then," she said. "You need to go back to ..." He shook his head. "It's OK, I know where I am. I was just admiring the real estate." She raised an eyebrow at this. "Well, have fun." She started to walk away, and suddenly he couldn't stand to never see her again, couldn't bear that this would be the sum total of their communication. "We have met before," he called after her. "In Timor. I thought you were a nun." She froze. The dog looked up at her in question and whined. Mick stood and waited. Unwilling to approach her, afraid he might frighten her. She turned back to him, eyes wide with shock, hand curved protectively around her round belly. His eyes dropped to it again. A question blossomed in his mind. A rather startling one. Amelia stared at the tall red-haired man. The familiarity began to make sense. He was the man in her dream - that vivid dream she'd experienced at the nunnery. As she'd hovered at death's door, Clara had given her a local herbal remedy for the snail sting. It had worked and the paralysis had been immediately halted. But the side effects had included appalling seizures and hallucinations, so to combat them they'd kept her doped up on opium

tea. When she'd woken up in Darwin Hospital, all she could remember was a disconnected passionate dream about a redheaded man, his skin burning hot against her own cool flesh. "Who are you?" she asked him. "Michael Avery, but everyone calls me Mick. I'm in the army, with the Australian Defence Force, Special Operations Command. I was washed away in a flash flood in Liquica and was injured." He gently pushed back his sleeve to show her the bandage. Six months on and it wasn't even close to healing. "That's how I ended up at the nunnery." The baby fidgeted and kicked. A bus sailed past, on its way to Taronga Zoo and then Mosman Wharf. Suddenly she really needed to sit down. "I thought you were a hallucination." He smiled, and something inside her, that'd been frozen solid since she found out she was pregnant, started to melt. "When is your baby due?" he asked. "March. And she's a girl." "A girl?" He grinned, with such warm delight that she couldn't help but smile. "A daughter—" Her smile disappeared into the shocked void that opened in her chest. He knew. He'd guessed. "—I mean, for you. A daughter for you and your husband," he clarified. A myna bird chattered obnoxiously in a nearby garden. "I don't know who you are," she said, jerking on Kissy's lead as the dog

strained towards some morsel in the gutter. Kissy gave Amelia a reproachful look. "And I don't know who you are," he said. "But I mean you no harm. I only needed to find out if you were OKL" He fished out a worn leather wallet. "Here, this is my card. Check me out, call my Commander, whatever you want." She took it and read it. "I'm in Sydney for a few weeks. Call me. My mobile number is on the card. But if you don't want it, then it's fine. I won't seek you out again.” She watched him walk away. An insane part of her wanted to hurry after him, stop him. Talk to him about the shock of the pregnancy, her ambivalence about how she became pregnant. About how that unforgettable dream from that night at the nunnery may not be a dream after all. How he could be the father of her child. Everything. That night she slept little. Going over and over their conversation in her mind. Trying to figure out if he'd guessed. Berating herself for liking him, and remembering his smile and the broadness of his shoulders and the gentle wariness in his blue, blue eyes. Early, as the sky began to lighten she phoned him. He answered on the first ring. "It's Amelia," she said. "I hoped it was you." Then there was a short, tense silence.

"I think we need to talk," she said. "I know." "Do you want to come over? Today. Now. For breakfast?" "I do. You have no idea how much," he said. She winced. Waiting for the "but". "But I'm at Royal North Shore Hospital. They're operating on my arm in a few hours. Removing the infected skin." It had not been what she'd expected to hear. "That sounds really awful. Good luck," she stuttered. "Thanks." She could hear the smile in his voice. "Your number came up on my phone, shall I call you when it's all over?" "I'd like that." There was silence again. She didn't want to hang up, but there was nothing left to say. "Bye, then," she said. "Bye, beautiful." She sat, in her quiet house, with the phone in her hand for a long time as the baby swirled and danced beneath her skin. 'Your daddy has found us," she said, patting her stomach. "And I am desperate to see him again." She called the hospital four times during the day. First Michael Avery was in surgery, then in recovery, then he was doing fine and, at last, he was ready for visitors. She jumped in her car and made impatient progress through the traffic that always seemed slower during the long, hot, energy-sucking

December days before Christmas. She found her way to his room without trouble. Clutching a huge bouquet of blue and yellow flowers, she hesitated at the door. He lay in the bed, white as the sheets beneath him, his arm bandaged from shoulder to fingertips. He saw her immediately and a smile, singularly happy, crossed his face. The other six people in the room turned in one movement to see who had garnered such a response. To say that they looked surprised was quite an understatement. "This is Amelia,” he said, voice strong and confident, belying his ashen complexion. "Amelia, the ones with red hair are my brothers, the one with dark hair is a friend and this is my mum, Colleen.” A small stout woman stepped forwards, with the same crystal blue eyes as Mick but hair that had faded to a rich white. "Such beautiful flowers. You've put us all to shame. We didn't think to bring any. He's never been one for flowers really.” "I thought it"d cheer up his room.” That's very considerate,” said Colleen, with more than a hint of speculation. Her eyes dropped to Amelia's round belly. "And a baby?” She stepped forwards and placed a hand on Amelia's tummy. Amelia stared into the woman's eyes and could only think that the child was her grandchild, that it had her genes. "I have to go,” she said, stepping back and shoving the flowers at one of Micks brothers. "Mum, stop it,” snapped Mick from the bed.

But Amelia fled. Hurrying through the hospital corridors and out into the baking car park. Mick wasn't just some dreamy fantasy, he was real, with a family and parents. Mick rang twice, but both times she ignored the phone. Terrified by the reality that this stranger, with his own life that she knew nothing about, was the father of her child. That night she dreamed of the nunnery. Her dreams were vivid and stunning. She woke early, drained, restless and wanting to see Mick, yet uncomfortable and unsettled at the thought. Angry at her own confusion, and uncomfortable in her own skin, she sat in her quiet sitting room, staring sightlessly into the garden as a board report lay ignored on the coffee table beside her. Eventually, still cursing at her own indecision, she prised herself out of the armchair and forced herself into the car. She'd never been one to hide from confrontation. Mostly, she relished it. Mostly. He was awake in his hospital room, gazing out the window at the view across Sydney. Her flowers sat in a glass vase beside his bed. "How are you feeling?” she asked. He turned and looked at her for a long moment. "Glad that you are here." "Last night, I dreamed again of making love to a red-haired man in the nunnery.” He nodded. A ghost of a smile on his lips. I’m not . . . I’m not . . . Not in a relationship. Since I went to Timor.

There's been nobody. I'm not married. When they said I was pregnant I had no idea how it happened—" she looked away from him, the view blurring, awash in tears "—then I started remembering the dream, but it didn't help. Made things even worse. I don't go around . . . I don't just seduce —" "It was the opium, in the tea." "Do you remember ... us?" He nodded. "I couldn't forget it. Ifs why I came to find you. I needed to know you were OK." "Didn't expect this, I bet," she said, running a hand over the bump. "Scary, huh?" ''Come here." He beckoned with his good hand. "Can I touch you?" She understood immediately what he wanted and grabbed his hand, pressing it to the spot where the baby had last kicked. They waited, both watching their joined hands. "There, did you feel?" "Yes, olives." She squeezed his hand. She stayed at the hospital until lunchtime when his family arrived. And then hurried away, floating. He was just so, just so . . . wonderful and amazing. And OK so they didn't know each other, but they'd work things out. Though she knew full well that there'd be challenges ahead, Amelia was walking on air. That evening she endured her weekly dinner with her parents.

Early the next day, just after the nurses had finished their rounds and Mick had stoically borne the torture of having his bandage changed, his commanding officer appeared at the hospital room door, flanked by two military policemen. Mick had been thinking about Amelia. In fact, he thought of little else. She was perfect and wonderful and having his child. He was going to be a father. It was all too good to be true. But at the sight of Major General James Rochester his mind went blank with shock. What the hell was going on? "How’ve you been?" asked James Rochester, by way of opening comment. Mick didn't reply, knowing it was not expected. "Avery. There is no easy way to say this. There has been a charge of gross misconduct laid against you." "I drank the opium tea at the nunnery without realizing what it was. I've already made a full report," said Mick tightly. The Major General shook his head. "No, this is concerning the daughter of Pierre Dubonnier. He claims you assaulted her in the Maubara nunnery." Shock sucked away anything Mick had been about to stay. Amelia had done this. Pain, worse than anything that had ever come from his arm, screamed through him. James Rochester lost some of his official air and sat abruptly. "I've

known you for many years, Avery, and your conduct has always been exemplary. We know that you arrived at that nunnery with your arm practically skinned and I personally will vouch for your good character. However, Dubonnier is threatening to take the story to the press. That would cause huge diplomatic problems between East Timor and Australia. The Foreign Minister and the PM have been apprised of the situation. Therefore, these military police will keep you company until you are discharged, and you will then be transported to the infirmary of the military remand centre, where you can get on with your rehab." "So, I'm arrested then?" James Rochester glanced at the military policemen and scowled, "No, not precisely.” Mike nodded. He got it. Loud and clear. His career was over. One wrong step now and he'd have twenty or so years in the military detention centre to think about it. With a nod, the Major General departed quickly and the military police settled themselves outside in the corridor. Mick tried to think logically and calmly. Damn that sneaky little bitch. Obviously Daddy hadn't liked the thought of his granddaughter being fathered by some unwashed soldier, so they'd decided to drop him into a political storm. He picked up his phone to call Amelia, tell her what he thought, but then hesitated. He'd only say something he'd regret. He thought of his daughter, the happy family that he'd been dreaming of just half an hour earlier, and felt sick.

Amelia Dubonnier an army wife? Pierre Dubonnier's grandchild an army brat? He might be able to survive on his wits in some of the most challenging terrain in the world, but clearly when it came to the world of the wealthy and the ruthless he was nothing but a lamb to the slaughter. There was a commotion at the door, and he heard Amelia's voice, highpitched and confused. He squeezed his eyes tight shut and pressed back into the pillows propping him up. It was like a rusty can opener was prising open his chest. He flexed his bad arm and a wave of razor-blade pain washed over him, a welcome relief. "Go away. Haven't you done enough?" snarled one of the military police. There was a wretched silence outside the door. All Mick could hear was his heart, thundering. Then slow footsteps, fading down the corridor. He clenched his hand into a fist, until the pain made him see stars and fresh blood soaked through the bandage. "Screw this." He had to talk to her. He couldn't just lie there and let his daughter be whisked out of his life. He jumped out of bed. His arm throbbed and the room spun, but he ignored both. "Amelia," he shouted down the corridor. A nurse looked up, startled, and one of the military police reached out to stop him. He ducked away from the man's grasp and took off down the corridor. The lift would be too slow, so he crashed through the fire escape door, hurried down the stairs, then burst out into the emergency room. An

elderly lady shrank back. Aware that the military police would be only seconds behind him, he hurried out into the glare of the car park. "Amelia," he bellowed. He saw her in the distance. She was climbing with difficulty into a sporty-looking Mercedes. One of the military police came up behind him. "C’mon," he said. "This is just making it all worse.” A black van with dark-tinted windows shot past them, its tyres squealing on the baked tarmac. It made a beeline for Amelia. “What

the hell?" murmured the military policeman.

Seemingly oblivious, Amelia hurtled backwards out of the parking spot and screeched out of the car park, wheels spinning, into the busy traffic on the Pacific Highway. The black van had stopped to avoid hitting her car, but now it too accelerated, following her into the traffic. The pavement was burning Mick's bare feet, and the heat haze that shimmered over everything seemed to become more intense. "Steady.” The military policeman grabbed for him as he swayed, but the man jarred his bad arm. Mick wondered if he was going to throw up from the pain, and the world blinked out. Amelia seethed all the way back to Mosman. The words of the military policeman revolved around her brain. Haven't you done enough? His sneering derision crawled under her skin, making her feel small and stupid. She was second in command of her father's oil company, people went out

of their way to be nice to her, and she went out of her way to be nice to them. Feeling small and stupid did not happen very often. She wondered what her father had done. To say he'd been upset by the news that Mick was the father of her baby was something of an understatement. He'd hit the roof. He had been furious because Amelia had finally destroyed his dreams of marrying her off. She'd never really bought into his talk about dynasties and marrying the right kind of man. She'd decided a long time ago she'd marry for love and no other reason. Consequences be damned. She scowled into the rear-view mirror. Why the hell did that black van have to sit so close on her bumper? Still, it seemed she'd underestimated her father. Pierre Dubonnier had moved swiftly against Mick, quicker than she'd expected, even before she'd had a chance to warn him and let him know she would fix any fallout from Daddy's latest little temper tantrum. She pressed a palm to her forehead as she pulled into the gateway of the Mosman house. The black van screeched away up the street, but she barely noticed it. Mick would trust that she'd never do something like this to him. A small doubting voice whispered that he didn't know her at all. "Is Dad home, do you know?" she asked Joss, who was in the midst of bathing an almighty pissed-off and bedraggled Kissy. "He and your mother took the jet up to Cairns for the weekend.” "That bloody coward,” snapped Amelia.

Joss snorted in humourless laughter. "That is exactly what your mother said. I reckon they'll be back tomorrow. She's making his life hell.” "Tell me what you heard.” "Your father phoned the Chief of Army late yesterday night and told him that a certain Michael Avery had assaulted his little girl.” Amelia sank down on top of a white laundry hamper. "Assault?" "It gets worse. He also rang the Prime Minister, and told him the story. Then threatened he'd go to the Indonesian Prime Minister and tell him that Australian troops taking part in Operation Astute were spying on Indonesia from Timor, if steps weren't taken against Michael Avery. Which, of course, could trigger one of the biggest political battles since Timorese Independence - if not all-out war.” The baby kicked, hard, and Amelia felt a low uncomfortable pressure deep in her back. "I know the Prime Minister's wife well. FH call her.” She shook her head slowly. "He's really done it this time, hasn't he?” Mick woke up on a stretcher in the Emergency Department. A nurse, dark and pretty, bending over him. "Pain relief," she said. "We need to check your wound.” She waved a hypodermic needle at him. He focused on the drip of milky liquid hovering on the sharp tip. Then she stuck it in his arm, hard. He flinched despite himself and narrowed his eyes at her. She had an air of contempt that gleamed through her professional mantle, and she behaved as if touching him was possibly the most repugnant thing she'd ever had to do.

He closed his eyes and sighed. So news of the assault charge had got out. Well, in a hospital, armed guards were hardly going to go unnoticed. He wanted to reassure the nurse that it wasn't true. But aware that it'd fall on deaf ears, that she'd already made up her mind about him, he said nothing. Rapist. She thought he was capable of abusing women. His shattered heart cracked just a little more. An orderly wheeled him back to his room in a wheelchair, the military police following casually a few metres behind. When Mick arrived in his room his mobile phone was ringing, but he let it go through to answer phone, only checking it when the orderly had gone and the police were settled outside his room. Then he slipped into the bathroom and returned the call. It was from the commander of the patrol he'd been part of in Timor. "I heard about the charges,” said Brad Smith without pausing for niceties. "The men and I will back you up totally. We saw the state you were in when we picked you up. You weren't capable of any assault. I've just a lodged a report to that effect.” 'Thanks," he said, "I appreciate it." "Look, there's something else you might have an interest in,” said Brad Smith. "Oh yes?" "I've had reliable intelligence from Timor that there's to be a kidnap attempt on Amelia Dubonnier. Given that she's the one that laid the assault

charges, I thought you might like to know. It's something to do with Pierre Dubonnier - opinion of him has taken a real downturn lately. Someone is stirring up trouble over the oil under the Timor Sea.” Mick had not doubted that what he'd witnessed in the car park was untoward. He trusted himself and his own instincts beyond anything else. But still, confirmation of his suspicions brought with it a fresh wave of worry. Amelia and his child were in danger. He was getting tired of not being able to assist them. When he finished his conversation with Brad Smith, he called his brother Nick. Mick walked past the two military policemen. They barely spared him a glance, so he continued calmly to the lift and then down to the hospital entrance where his mum waited in her car - a small, rusty blue number that did zero to sixty in about ten minutes, with a following wind. As escapes went, it lacked the dignity of a special forces extraction, but beggars could not be choosers. "Am I going to have to bail out your brother?” Colleen slid him a glance and ground the gears. It wouldn't be the first time. Mick shook his head. "When they realize Nick's not me they'll give him a stern talking to and send him on his way. They won't waste their time with it." He hoped. His brother had not hesitated when Mick had asked him if he'd swap places in the hospital- to see if he could sneak away. The idea had appealed to Nick's troublesome streak. The one that had garnered him a

criminal record. "And she's worth it, this Amelia? She's accused you of assault. It's going to destroy your career." "They're going to kidnap her, Mum, and . . ." He hesitated. "She's earning my child. Your granddaughter.” To her credit the traffic light had only just turned red as she sailed through the intersection. "Bloody hell,” muttered Colleen, nodding as though he'd confirmed her suspicions. Mick left it at that. The full details of the events at the Maubara nunnery were going to come out eventually- they'd have to if he was going to clear his name - and Colleen could find out about it all then. God knows his brothers were going to have a field day. It'd been bad enough when the story of his patrol finding him stoned on opium in a nunnery had done the rounds of the Special Forces base in Perth. He'd had to put up with goodnatured ribbing for weeks. His phone started to ring and his heart hitched in his chest as he saw the number. It was Amelia. Had something happened? Was he already too late to protect her? He answered. "Just tell me you are OK." "I'm fine. It's you I'm worried about. I'm in the hospital car park. I just saw your brother in your hospital room after I had to argue with the MPs to get in there. What are you doing?" She sounded slightly exasperated. "Don't worry about me. Are you in your car? Lock the doors and drive straight home. Don't stop for anything OK?"

"No, not OK. Don't be ridiculous. What's going on?" "I've had some humint. There's a possibility that someone is going to attempt to kidnap you." "What's a 'humint'? And nobody is going to kidnap me, that's just ridiculous." Her exasperation spilled over into outright irritation. Mick felt his blood begin to boil in response. How could she not take him seriously? "'Humint' is 'human intelligence' and if s an extremely reliable source of information in Timor. Didn't you see that black van yesterday? It nearly hit your car." She hesitated for a tiny second. "No, I don't know what you are talking about. Now get yourself back to the hospital. I'll fix the assault charges and the problems with the government, it'll only take me a couple of calls. But if you go AWOL then there's nothing I can do for you." "Don't threaten me," he growled. "Well, stop being an idiot then," she snapped back. 'You and my daughter are in danger. Just have enough sense to listen to me." He was dangerously quiet. "Me and my daughter are perfectly safe, and if you don't go back to the hospital then I'm calling your commander and telling him you're absent without leave." Mick drew in a slow breath. He'd been trained to not react emotionally in any situation- and anger had never been something he'd had difficulty with. However, even he had his limits.

It was crystal clear that few people in Amelia's life had ever told her what to do, and that ordering her around was only going to make her dig her heels in. He'd wanted to think she wasn't a spoiled princess but it was becoming obvious that was exactly what she was. "Fine, Amelia," he said, "you win. I'll head back there right now. But only if you get yourself home immediately." She paused, thrown by his capitulation. The silence lengthened between them, tense, uncomfortable, dripping with unspoken words and uncertain emotions. 'You don't really think I'm in danger?” she asked eventually. "All I am saying is that something's up and that you should protect the baby." "All right.” She sighed. "I'll have Dad look into it.” Then there was nothing else to be said. Silence again. "I'll talk to you soon, Amelia," he said. "Oh, OK then. Bye." He clicked his phone shut. "Does Nick still have that old car?” he asked his mother. "He's hidden the keys so you can't use it. He said there are some things he is not willing to sacrifice for his brother.” Mick snorted in amusement. "Keys have never been a problem.” He refused lunch at his parents' house and, armed with a cordless drill and a screwdriver, headed outside to the front yard to hotwire his brother's dark-

green car. There was a sticky note stuck to the steering wheel, which Mike could read through the window: "Mick, you bastard. Put down that screwdriver and do NOT damage anything. The keys are in my room, bottom right-hand drawer. This car has no air conditioning. I hope you roast and die.” An hour later Mick was parked outside Amelia's house under a large shady tree and out of view of the mansion's surveillance cameras. It was late afternoon, the time when the heat of the sun always seemed to intensify as it hit the horizon. But Mick didn't mind, he'd worked under much worse conditions. Frankly, just having a car to sit in, rather than lying in a buginfested swamp, was a luxury. Amelia noticed the dark-green car parked near the entrance of the mansion as soon as she drove out. She was going to the Opera House for a performance of Carmen. Three hours. She didn't know how she was going to make it from one interval to the next with a bladder that held less than a teaspoon. Amelia had been a patron of the opera since she was sixteen, but lately she didn't enjoy it as much as she once had. She glanced back several times as she left the driveway, but the car didn't move, and though she kept an eye out through the traffic across the Harbour Bridge she didn't notice anyone following. The double helix car park of the Opera House was busy and Amelia had to drive down the ramp to find somewhere to park. Mick's warning had unsettled her and she could feel the hairs prickling on the back of her neck. Though she checked behind her again and again, there was never any good reason to be afraid. She parked her car, and then

hurried to the lifts, keenly aware of the sound of her heels echoing dully. Keenly aware that she was alone. The lift arrived promptly and she stepped in, relieved. As the doors slid shut she leaned back against one wall and slipped off her shoes, hoping to relieve the pain in her back for just a second. Clearly any shoe with even the smallest heel was soon going to be a thing of the past. Her heart flew up into her mouth as a hand appeared through the small gap left between the lift doors and with a click they slid open again. She shrank back against the lift wall, hands wrapped around her belly. "Mick," she gasped. He didn't smile. "Don't be scared. No one would be dumb enough to snatch you here. Far too many surveillance cameras and only one exit which you have to pay to get out of." "Oh," she said shakily, pressing one hand to her heart. The fright he'd given her swiftly morphed into anger. "What the hell are you doing? Are you following me? Why aren't you in hospital like you said?" "I think - if I remember correctly - you said I'd be in hospital." She scowled at him. "Don't be obtuse. Was that you in the green car outside my house?" He nodded but didn't explain further. The lift doors slid open at the main floor and she stalked out, trying to gather together her shattered composure. "You forgot your shoes." He scooped them up in a hand and followed her. "Are you sure someone in your condition should be wearing heels this

high?" "My condition is none of your business," she snapped. He grabbed her wrist, stopping her from snatching the shoes and storming away. On the concourse outside the car park crowds ebbed and flowed enjoying the early evening. "Your condition is entirely my business. I am not letting your selfishness put my child in harm's way." "Let go of me immediately." He released her without hesitating and handed her the shoes. "Just reminding you." Though his tone was pleasant enough, there was steel beneath it. Goosebumps prickled along her arms and she shivered. "Are you cold?" he asked. Damn him. He knew full well she wasn't cold. It was a blissful balmy evening and it was uncomfortably warm standing at the pedestrian entrance to the car park. "No, I'm late. So you can—" "I'm not going anywhere." He folded his arms across his chest. An extremely immovable object. She slipped on her shoes and walked away. Arguing with him was a waste of time. After a minute or so, with the hair prickling on the back of her neck, she turned to see if he'd followed. But the crowd moved around her. He was nowhere to be seen amongst the people. She met her usual opera buddies for a light dinner, but was distracted throughout the meal, scanning the crowds passing the restaurant on the concourse, looking for Mick or alternatively someone who might be

planning to kidnap her. She tried to be chatty and interested in the conversation, but the sideways looks of her friends told her she was doing a poor job of it. By the time they'd got ten minutes into the performance, Amelia knew she wasn't going to make it to the interval. The baby had started to stamp on her bladder and her lower back felt like someone was digging a knitting needle into it. Still, leaving the opera mid-performance was unheard of. She glanced towards the end of the row. Eight seats. It might as well have been eight hundred. The baby kicked hard again and she stifled an involuntary yelp. Several people turned to stare. So, as Carmen came to the end of her first aria, Amelia girded her fidgeting loins and made her move. A hiss of disapproval followed her progress as she tripped over bags and trod on people's feet. "I'm sorry, I'm sorn%" she muttered as she went along. "Madam,” intoned an usher who hurried out into the foyer after her. '“I’m sorry but you won't be allowed back in. I mean—" "Oh get a life," she snarled and stalked down the stairs and out into the Opera House forecourt. The sun had set completely - though heat still radiated from the ground and the breeze drew her over to lean on the railing and watch the brightly lit ferries dart to and fro as the darkness of the night overwhelmed the vast harbour. She could hear Carmen, echoing tinnily off the Opera House's concrete surfaces. She heard nothing else, no breath or footfall, when suddenly Mick

materialized beside her, as if that was where he'd been all along. He didn't even startle her. "This beats a patrol in the jungle anytime," he said, gazing at the harbour. He leaned both arms on the railing and cocked his head towards her. "Haven't been here for years though." "I should be getting back inside," she said, turning away. "I wasn't expecting to see you until the interval. Luddite that I am, even I know it's really bad form to leave the opera early. Unless you're the King of Austria or something." She'd been about to walk coolly back inside and take her chances with the irate usher. She knew that one snide remark from him and she'd start snapping again, though. Frankly, she wasn't in the mood. But Mick's comment stopped her. "You've been waiting for me? Do you really think I'm in that much danger?" "Or am I using it as some lame excuse to stalk you and control your every movement?" He grinned. Teeth white and even, a dimple flashing in his tanned cheek. A slow burn uncoiled itself in the centre of her chest. Damn heartburn. "If the shoe fits ..." she said lightly. "Actually, that hadn't occurred to me, but it sounds about right." "I would not be wasting my time if I thought the threats against you weren't serious." "And you'd sacrifice your career, to look after me?"

For a moment he said nothing. A ferry, reversing out of its berth in Circular Quay behind them, sounded its horn three times to warn other boats, and the echo ricocheted off the Opera House's walls. "My career bit the dust the moment there was an accusation of assault against me." "But I would never have—" "Not even to get rid of the troublesome army lout from the blue-collar background?” "How can you even suggest that?" The moment of warmth had evaporated, leaving growing anger. "I have no idea if it's the truth or not, Amelia. All I know is that you are earning my daughter.” "Yet you trust me about that? How convenient.” "Well, no. But once the baby is born we'll have the DNA tests done to find out for sure, and until then I'm not taking any chances.” "You prat.” Hot tears gathered and, terrified he'd see her cry, she walked quickly away in the direction of the car park. "Running away, Amelia?” His taunt followed her. The next morning Amelia had a board meeting at the AustraTimo Oil headquarters in the city. She'd been up the moment the sky had begun to lighten, cursing the fact her little house did not have a clear view of the road outside the high walls.

Was Mick still keeping watch out there in his car? She hoped if he'd spent the night there that it'd been really horribly uncomfortable. Despite resolving not to look, as she drove out of the gates she glanced to see if the green car was still there. It was not. She couldn't decide if she was glad he'd gone or if she was just a little disappointed. The journey to her father's lavish company headquarters in Gold Fields House did not take long, and she was early. Rather than head upstairs to the meeting rooms where she'd be trapped all day, she wandered to one of the small cafes that lined Circular Quay. The morning was beautiful and she wanted to sit, watch the people go about their business and carefully consider how she was going to handle her father. He'd got back from Noosa late the night before, but after her conversation with Mick, she was so keyed up that any confrontation with her father would've ended with her beating him to a pulp. Exertion like that could not be good for the baby. Instead she resolved to spend the day needling him, while he'd be forced to remain polite in front of the other board members. She smiled slightly at the thought and sipped the peppermint tea she'd ordered. She was going to make her father's life hell today. She scanned the area for any sign of Mick - it was turning into a nervous habit. No sign. Maybe he really had taken her advice and gone back to the hospital. She'd held off making any calls to his superiors herself. Afraid she'd make things worse for him. But she'd make sure that her father had done no damage to his career. The very thought of that made her feel ill.

She finished her tea and it was time to go to the meeting. She wandered slowly back to Gold Fields House. A black van emerged from a side street. She glanced nervously at it then quickened her pace slightly. Didn't you see the black van? Mick's warning came back to her. The vehicle swung across the road directly towards her, but then accelerated harmlessly past. She slowed slightly, feeling like an idiot and walked into the cool shadow of the rail bridge that crossed over the top of the road. The traffic lights in front of Gold Fields House changed to red as she came to the kerb. She stopped to wait for the pedestrian walk signal. The black van had been stopped by the lights as well, but she didn't spare it a glance until its side door slid open. She gasped in horror when she realized that two men, both in balaclavas, were coming at her. One lunged. She had a split second to shriek before he grabbed her around the neck and clamped a piece of fabric over her mouth. She kicked and struggled as together they manhandled her back into the van. There was no thought in her mind except that she must not get in the van. Suddenly the men froze with her half in and half out of the vehicle. Then they dropped her. It was so unexpected that she didn't even have time to put out a hand to break her fall. She hit her face on the van's running board and landed heavily on her pregnant stomach. Pain lanced through her, and she curled into a protective ball on the pavement. Despite the agony, her only thought was that at twenty-six weeks there would be little chance for her daughter if she went into labour now.

"Amelia." Mick's voice penetrated the haze. "Amelia, get away from the van. Crawl if you must." There was something about the tone of his voice that made her do as he asked without question. Mick was here. Everything would be all right now. On her hands and knees she crawled away from the van. Sirens wailed close by and she could hear uneasy voices muttering. A train roared overhead, thundering into Circular Quay station. She came to alow wall, which bordered the pavement. She glanced up briefly at the gathering crowd, but her attention was focused inwards. She ran her hand over her belly, the baby hadn't kicked, hadn't moved. Was she OK? She felt winded and nauseous. The pain was intense and she leaned forwards. A woman, an ambulance officer, appeared next to her. "Tell me what happened," she said, neutral and matter-of-fact. She focused on Mick. He was standing beside the black van, holding the two would-be kidnappers at gunpoint. "Just get me to North Shore Hospital. My obstetrician is there. At North Shore Private." "Sure thing, love, we'll get you there in a jiffy." Amelia nodded, not taking her eyes off Mick. The police had arrived and his weapon was now nowhere to be seen. As if he felt her gaze, he looked and their eyes met. "Thank you," she mouthed. He nodded, then with a glance around he slipped into the crowd, away from the authorities. By the time the ambulance doors crashed shut, Amelia

had already lost sight of him. Loneliness descended on her. She wanted him there, in the ambulance with her. She wanted to feel safe. The ambulance had her at the hospital within five minutes and she was whisked to the delivery ward where the nurses attached her to an EGG machine. Amelia relaxed as the baby's heartbeat, thundering away at high speed, came loud and clear through the microphone. Though she fought to hold them back, tears trickled down her face. "Hey," said the nurse, patting her hand. "Baby is OK. But we need to do something about your nose." Another nurse stuck her head in the door and interrupted. "Mick Avery is here. Your partner?" Amelia nodded. Mick appeared behind the nurse, his eyes searching troubled. "Listen," Amelia said. "That's the baby's heartbeat. She's OK." "Thank God,” he muttered and sank into a chair beside the bed. "Never do that to me again.” “I’ll try my best," she said dryly.

"I'll leave you hooked up to the EGG for another twenty minutes. Your obstetrician will be over to see you after that and then we'll fix the rest of you up,” said the nurse before she left the room. For a moment neither of them said anything. Both too shell-shocked from the events of the morning.

"I reckon your nose is broken," he said. She raised a hand to touch it. "I wouldn't do that,” he said. "It'll hurt.” She touched it anyway. It felt double its usual size and when she squinted she could see a lot more of it than usual. She pressed gently, and pain shot through her face, expanding quickly into a headache that had probably been there all along. "Ah,” she gasped. "I hadn't realized.” "No, you were too worried about the baby.” Affection flashed in his eyes and warmth blossomed in the centre of her chest. "You know my father offered to buy me a nose job when I turned eighteen?” "I think your nose is perfect the way it is." She laughed. "What, squashed?” Mick shook his head. "If they set it now it'll be fine." I’m not sure they'll do that. I mean I'm not having any operations or anything unless it is life or death. Way too risky ..." ".. .for the baby.” He grinned, so quickly she might have imagined it. "I'm proud of you.” The tears, still close to the surface, threatened to spill over again. "I'm not proud of myself. I'm so ashamed about what my father did to you.” Tour father?" "Well, you didn't think I accused you of assault, did you?"

The brief silence spoke volumes. "Did you?” she asked again. But then, why wouldn't he? "I have learned not to jump to conclusions,” he said neutrally. "We’ll talk later. I promise.” Amelia's obstetrician came into the room just as her mobile phone sprang into life. She checked the number, but knew it was her father, wondering where the hell she was and demanding she get to the meeting. Kidnap attempts and busted noses would not be considered reasonable excuses. She hit the Off button. Let him sweat. The obstetrician gave her and the baby a thorough examination. Mick melted when he saw his child on the grainy screen of the ultrasound for the first time. He reached for Amelia's hand, his grip warm and reassuring. He didn't let go until the baby was given the all-clear. After a short discussion with the obstetrician about her nose and the risks of having surgery to get it fixed, Amelia was discharged. Mick drove her home. When they arrived Joss and her mother kicked up a huge fuss until Amelia snapped at them. "Both of you, stop,” she snarled. "Mick looked after me. The baby is fine. But I'm in pain and the only painkillers I can take for this broken nose are these very mild ones. Please, go - cook, knit, do whatever it is you do -and leave me the hell alone.” Amelia's mother turned a sympathetic smile on Mick. "She's all yours. I

wish you luck." "Mum,” growled Amelia. "So like her father," was her mother's parting shot. "I'm going to bed." Amelia squeezed Mick's hand. "Good idea." "Will you..." "I’ll be here. Don't worry. Nothing is going to hurt you. Not on my watch." Mick inspected the fridge. He'd been doing some research via his phone on what pregnant women could and couldn't eat. He'd never dreamed it'd be so complicated. There was a tap on the front door, and Joss - whose role in the family he hadn't really figured out -backed in slowly. She pulled a trolley in after herself, a self-heated device that you'd find in a swish hotel when you ordered room service. "There's chicken soup for Amelia when she gets up. I thought something easy to eat would be best after her fall. And I've done steak for you, with hollandaise sauce. You do like hollandaise sauce, don't you?" "Indeed I do," agreed Mick. It smelled divine and he realized that the can of soda and packet of chips, which had been the only food he could find at stupid o'clock that morning when he'd taken a short break after another night in the car, were now a very distant memory. "Sit, eat. I'd like to talk to you." Mick did as she suggested. "Melia and I will figure things out," he said

conversationally, but with enough finality to suggest that he would not be discussing his relationship with her any further. Joss started in. I’m an army brat, you know? My father died in Vietnam after a long and distinguished career. I know, Mick, more than her parents will ever understand, how badly Amelia needs someone like you in her life." The steak cut like butter and melted in his mouth. He let the silence lengthen, but it didn't seem to bother Joss much, she waited for him to speak. "Why was she in Timor in the first place?” he asked to change the subject. Joss's whole demeanour changed. She relaxed and grinned broadly. "Because she is just the most amazing girl. Her mother is a great one for charity work, and has instilled in Amelia the notion that you must give back something to society. Of course, in her mother's terms, this is mostly organizing and wafting about at high-profile charity events. In Amelia's terms, however, it means rolling up your sleeves and getting your hands dirty helping, not just writing cheques." "So she was doing volunteer work?" Jocelyn nodded. "The orphanage at Maubara is a particular interest of hers. You'll know there was a terrible massacre there in 1999, the year Timor became independent from Indonesia. More than 200 people killed by the militia and, as a result, the town has a very high number of orphans." Mick nodded. There had been so many atrocities in that dreadful time. It

was only one of many. "I was there, in Timor, in 1999.1 know what it was like." Joss paused, obviously groping for some word of commiseration, but then gave up. After all, what could she say? "Well, Amelia took the orphanage under her wing. Money, books, computers, good food. She does everything she can for the children. Two have even passed the International Baccalaureate and now she's mentoring them through Australian universities. Hang around a few days and you'll meet them, they come for dinner once a week. Lovely kids." "I'm not sure how welcome I'll be," said Mick. Joss rolled her eyes. "You didn't ask me what I meant when I said Amelia needed someone like you, did you?" Mick lifted a shoulder. "I figured you'd get around to it." "I know something of the Special Forces. I know your calibre, Mick. You operate under the radar. You are very good at blending into the background. People like you are called 'grey men'." "Or chicken stranglers," he interrupted with a grin. He wasn't happy with the direction of the conversation. He just did his job. What he'd been trained for. A lot of the time the romance and mystique attached to men in the special forces just made him feel deeply uncomfortable. "Amelia needs a grey man. Someone who is willing to step back, let her do her thing. She'll be running AustraTimo Oil before you know it, and doing a damn sight better job than her father. She needs someone to love her and support her. Her idiot father is still trying to marry her off as

some trophy wife, and have her husband take over her role in the company.” "And my father couldn't bear the thought of all his plans ruined because I was having a baby," said Amelia from the doorway. Joss jumped visibly. Mick didn't. He'd heard her walk down the passageway. "There's soup," said Mick, pointing at the covered dish with his fork. He whistled low. "Your bruise is going to be amazing. How are you feeling?” "Horrible,” she said. "And this bandaging they've stuck all over my face is itching.” "Well, I think you look beautiful. I believe black is the new black, and surely that applies to eyes.” "How's the baby?” asked Joss. "Kicking. A lot." "That's good to hear. I'll see you in the morning, love. Night, Mick." Joss slipped out of the door. "I know that you didn't go to the authorities and make claims of assault. I only thought it for a few minutes. Then you turned up at the hospital, and I knew that something else was going on." "I was so furious with my father. He went to Cairns to hide from me.” Mick nodded. "Impressive.” "Oh, I'm not nearly done with him yet. Trust me. I'll fix things up for you as well."

"These things stick, I'm afraid. The fact we are having a child that was conceived under unusual circumstances is going to come out.” "Do you want to want to quit the Special Forces?” He hesitated long enough that she knew the answer was no. But then said, "Shit happens, Melia. After all, I'm getting a daughter out of the mishap.” "Mishap?” She smiled for the first time, then flinched and put her hands up to her bandaged nose. 'Your men, the men you work with, they won't believe any of this, will they?” "They'd know I'd never hurt an innocent civilian. It would never occur to them.” "My father will retract his charges and explain the whole thing was fiction to the necessary people. His slander will not affect you any further,” she said sincerely. Phillip Dubonnier would lose a daughter - and a grandchild - if he refused. "Here, eat. You'll feel better.” Mick stood, put his empty plate in the sink and took the chicken soup to her. "My arm was very badly damaged in Timor. There's been a real improvement but, after the first operation, I accepted that my days of active service were basically over.” She frowned, "Let's talk to some surgeons before you quit your career so quickly, no?”

He looked at his arm. "Maybe you're right. I mean, I don't really feel like I'm finished yet. There's so much more I'd like to achieve in the field before I hang up my boots.” "That's settled then. How is your arm? Does it hurt?" He shook his head. "Nah." But then he hesitated. "Joss was right. I am a grey man. I slip under the radar. I'm trained to go unnoticed. I don't admit to being in pain, emotional or physical. In my world you need to overcome these things very quickly and then deal with them when the crisis is over.” “You

can be honest with me. I think we will have to be. If we ... If

something ..." "Well. I'll show you mine if you show me yours.” He grinned and she smiled gingerly back. "We've already seen everything," she said, and then clutched her bandaged nose as she tried to laugh without moving any facial muscles. Mick threw his head back and laughed. "Yes, but we were both stoned. It doesn't count." "I thought you were too good to be true, until you turned up and were real.” "I couldn't forget you. You haunted me. Horrible operations, hours in hospitals watching daytime TV, you were never far from my thoughts.” "So does it hurt?” she asked again. He grimaced, "like you would not believe. And I've spent two nights in my brother's wretched car, and I'm exhausted, and still terrified that

something could've happened to you.” "You mean the baby?” "I mean you. Mother of the baby. And that is more than I have admitted to anyone about anything in years. Now, if you would be so kind as to show me where I can sleep. Fm shattered.” "Oh, my car is in the garage—” "Don't mess with me. I already figured out where your room is. Care for company?" "I snore," she said quickly. "C'mon. I'll show you the guest room.” It was a balmy day in Maubara. The orphanage children tried to keep quiet, but couldn't help giggling and whispering about the three helicopters parked in their playground and all the well-dressed people who looked like movie stars. They quietened though when they saw their beloved Amelia, dressed in a white dress and looking even more like a princess than usual. The older girls sighed, envious of tall handsome Mick, in his army uniform, waiting for her with Clara. Balanced on Amelia's hip was her grinning red-haired baby, Maggie. She reached for her daddy, gurgling and chattering as she was handed over. Clara Eisenberg read out the solemn words of the ceremony. The children understood them all - they'd been getting ready for this day for weeks and weeks. After the blissfully happy bride kissed the groom, everyone cheered, and

the music started. But the bride and groom barely noticed. They only had eyes for each other.

Good Guys Liz Muir

"I like watching you fight." Jimmy flashed a grin at Summer as she wiped the blood from her cut lip. "You're doing quite well today.” He handed her some ice for her eye. Summer shook her head at her friend. "You do know that you're a freak, right?" "And that's why you love me. Now, get back out there and punch him hard in the ribs. You've hurt him real good the last round so he's protecting them a bit. Just hammer in there and he'll go down in the next round or so." "What next round or so?" Summer pulled her shoulders back. "I'm finishing it now. I’ve got to get home in time to do some research for our new gig." Her opponent, Mike Hill, was maybe twenty-five, perhaps a year older and quite keen to make a good show for his friends who were all outside the ring, cheering him on loudly. To be paired with a girl, in his first fight

at his new gym, was embarrassing. You could read the anger and annoyance in every line of his body. Summer waited for the bell before she closed in on her opponent. He was the new guy, from one of the local constabularies, and clearly fancied himself a bit of a brawler, having taken a few lessons here and there, along with a bit of martial arts training at whichever academies would let him in. He had no real technique but he was fit and he easily outweighed her by around thirty pounds if not more. Summer didn't see the extra weight and superior size as a problem. She was faster than most guys in the ring and had a good eye for placing her shots where they mattered. "Come on, little girl, show me how you pretend to fight." Mike bared his yellowed teeth at her in a leer. "And afterwards, I might even take you out for a drink first before I really knock the life out of you. And when I'm done, I'll let my mates have you." Summer paused for a second. "I wouldn't even pee on you if you were on fire, Hill. Now shut up and fight." Mike lunged at her, fist flying high and loose over her head as she ducked below it easily. Taking advantage of his wide-open side, she landed a quick jab and spun out of the way, keeping her guard up. His friends were shrill in their derision and a flush of anger spread across his face. Mike threw a jab with his left hand, which Summer dodged, letting it fly past her head to the left. At the same time she brought her right hand up and slammed it into the side of his jaw and neck. As he stumbled back, Summer rolled her hips, drew her right hand back and swivelled. She drove her left foot into Mike's face so hard she threw him

back several feet. Stunned, he landed hard, off balance, and rolled to his knees. He looked at her in shock and rage while his friends crowed their disgust in the background. Leaping to his feet he launched himself at her. Summer dodged out of the way, spinning to come up behind him. Planting both hands in the middle of his back, she shoved him hard, into the ropes. He tangled there for a moment, cursing loudly and promising that he was going to kill her. For a few moments, Summer believed he meant it. She glanced outside the ring and saw that Jimmy's uncle, Vince, was watching the fight from his office. He had a smirk on his face as he waved to her. She acknowledged it with a slight nod. Mike stood again, then came at her more slowly, trying to keep his hands up and use his size and reach, only now getting cautious after the battering his ego had taken. He threw punch after punch. Summer dodged or blocked them, giving ground easily and drawing him into the middle of the ring. He started to sound like a broken Darth Vader mask. Incredibly, Summer still felt fast and strong. Her breathing was regular, her mind calm. The extra energy that ran through her body as she danced around him came from her anger at being talked down to by this idiot. She hated trash talking. If opponents did not take each other seriously, then there wouldn't be much of a fight. "Stand still, you stupid little bitch, so I can hit you." Mike grunted through his teeth as he came at her with another flurry of blows and halfhearted kicks. Summer stood her ground, moving her arms just enough to

block everything he threw at her. Then, when he was gasping like a bellows, tired and worried, she struck back. Her right fist flew forwards, firm and hard, sliding through his defence like a hot knife through butter. It connected, and blood gushed from his nose. She lifted her knee into his stomach hard enough to raise him from the mat. Before he could fall, she swept her leg out and knocked his feet from under him. He hit the mat with a thud. A smattering of applause came from the regulars and other onlookers. 'You're out of here,” said Summer in a low, angry voice. "Next time, show your sparring partner a little respect. Idiot.” The moment Summer pushed the front door open she knew that someone was in the house. Used to being on her own, she could sense the disruption in the flow of the air in her private space. That and the fact that the kitchen light was on, while the rest of the house was in darkness. She could smell the scent of strong coffee in the air. She left the door slightly ajar behind her and reached for the 2 lb 6 z Gunn & Moore Catalyst cricket bat she kept handy by the door. Its grip felt comforting in her hand. She easily navigated the few bits of furniture in her lounge and softsteppedher way to the door leading to the kitchen. He was sitting at her breakfast nook, flicking through the most recent copy of National Geographic, looking for the entire world like he belonged there. A stack of various other magazines she subscribed to sat at his elbow. He wore a pair of dark jeans and a black T-shirt that hugged the shape of

his upper body. An informal jacket was slung over the back of the chair. Nothing in the way it hung indicated that it held weapons. "Can I help you?" she asked, keeping her voice low and steady, stepping into the kitchen, making sure that she had enough space to swing the bat. He stood and although he was not that much taller than her, he had presence. Thick black hair curled to his neck and contrasted wildly with the white of his teeth as he smiled. His hazel eyes shot to the bat in her hand, then to her face. "A cricket bat?" His voice was rich and deep and it held laughter. "I've been threatened with many things before, but not a cricket bat." "Glad I could be your first.” She lifted her chin, not appreciating the way his eyes took in her too short T-shirt and jeans. "As I said before, can I help you?" "Would you like to take a seat?" He gestured to the high stool opposite his. "I’ll pour you some coffee and we can talk." "Talk first, coffee later," she intoned, letting her boredom show in her voice. She adjusted her hold on the cane grip. "Who are you and who sent you?" "My name is Kevin Hunter. I've been sent to find you because you have a set of particular skills that Her Majesty's Government would very much like to make use of." The business card he slipped towards her across the tabletop looked impressive. She glanced at it but didn't touch it. It appeared real but all it really proved was that he had good stationers. She had a variety of business cards of her own.

"What do I get out of it?" "Not to go to jail." Summer pursed her lips, taking in the planes of his face, those amazing eyes and shoulders. He was careful to stay quiet as she considered the situation. His eyes trailed to the bat she held ready. He could tell she knew how to use it and would no doubt be very good at doing damage to him. He shifted slightly, making sure his hands stayed in view. Summer stared at him, past him, considering her options. Eventually she walked to the far side of the breakfast nook and poured herself a coffee from the percolator. It smelled heavenly. Kevin had taken his seat and was staring at her with an expression that was a mix of amusement and consideration. His gaze lingered on her cut lip and bruised eye. "So, tell me more," she prompted after taking a sip and putting the cup aside. 'You're interested?” he asked, sounding surprised. Summer bit back nervous laughter. The cool front she was putting up made it appear as if she encountered spooks offering her life-altering deals every day. She was glad he couldn't see her shaking. The dimmed recessed lights weren't good enough to show that. "Not yet. But I really like not going to jail,” she answered glibly. "So, tell me a story." He sipped from his own cup and for a moment she had to bite her tongue. Her dainty flowered coffee cup looked ridiculous in his strong hands. "Where shall I start?”

She was leaning against the sink, the bat by her side. She liked looking at him. This stranger in her house appealed to her. She had to be out of her mind. Afraid, and out of her mind. "An auction is coming up and we'd like you to attend and bid on our behalf, if you are satisfied that the goods are real.” "That's it?” she asked, her expression incredulous. "Somehow I don't think that's the whole story, Kevin Hunter from Her Majesty's Government.” "The auction is very real. And, to be fair, some of the items on sale would make lovely additions to the British Museum's collection. That is why you will be going along. We need you to determine if the items we will be buying are bona fide.” "And then?” "Then, once you're certain the items are genuine, we will bid on them." "Can you tell me the type of collection we'll be looking at?" 'I’m not at liberty to say at this time.” He hesitated, an impatient frown between his eyebrows. "Egyptian, Roman, maybe some Greek.” A whirlwind of emotions tore through Summer. "Where will the auction take place?” "I'm not at liberty to say at this time.” "So let me get this straight: you want me to go somewhere foreign and no doubt dangerous, to bid on something I don't know anything about. It sounds risky and probably life threatening. Why on earth would you think I

would say yes?” "Because we'll throw away your file and give you five-million quid as a nice little nest egg.” That took her by surprise. She had always suspected that the British government had a file on her but she tried very hard not to be too optimistic or arrogant about these things. She strived to remain under the radar and keep her nose clean, but it was so difficult these days with electronic surveillance and international agencies sharing information. She had clearly slipped up somewhere. She would have to have a talk with Jimmy. The fact that they had a file on her, and that they were prepared to delete it, spoke volumes. Whatever they were up to was dodgy, and for them to contact her for help reeked of desperation. A job run by MI5 -or the Spook Squad, as they were commonly referred to in familiar terms - meant that there was more at stake than just an object or two. And no one ever accused them of being an altruistic bunch: she doubted that the British Museum was high on their list of charitable organizations. What were they up to? Belatedly, she registered the amount of money she was being offered. It was a nice little figure, one that if handled correctly could keep her nicely for a good couple of years. But then, her tiny cautionary voice said, what's to stop them from taking her out after the deal was done? It was a package deal, with no one the wiser if she quietly disappeared off the grid never to resurface again. It was a challenge with insane odds she was wary of, but the thrill of the chase was on. "Just like that? No strings attached?” she stalled, already knowing that

would agree. "Well, you could get shot at and maybe abducted ..." Summer shrugged. "Been there, done that. What's the real catch?" 'You and I will be posing as a married couple on honeymoon. You are keen to buy some antiques for investment purposes and, as I'm terrifically wealthy and love you dearly, we hunt out unique auctions and spend stupid amounts of money on old junk.” Summer snorted, a distinctly unladylike sound. "I always work alone. Or at least with back-up from a remote location.” "Not this time around. You play by my rules.” "That will cost you more.” His smile widened and his lingering gaze brought heat to her cheeks. "A million more," she stated, firmly, testing the waters. "Get me your bank account details and we'll transfer the first half. You get the rest on completion." Summer followed the perky air hostess on to the runway where the jet sat. She was shown to the seating area and found Kevin already ensconced in a large comfortable leather seat. He had several folders open in front of him and looked up when he heard her enter. He looked gorgeous, dressed casually in fitted jeans and a crisp white shirt. She stared at the tanned V of skin his shirt exposed and had utterly impure thoughts of unbuttoning that shirt to see if the rest of him was as tanned. And toned and kissable.

"Hey there. You're early." He stood up and put a hand on her arm, leaning forwards to brush a kiss across her cheek. His lips seared her skin with heat and she bit her lip at the frisson of electricity shooting through her. "Grab a seat. I'm just checking some paperwork. I'll be with you in a few moments." Too stunned by his kiss even to respond with a quick jibe, Summer sank into the chair beside him. The air hostess appeared again, a wide smile on her face. "Would you care for some champagne, Mrs Hunter?” Summer declined with a quick movement of her head and watched the air hostess stroll off to speak to the pilot and co-pilot. "Here we go, some papers for you to look at." Kevin handed Summer a blue folder. "The details of the auction are in there, along with our background story. And before I forget." He reached into his jacket hanging from a hook beside him. "A further formality." He held out a black velvet box. "For you. I hope you like it." "Thanks." Summer took the small box from him, utterly unprepared for the set of rings it held. "Here, let me." He slid the classic solitaire on to her finger, following it with a plain platinum band. "What do you think, Mrs Hunter? Did I choose well?" "These are from the De Beers classic collection? Very nice." She smiled at him, sliding her hand from his, ultra-aware of how close he was to her. He smelled of expensive cologne and she inhaled deeply. She turned her face so that their lips almost met. "Do I have to give them back?"

"Government property, just like me." Neither of them moved away. She kept her eyes on his mouth for the longest time before looking up at him. "Shame," she breathed. "They are very pretty government property7." His hazel eyes widened in surprise when he realized that she was flirting right back. He moved away slightly, with a reluctant sigh and a smile. Summer sat back in the chair and flicked her hair behind her ear. "So what exactly aren't you telling me?" Those hazel eyes snapped towards her in surprise. He quirked an eyebrow. I’m not stupid, Kevin. I know there's more to this whole trip. I think maybe you're tracking some criminals, maybe even some terrorists and the easiest way to get in is to pretend to be something you're not. How many people are waiting for us in Egypt? What's your back-up plan?" The silence in the plane was deafening. The air hostess came striding towards them, a professional smile on her pleasant features but one look at Kevin's stony face and she veered off towards the back of the plane, where she took her seat and buckled herself in. The plane started taxiing along and Summer strapped herself into her seat. She kept her features blank and smiled widely at Kevin. "Cat got your tongue?" she murmured, flicking open the file and shooting him a sly look. "I am wondering how you gained access to our system?" he said, dangerously soft. "I do not appreciate being spied upon."

"And I don't like being threatened." He swivelled her chair around so they were face to face. The air vibrated around them with intense energy. Summer felt her nipples stiffen in response to his proximity. She curled her hands around her armrests. "I'm not afraid of you," she rasped out. "Don't think you can intimidate me." "You realize you may have compromised the mission.” "What mission?” she shot back, irritated. "You seriously can't tell me that you think there won't be agents from other countries there doing the same thing as us? What makes you think our little ruse will work?” "Because," he ground out, wrapping his hand around her wrist and pulling her closer, "we've got you. You're our trump card. You are a very talented lady, one who knows her Early Kingdom from her New Kingdom. And a variety of other weird archaeological stuff. You are also a good fighter and a thief. A very dangerous combination: talented, intelligent and dangerous.” His hand cupped the back of her head, his long fingers tangling in her short hair. "Also, you are pretty. No one, especially not the men we will be dealing with, will suspect you of anything wicked. And it won't be hard to pretend to like you.” His lips pressed against hers, searing them with his heat. Summer made an involuntary moaning noise at the back of her throat and leaned in for a deeper kiss, straining against her seat belt. Her lips parted, inviting him in, but suddenly the force of their take-off was pushing her back into the plush softness of her own seat.

She found him staring at her. His eyes burned like coals. "You will not jeopardize this mission.” It wasn't a warning; it was a statement. "I will help you as much as I can," she conceded, closing her eyes and concentrating on her breathing. "And I get to keep whatever we buy—” she opened one eye to see if he'd go for that "—because collecting art is definitely not what this mission of yours is about.” She wanted more than anything to contact Jimmy to let him know to hide the money, as much of it as he possibly could. She had very bad feelings about this whole thing. Most of which concerned the welfare of her heart. The plane eventually levelled out and the air hostess appeared, offering drinks. Summer ordered a spritzer. She unbuckled herself, took her glass and the folder and strolled to a comfortable-looking couch, opposite Kevin. There was a small table between them so she could limit their physical contact. Her wrist ached where he had grabbed her and she looked down to notice red marks there. She rested the bottom of her cold glass on them for a few moments. It relieved the burning sensation. It did nothing for her aching lips, however. She touched her tongue to the healing cut at the corner of her lip, courtesy of the boxing match, and winced slightly. "I want you to be up to speed with everything in that folder before we land. Make sure you study it well." Summer couldn't resist. She pulled a face at him. "I've been doing this for a long time. I won't be a liability." The silence between them stretched. Summer bent her head over the

paperwork in the folder. It would appearthataselectionof items that would give museums the world over palpitations were up for sale to the discerning buyer. She flicked backwards and forwards through some pages. It was maybe an hour before she spoke. "These are gorgeous. Really good quality." The words were out before she could help herself. "See? These anklets are of incredibly high workmanship. The winged scarab here is holding the solar disc aloft and beneath is this hieroglyph, the start of the mummy's name. It looks like Aakheperre. It's at least twenty-first dynasty." She tapped the next picture of a solid gold collar in the form of a vulture. "No one knows who this one belonged to. The pharaoh's name was erased so scholars have no clue whose this is. Some say it may very well belong to the heretic king Akhenaton.” She smiled at him, unguarded, her earlier tension dissipated. "Can I ask you a personal question?” When she nodded, he continued. "Why do you do what you do? You obviously have a talent and affinity for historical fact and data. Why aren't you a lecturer or a historian or even an archaeologist?” Summer pretended to fall asleep and sat up again. "Sorry, what?" She shook her head. "No, I've genuinely tried, believe me. I spent seven years of my young life studying all kinds of things and then discovered that deskwork is not quite my forte. I did it for one summer, helping out at a university in Italy on my father's insistence. I almost died of boredom. It

was the first museum I stole from.” The news was nothing new to him but he clearly appreciated her honesty and nodded his head. "I understand what you mean. You’ve become addicted to the thrill." 'Yes!" Her smile was wide. "There is nothing on earth like it. The planning and execution of a well thought out raid. I love it. It makes me feel..." "Alive.” "Yes, alive. If s the best feeling in the world," "Better than sex?” he quipped. "Definitely,” she shot back, laughing. 'You are clearly not doing it properly then." The light banter was in complete contrast to their earlier conflict. She liked it. She liked his smile but she loved his kisses. The random thought made her sit upright and she shifted uncomfortably. "Are you hungry? We have a fully stocked kitchen." He gestured to the air hostess who obediently popped over. "What would you like?” "A coffee and a sandwich?” she ventured hopefully. "I didn't have a chance for breakfast before your driver called at my house.” "A selection of sandwiches and a pot of coffee, please. Thank you, Lois." Summer watched her go. "Is she an agent?” "No, she came with the plane.” His eyes roved over her face, came to rest

on her lips for a few seconds, dipped down, taking in the plunging neckline of her crisp blue shirt, hiding yet revealing the swell of her breasts. "Do you have any questions about the assignment?” "Just an observation, really. It's too easy. Did you ever think you were being set-up?" "Not particularly, no. There is no reason for the targets to expect that we know anything.” "Kevin." Summer drew a breath. "I hate to break it to you but these types of guy are born paranoid. They would have checked both of us out the moment your agency put our names down as interested parties for the auction.” "All they would have found if they bothered to investigate is photos of our wedding, pictures of us on holiday in the Alps and one or two social snaps in the media.” Summer was impressed. "Well now, that's interesting. And it's taken a certain amount of forethought. How did you know I'd agree to the scam?" "We didn't. It was a huge risk. We had no one else lined up to help." "Am I allowed to see the pictures?” "Yes, here they are.” He spun the small laptop around so that she could scroll through the photos herself. Someone had done an amazing job in Photoshop. Looking at the pictures she could almost believe that they were real. "I'm impressed. I like this one. This is the wedding reception, right? I

love the tiara I'm wearing. Nicely cut diamonds too.” She spun the computer back to him. "Someone at your agency had fun doing this.” "I know, I had to drag him away from it. I think he maybe has 300 photos of you and I doing a variety of social events.” "That is enthusiasm.” Lois carried over the tray of sandwiches and coffee. She smiled at them both as they hastily pushed the laptop and papers out of her way. She left them to their food and quietly slipped away to go and feed the pilots. "Do you know any of the people in your folder?” Kevin asked as he popped one of the sandwich triangles into his mouth. "I recognize the names. Some of them are very well known in my ... uh, field ... as buyers. I haven't met any of them. I made sure never to be seen. I had my guy take care of all the face-to-face stuff. Till now.” She flipped through a series of photos. "There are some very wealthy people in here. Are you sure this auction is legitimate?” "As legitimate as it can be. Documents of provenance are available to view as a matter of course. The authenticity of the items for sale has been verified by a variety of professionals.” "Hmm.” "Was it your guy who hacked into our computer and found out that the auction is in Egypt?" Summer shrugged, sipping her coffee. "Maybe. It's just a detail now." Cairo was hot. They were escorted off the plane, their passports hastily

stamped by the customs officials before they were whisked away into a black SUV. Summer raised an eyebrow at the matching sets of Italian luggage in the back of the car. Kevin brushed his lips over her temple when he saw her querying look. "I have to make sure my bride is fittingly attired.” His palm skimmed her arm. "I've got a good eye when it comes to dressing my woman.” "If I like anything, it stays mine,” Summer warned, only half jokingly, suppressing a shiver as his hand reached for hers. She watched him curl her fingers around his and kiss her wrist then her palm. "Whatever you want, Mrs Hunter. You only have to ask," Her lips quirked into a smile. She caught the gaze of the driver in the rear-view mirror. They were considering and intelligent and very interested. She lowered her own gaze and turned towards Kevin. "In that case, can we hurry to the hotel so I can try on all my new clothes for you?” she murmured, having no problem making her voice husky. A huff of laughter exploded from Kevin. He spoke to the driver through the intercom and the car picked up speed as it wove through the already insane Cairo traffic. Kevin drew her to his side and draped an arm around her, the fingers of his hand doing lazy circles on her hypersensitive flesh. "I can't think when you do that,” she confessed, squirming against his side. "Please stop.” "I don't need you to think right now. Just act like you love me," he murmured against her hair. "It will make everything far easier.”

Summer let out a breath she didn't realize she had been holding. She sank against him, loving the feel of him against her. "This is dangerous, you know." "I know." In response he pulled her even closer, nestling her fully against the line of his body. "But Hike it.” The driver's gaze flickered to them throughout the journey to the hotel. They crossed the Nile, passed a variety of checkpoints and eventually pulled up outside of the most amazing hotel Summer had ever seen. It looked like a palace. She gasped, laughing in delight. "It's gorgeous!” "Nothing but the best for my bride! I've arranged for us to have one of the presidential suites. The auction is tomorrow and I want to make sure you get a good night's rest.” The concierge smiled widely when he saw them. The way he reacted to Kevin it was clear that they had known one another for a long time. "Mr Hunter! So good to see you again. And this time you've brought your beautiful wife.” He was an attractive gentleman in his late fifties, immaculately dressed, with ink-black hair and smiling eyes. "Welcome to our hotel, Mrs Hunter. We hope you will like it here." "Thank you!" Summer leaned against Kevin. I’m sure I will." "Your suite is ready, Mr Hunter. Well arrange for your luggage to be brought upstairs. Please let me know if you need anything else." "Thank you, Hussam. I’ll speak with you later. We may need a car

tomorrow.” Kevin put his hand out and Summer almost didn't spot the exchange of folded notes between the two men, it was done so subtly. Tucking his arm around her, as if afraid she might disappear, Kevin steered them to the lifts. The hotel's opulence left her speechless. She tried not staring but the amount of marble and gilt surrounding her could easily have fed a small African country for years. They stepped into the mirrored lift, which whisked them up to the top floor of the hotel at breathtaking speed. He linked hands with her as they stepped out of the elevator. "We've not swept the room for bugs, so play along for a moment," he murmured to her, leading her to one of only two suites on the whole floor. "I think we've got a view of the Nile." Kevin unlocked the doors and ushered her into the suite's foyer. He held up his hand and from his pocket he brought out a small electronic device. Summer watched as he went around the suite, sweeping for listening devices and cameras. "We're clear." He pocketed the device; it looked no larger than a PDA. Summer entered the main room of the suite. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the Nile and downtown Cairo. "If s stunning. You sure know how to spoil a girl." Summer turned, taking in the lounge and kitchen. "This place is bigger than my entire house!" "Just enjoy it. Come here." He loosely grabbed her by the waist, making it clear she could easily withdraw from his grip. When she willingly moved towards him he bent his head over hers. "Can I just say, for the record, that you have the most sinfully wicked mouth I have ever seen on a woman? I

wanted to kiss you from the moment I saw you." "Oh." Summer reflectively licked her lips. "Well, that's a new one for me." He nuzzled her neck, planting tiny feathery kisses up towards her jaw, working his way to her mouth. He bit her lip gently, keeping his eyes open, staring into hers. Slowly, so slowly it felt like a millennium passed, his lips lowered to hers and he kissed her gently, slowly deepening the kiss. Summer, totally engrossed in this intimate act, swayed closer to him, draping one hand around his neck, resting the other lightly on his hip. She could feel his heart thundering against her and shifted her hips so that she was pressed tightly against him. Kevin's hands spanned her waist and she became hyper-aware of his fingers skimming the bottom of her breasts. She moaned softly, pressing closer, trapping his hands between them. A discreet knock on the door had them separating quickly, if only for a few centimetres. Summer swayed dizzily, trying to focus on her surroundings. Eventually she gave up and sat down on the nearest couch, her legs refusing to hold her up any longer. Her heart was racing and she felt high. A young bellboy rolled in a trolley stacked with their luggage. His gaze swept over Summer, taking in her slightly dishevelled state, Kevin busying himself in the small kitchen, pouring two glasses of chilled water from the fridge. Summer wasn't entirely sure how Kevin got across the room as fast as he did. "You can leave the luggage in the bedroom,” he told the bellboy and walked back to the couch to give Summer her glass of water. She accepted it gratefully and gulped it down. He settled next to her,

looking at ease and relaxed. Only the light flush across his cheekbones indicated that anything was amiss. The bellboy exited without a word, ducking his head in thanks as he noticed the American twenty-dollar bill on the small table by the door. "Why don't we unpack? I want to show you around the hotel and then we can go meet some of my old friends who live in the city?" He stood and stretched. "The auction and party is tomorrow and we may as well enjoy ourselves till then.” Summer nodded, relieved that her heart rate was slowing down. She followed him across the living area to the main bedroom. The room was the size of a rugby field. The bed in the middle of the room managed to dominate its surroundings. It stood on a raised dais and, even if it had been illuminated by a spotlight, it couldn't have been any less obvious. "That is a big bed,” she managed. "Do they expect their guests to entertain harems in here?" His lips quirked. "It's been known to happen. This used to be a palace. Its conversion to a hotel is only its latest incarnation.” He swung the bags on to the bed. "There is a smaller room, connected through there, which is yours. But I thought, since we were married—” his smile was lazy "—we could share this one.” Summer nodded, not trusting herself to speak. She unzipped her suitcase and started lifting out designer clothing, all in her size: blouses, shirts, trousers, jackets, dresses, skirts, shorts, T-shirts and lacy camisoles.

"You weren't kidding,” she said to Kevin. "You do like your women well dressed. I like my new wardrobe!” "Woman. Singular, woman," he corrected her, turning away from hanging up a dark suit in the walk-in closet. "Do you like them?” "Yes, of course I do.” And she did. She recognized the majority of the labels because she had seen them in the wardrobes of the rich women she robbed. "Although I am not entirely sure when you expect me to wear this.” She swung a skimpy negligee out to show him. "This is going just a bit too far, isn't it?” Kevin shrugged, a wide smile on his face. "Oh, I don't know. I think we should be prepared for any eventuality." "What? Posing for Playboy?" she quipped back, stifling hysterical laughter. His shrug was melodramatic. She chuckled to herself, relieved that she could still see the humorous side to the situation. "Aren't there people who usually hang up your clothing for you in places like this?" she asked, smiling. "Yes, but I don't like other people touching my things.” Kevin lifted the last suit from his suitcase. "I'm extremely possessive.” Humming to herself, Summer tidied her clothes away, and then stowed her suitcase in a compartment inside the wardrobe. "The other reason why I choose to unpack my own luggage is because of

this." Kevin closed the lid of his suitcase, ran his fingers over the combination lock on the front, found the right sequence and popped it open again. Summer leaned in to look and shook her head. "Are you crazy? Have you ever seen the inside of an Egyptian prison?” Strapped to the lid of the suitcase was a variety of fighting and throwing knives. The bottom half of the case was taken up by two matt-black Heckler & Koch USP handguns. Summer ran her fingertips over them and whistled softly. "Very pretty. But I prefer the blades.” Whippet fast, she flicked two of the knives from their sheaths and spun them in her hands, going into a defensive crouch. The metal blinked dully in the light coming through the windows. "Very nice. These are Dark Ops knives, aren't they? Fantastically balanced.” As she spoke she spun and flung both knives. They thudded into the wall, one on either side of a dramatic painting of windswept desert sands. "Remind me not to venture into the kitchen with you," Kevin said dryly, walking over to the wall and levering the knives out of the plaster. "Here, if you can hide these on your body, by all means, have them.” Her smile was wide. Summer ignored the fact that he looked shocked that she appeared happier with the gift of the knives than she did when he gave her the rings on the plane. "Well, what next?” she asked, sliding the knives into the two sheaths she had modified to fit inside the boots she wore, hiding them under her jeans.

"Next, we go talk to a man about some new phones.” The Scarab was a privately-owned leisure cruiser moored just off the Corniche el Nil. The Mercedes had no trouble parking and a liveried attendant hastened to open the doors for Summer and Kevin. Dressed in a classic black Chanel trouser suit and Manolo pumps, Summer felt decidedly underdressed as she spied the lavish clothing of some of the other female guests. Kevin wore a fitted dinner suit, sans tie, and looked every inch the rich playboy. He kept hold of her hand as their names were ticked off the guest list. A man handed them the seating plan for the auction and waved them aboard. "Something's not right.” Summer's smile was bright and vibrant as she brought a champagne flute to her lips. "I feel itchy.” "Maybe it's the thought of all those valuable treasures below," he teased. "Do you think we can go and view them?" "I don't see why not. We are here legitimately after all." They made their way down the stairs, following the discreet signs to the auction room. Two burly Egyptians stood guard outside. Kevin flashed their invitations and the guards used hand-held metal detectors to search them for concealed weapons. When they found none, the two men stepped aside to allow them entry. The room was lavishly decorated in cream and gold. A small podium with a microphone was set up at the front of the room. Thirty seats were arranged in neat rows before the podium. One of the attendants noticed them and hurried over.

"Mr Hunter, it is such a pleasure to see you. I expect you and your lovely wife would be keen to see what we have on offer?" He gestured. "Please, come this way." He handed them a catalogue of items on display. "Let me know if there is anything here that you would like to put a pre-emptive bid on." Summer kept the smile on her face as they followed the man through to a smaller room. A variety of boxes and glass cases were arranged around the room. She wondered how they got some of the larger objects in here. The statues from the Middle and Far East had a variety of interested guests examining and discussing them in various languages. She could hear German, French, Italian and Russian and she recognized three of the men in the room. One of them she had even recently robbed. It brought a grin to her face. "I really think this would look good in the foyer," Kevin was saying, nodding his head at an Egyptian bronze figure of Osiris from the Late Period, so ugly it made her eyes water. "No, sweetie, this is how it works. I choose what I want for the house, you pay." Her patient admonishment brought laughter from some of the other people in the room. Kevin wore a resigned and much-put-upon face. "You're the expert." And then proceeded to follow her around, taking great delight in pointing out the ugliest objects there and recommending them for installation in the blue guest room, the main lounge, second foyer and, once, even the kitchen of their imaginary house. By her estimation their house must have been the size of Versailles.

Summer felt like strangling him. Until, that is, she walked up to a small display case holding a single Sumerian clay tablet covered in cuneiform, the world's first written language. Everything around her faded away and she focused her attention on the tablet. Her heart thumped in her chest and her palms became sweaty. She knew the history of cuneiform better than she knew her own name. She looked past the fact that at least fifteen different peoples including Sumerian, Babylonian and Assyrian used cuneiform to write in. What interested her was that cuneiform was succeeded by Aramaic script, which was then in turn replaced by Arabic in the seventh century. This example looked innocent enough, but it was the tiny marking towards the bottom of the tablet which was making her heart race. She recalled seeing a series of articles on objects looted from the National Iraqi Museum in Baghdad. Among them were a series of clay tablets, not unlike this one. Admittedly, a clay tablet was a clay tablet but few contained the x-marks-the-spot factor. "Make sure we bid on this. It will be ideal for our collection, ” she murmured to Kevin, strolling away to the next exhibit. He nodded, barely glancing at the clay tablet and made a note in the catalogue. They continued their stroll and made several further selections in the catalogue, among which was a large statue of the goddess Isis. Kevin spent a lot of time chatting to other people, and a variety of business cards were exchanged. He pressed palms with many acquaintances before collecting Summer from where she stood admiring thick gold tore-style hoop earrings from an Etruscan excavation. "Success?" she asked.

"I would like to think so." He steered her out of the large room and on to the upper deck where they nibbled on canapes and sipped champagne and made small talk with various people attending the auction. Kevin enthusiastically engaged in conversation with an American couple and earnestly discussed the merits of hiring interior decorators, the costs and anguish associated with self-decorating. Summer wasn't fooled by the charming playboy persona Kevin displayed. There was an underlying sense of tension about him and when she spotted him staring distractedly at a newly arrived group of men, she knew that they were the real reason for the whole charade. "Do you need a reason to pop downstairs again?" she murmured to him over her shoulder. "I'm feeling a bit faint." "Honey? Summer?" He took the champagne flute from her and handed it to a passing waiter, while placing a steadying hand at the small of her back. "Sorry. I’m not sure what's going on." Summer kept her voice low but panicky. Several guests were staring at her in concern. "I'm feeling dizzy, can I sit down somewhere?" Kevin's concerned expression was enough to move the other guests out of their way. He helped her down the stairs and she leaned heavily on him, her hand over her mouth, doing her utmost to look ill. One of the attendants from the auction room spotted them and rushed over to help. "I don't know what's wrong. Is there a room where she can lie down in for awhile?" Kevin asked, playing the anxious new husband to a fault.

"Certainly, Mr Hunter. Please, this way." They were shown into a small suite. The attendant made sure that they had water and clean towels before discreetly withdrawing. "I could kiss you, you know?" Kevin muttered into her hair, letting her go. "I know." She didn't bother looking anything but smug. "Now what?" "Now you stay here, quietly, while I go snoop around and plant some bugs that could put a nasty man away for a long time." "Oh? That's a bit dull." He chuckled. "I'm sorry to say that a lot of covert jobs aren't exactly guns blazing and Bourne shenanigans." "More's the pity," she murmured, resting on the bed. "I like a man of action." The look he shot her was dark and inscrutable. "Don't go anywhere." He had his hand on the door handle. "Don't steal anything either." "That wasn't part of the contract," she sniped back with a grin, settling in. He was still smiling when he slipped into the passage. The two bulky security guards standing by the doors to the auction room were preoccupied with a rich American oil tycoon and his overblown wife. They didn't look up as Kevin slipped down the passage on the far side, to the next flight of stairs. Kevin paused at each door, listening intently for any noise. He had his mobile in his hand, with the battery case halfway open. The sheet with the two dots - one for tracking, one for listening - came out easily enough and he put each dot on a finger of his right hand, before

slipping the mobile back into his pocket. He was approaching the final cabin when the door suddenly opened and a tall, dark-haired man in a light linen suit stepped into the passage. His face was flushed with anger and Kevin could hear raised voices in the room behind him. When he saw Kevin a heavy scowl drew his brows together. "What are you doing here? This part of the boat is not for party goers." "Oh, I know that. I'm sorry. My name is Kevin Hunter. One of the attendants upstairs said I could come down here. My wife's taken ill and they told me there's a doctor on board." He kept his tone solicitous and slurred a few of his vowels. The man regarded him with distaste. "I'm sure there are several doctors on board but none of them are here. Now, I must ask you to move along." The man's tone was civil but impatient. He blocked the door behind him with his body, using his arm to indicate that Kevin should be on his way. "Fine, fine, I'm sorry." Kevin raised his hands in apology before patting the man on the shoulder, deftly sliding the GPS dot and state-of-the art listening device beneath his lapel. "Thank you anyway." He made a show of retreating down the passage and up the stairs again, swaying a bit more than the gentle undulation of the river could account for. Summer was stalking back and forth in the room, checking her watch. Her instincts told her to run. She felt unsafe and missed Kevin's presence. Those men who had come on board, she knew them from somewhere. She definitely recognized one of them as a high-powered businessman with connections to one of the important Saudi families. What was this

really about? She trusted Jimmy with her life but she was starting to doubt his research into Kevin Hunter's background at MI5 and the details about this job. It all seemed very low key. Too low key. And it panicked her. If she had the chance she would ring Jimmy but she couldn't risk it right now. Jimmy had gone dark after Kevin made his first contact with her. Having a government agency after them was not the best of birthday presents. The door opened and Kevin breezed in, smiling. "Job done. Let's go bid on some pretty shiny things." "If you move, you will die." The voice was low and urgent in her ear. A heavy hand pressed across her mouth, stilling her movement before she could even attempt it. Summer snapped her eyes open. She could make out one dark silhouette standing at the foot of the bed, another crouched beside her. The small alarm clock in her line of vision told her it was 3.35 a.m. Who, besides criminals, operated at that hour? "Do you understand?” the voice hissed again. Fully awake now, Summer got a nose full of garlic and bad body odour and hastily shook her head affirmatively. "I am going to move my hand, and you will tell me where your husband is. Is that clear?” She nodded again. Her fingertips found the knife she always slept with under the pillow. As he moved his hand, she surged upwards, bringing the knife with her. She used a controlled slicing movement to his face. The blade caught him above his eyebrows, slicing deeply, peeling the skin

away. Blood gushed from the small veins and covered his face within seconds. He let out a yelp of terror and flung himself backwards, crashing into a writing desk and gilded chair. The second man was no less stunned but had the chance to react to her unexpected manoeuvre as she took out his colleague. He launched himself at her across the bed and grappled madly for the blade in her hand. Summer bucked and squirmed as violently as she could within the bedclothes, thrashing against the man's weight pinning her down. She flung the knife from her, knowing that there were other weapons stashed around the room that she could use if only she could get to them. She used her nails to scratch at the man bucking on top of her. He pulled away to mutter a curse as her nails gouged satisfying cuts across his cheek. Seeing her chance, she reared up and head-butted him, silently thanking Uncle Mike for showing her the deadly move shortly after her thirteenth birthday. Her assailant fell back with a curse, grabbing his nose. Using her legs, she wiggled out from beneath him and rolled off the bed, away from both men. She landed in a tangle of sheets and bedding. Kicking free, she stumbled to the walk-in closet where she remembered Kevin hiding a small snubnosed .38 in the pocket of one of his jackets. She felt around in the dark and, after a few moments, she palmed the gun. Summer widened her stance, enjoying that both of her assailants were still moaning and crawling around. She flicked on the lights, flooding the room with brightness. The gun never wavered in her hand. "Now, can you kindly tell me what the hell you are doing in my room?”

she grated out. "I'll count to three before I start shooting and, trust me, I am a very good shot." “

We only want the clay tablet, that is all," one man said in pained tones.

He still had his hands cupped around his bleeding nose. The other guy had managed to staunch some of the blood flowing from the cut above his brow with a piece of the torn bedding. "I'm not quite awake yet but I have trouble understanding how you can demand anything if I'm the one with the gun," Summer pointed out. "It seems, I don't know, like I should be the only one making demands." "You have no idea who you are dealing with," the first man said again. "We will be able to find you wherever you go. Just give us the tablet and we will go away. Pfft, like that, forever." "No, my friend. I know exactly who I'm dealing with." She casually waved the gun and watched them both flinch. "You can certainly tell Mr Alexandrov that I am not happy with his highhanded ways at all. We bought the items at auction, legally. If he has a problem, he can take it up with our lawyer." She watched the words sink in and satisfied herself that they realized she wasn't just a bit of eye candy on Kevin Hunter's arm. "Now would be a good time to leave. "She stepped out of the closet completely and advanced on them. "Please, leave quietly and with a minimum of fuss. I don't want my husband's people to become aware of this little misunderstanding." She saw them out of the hotel suite and locked the door behind them. In the kitchen, she obsessively washed her hands to get rid of the skin and

blood beneath her nails. She drank several glasses of bottled water quickly, wishing for strong tea instead. For a few moments, she stared blankly into space, her mind racing. She was jerked out of her reverie by a thunderous knock on the door. Keeping the .38 by her side, she approached the door and shot a quick look through the peephole. It was Kevin and he looked fit to murder. She unlocked the door and stepped aside as he bulldozed his way into the room. "What happened?" he demanded. "Who were those men?" He spun around the lounge area and eventually focused on the gun by her side. "I saw them leave from this floor. The other suite isn't occupied. What's going on?" "If you cared so much, Mr Hunter, you should maybe have hired some bodyguards to guard me and the goods you bought tonight. Those two idiots who broke in here were sent by Mr Alexandrov to steal the clay tablet." "Alexandrov?" Kevin echoed. "But he's not the one we ..." He held out a hand. "How do you know they were his men?" "I recognized him at the party. I know him very well as I've done business with him in the past." She shrugged, pretending nonchalance, enjoying his discomfort, "I know what he was after so I made sure we got what he wanted instead." "I can tell you're dying to tell me what we managed to accomplish tonight.” "Well, we only made sure that one of the biggest crooks in the antiquities trade did not get his grubby little paws on a very important

piece of an ancient puzzle. The little clay tablet we bought tonight outlines the final location of the fabled lost treasures of Sargon of Akkad." "And you can be sure about this because ..." "1 stole the other pieces for him from a variety of collectors and museums over the past five years. The tablet we bought tonight had been looted by soldiers from the museum in Baghdad during the Iraq War.” "Oh.” Kevin looked nonplussed. "Well, I have to admit your evening turned out a lot more exciting than mine did.” "And what did you do?” she asked, amused by his glum expression, thinking she could cheer him up. "Well, there was a brief shoot-out between us - the good guys - and the other guys - the bad guys. In the end, we won by superior force - and working with the Egyptian government - and managed to make some arrests. Hopefully they'll languish in a jail for a long old time.” "Oh. There was actual shooting?” Summer asked, feeling a bit jealous. 'Your night was definitely more exciting than mine.” "But I can see blood, which means you got to beat up some bad guys of your own.” "Yeah, that part was pretty cool.” "So. Tell me more about the clay tablet.” Summer blinked. "I think they took it with them." "Are you lying to me?”

"Yes." Her smile was wide. "I am. What about it?" "I think a heavy interrogation session is in order." Kevin grabbed her slender waist and pulled her to him. "Are you up for it?" Summer's answering smile was wide and cheeky. "I can tell you are." His kiss was long and deep and sweet. He bent and picked her up, cradling her to his chest. She flung her arms around his neck, letting the gun dangle down his back. He walked through his room with its bloody bedding from Summer's recent fight, and kicked open the door to her bedroom with its slightly smaller bed. He stripped her knee-length nightie over her head with practised ease. As he lay her down on the soft covers, he looked at her and smiled. "I have to warn you that I am well versed in interrogation techniques." He placed butterfly kisses along her jaw and down her throat. "My subjects always talk." "I like a challenge," Summer murmured as she untucked the shirt from his waistband. "Less talking," she instructed him fiercely, "more kissing. Just remember, I have a gun." Kevin bent his dark head over hers, only too happy to comply. "Miss Summer!” Summer pushed her hat back from her forehead with the back of her hand and looked up at the scrawny kid running towards her through the excavations. He picked his way through carefully, as nimble as a mountain goat. "There is a man here, he wants to see you."

"Did he give his name, Adnan?" "No, but he did say he was your husband.” Several of the workers around her stopped working to look at her with curiosity. With an impatient gesture, she brushed away the loose strands of hair that clung to her neck. It's been over a year, what was he doing here? "Let's go meet him.” She followed Adnan to the entrance of the dig where she could see Kevin leaning against an impossibly clean 4x4. He looked better than ever. Maybe a little more slender, but it suited him. His eyes were hidden by a pair of expensive wraparound glasses. "You left me,” he said by way of greeting, his voice low. "I didn't like that.” "Well, you know how it goes. A bad girl meets a good guy, they take down some scumbags ... it was never going to work out.” Her flippant reply was out before she could stop it. "Is that your excuse for stealing government property?” 'I’m sure the government will get over it,” she shot back, irritated. "If s really taken you a year to track me down?” "One year, four months and fifteen days.” His tone was measured, dangerous. "It's the strangest thing. We heard about this young archaeologist out here in the wilds of what used to be ancient Mesopotamia. She's not funded by any known agency or university and yet she seems to know all the right people in the local government who are happy to give her permits to dig in places where no one ever thought of looking for any sign of civilization before. And then stories start leaking

out about this massive funerary hoard belonging to some long-forgotten king that she's discovered.” "Imagine that,” she said, suppressing a grin. She could tell how worked up he was about her walking out on him. His face was white with anger. "Yes, imagine that.” He moved closer, his long fingers reaching for her waist, settling there with familiarity. "So I thought it would be a good idea to come out here to check if it was indeed my long-lost wife. And look! Here you are.” Summer held up her left hand. "It was only pretend, Mr Hunter. I left the rings behind when I left you in Cairo. The onlything I took was the clay tablet and I told you I would.” "Which is why I'm here.” He reached into the pocket of his jeans. "I don't really care about that tablet. And I think this belongs to you.” Before Summer could respond or withdraw her hand, he slipped a glittering ring on to her finger. The diamond blinked in the bright light and she caught her breath. "It's beautiful!" "Not quite the De Beers classic collection.” "Oh no, this is much prettier. Circa late 1800s if I'm not mistaken? Look at that classic cut. If s perfect.” His laughter made her grin ruefully. "Sorry, I can't help it. I like shiny things." "Yes, I could tell.” He folded her fingers over his and raised her hand to his lips. "My grandmother was an extraordinary woman. She gave me that ring

and made me swear never to give it to someone who didn't challenge me. And I am pretty sure I found her. But are you sure you want to marry me?” "I suppose I can give it a try. I have to warn you though - I'll have you sign a prenuptial. And no more government work!” "Fine by me.” His grin was wide but she could see the pain hidden there. Her hand snaked down to link with his and her smile was brighter than the blazing sky above as she led him to the mess tent. She was aware of all the looks they were receiving from the workers around them. The ring on her finger felt heavy but her heart was light. Kevin looked down at her and she realized that his pursed lips were simply from suppressing the grin bubbling up inside him. "Does this mean I can hire you as security?” she asked, pouring him a large glass of water. "Do you have any references?” "I'm sure we can work something out." He put the glass down on the table beside him and drew her into his arms, then kissed her with scarcely contained passion. "Yes, I think we can definitely work something out."

Code Word: Storm Sydney Croft

One Annika Svenson loved her job. As a special operative for the Agency for Covert Rare Operatives, she was given awesome assignments - lots of danger, action and really freaky situations. Because ACRO didn't employ the average agent. No, ACRO specialized in people with unique talents, like Annika's electric eel-like ability to shock the hell out of whoever she touched. Her skill, combined with the fact that she'd been raised to be a secret agent from the age of two, made her someone every ACRO operative wanted to work with. It also made her someone those very operatives avoided when they weren't working with her. Annika wasn't the nicest person on the planet, but she couldn't care less what anyone thought of her. As long as she had the support of Devin O'Malley, ACRO's big boss, and the man who'd rescued her from the CIA's clutches a couple of years ago, she had all she needed. Her cell phone rang and, speak of the devil, Dev's "Carry on my Wayward Son" tone jingled in her pocket. As she dug the phone from her jeans, she glanced outside the window of the East Seattle house ACRO had rented. The mansion across the street looked back at her like some kind of million-eyed monster, which was appropriate, since the man hiding inside was a beast in his own right. All was annoyingly calm, which was the first thing she said to Dev when she answered. "Nothing going on," she said. "Mikey-boy hasn't so much as opened the front door to get the paper in two days." Dev sighed. "You tried to gain entry again last night?"

"Yep. And I have a lump on my head to prove it." Normally, nothing could keep her out of a secured building, but Michael Bender wasn't your usual arms-dealing, bank-robbing, terrorist scum. No, this slimeball sold his services to the highest bidder, and he used the spirit world to do his evil work. He left behind no proof and no footprints, which had made charging him with any crime impossible for regular authorities. But ACRO had the resources to nail his ass to the wall, and now they were certain he'd been responsible for several consulate bombings and assassinations, he'd become ACRO's number one target. They'd been after him for months and now that Annika had trapped him, he'd used those same talents to make his house impenetrable - anyone trying to break in was going to get their ass kicked by things they couldn't fight. . . or see. Sure, Annika could charge her body up to such a voltage that she could dissipate even a ghost's energy, but apparently the entities Mike had enslaved could actually manipulate electricity, and the last time Annika had gone up against them they'd drained her power and whacked her on the head with a brick. "Understood," Dev said. "I've got back-up on the way. Play nice." Play nice. The way her boss said it sent tingles of both dread and anticipation up her spine, because she knew exactly who he'd deployed to join her on this mission. "Creed?" she breathed. "You're sending that—" "I know there's no love lost there," he interrupted, "but you two need to deal with it." The sound of Dev tapping on his computer keyboard came

over loudly on the secure line, followed by a curse. "Gotta go. Creed should be there any minute. Don't kill him." Don't kill him. Yeah. OK. Whatever. She'd tried once - the last time they'd worked together in a haunted mansion. Turned out that he was the one person in the world who was immune to her electric surges. Which made him the one person in the world she could have sex with. Oh, she could control her power, but sometimes, like when she was startled, or when she had an orgasm, her body lit up like a neon sign and short-circuited whatever she was touching. Including people. Except Creed. Her cheeks heated as those memories roared back in excruciatingly vivid detail. He'd taken her virginity at the mansion, and afterwards they'd barely spoken for weeks. Until last month anyway, when he'd been sent to her for martial arts training, and they'd done just a little too much rolling around on the mat. Once again, they hadn't spoken since, though not for lack of trying on his part. Their lack of communication was her fault, and she could admit it. She didn't need him, didn't want him, didn't even like him. That crazy fluttering in her belly and skipping of her heart meant nothing. A heavy pounding on the back door made her jump. Dammit. She was never jumpy. "Annika?" His deep, low voice rumbled through her, and she resented the way it made her pulse race. Casually, as though she wasn't trembling on the inside, she turned away

from the window and the rainy Seattle evening. Creed stood at the entrance to the living room, the dim glow of the single candle casting more than enough light for her to get a good view of all six foot five of him, wrapped in black leather from his biker boots to his pants to his jacket. His shoulderlength, dark hair fell in unruly waves against his face, the right side of which was covered with tattoos that decorated that entire side of his body. Her mouth watered as if getting ready to lick every one of them. "Creed," she ground out, more angry at her body's response to him than at the fact that he was here when she'd told Dev she didn't want to work with him ever again. He strode into the living room like he owned the house, then scanned her from head to toe as though he owned her. "Nice seeing you, too.” Arrogant jerk. She wasn't going to let him get to her this time. No way. "I hope you brought your little ghost girlfriend with you - what's her name . . . Kat? - because we're going to need all the help we can get on this one," she said crisply, all business. "Wow, You're eager to get to it, aren't you?" He smiled, the cocky one that made her want to slap him. Or kiss him. Maybe both. "I'm always eager to work." She turned to the table next to her, where she had the plans for Bender's house laid out. "As you can see—" Creed's hand came down on her shoulder and spun her around. "Oh, I can see," he said, in a husky, rich voice. "I can see that before we take down this scumbag, we're going to have to get something out of the way." Swallowing dryly, she took him in - his dark, heavy-lidded eyes, his full lips and the eyebrow piercing that inched up higher the longer she stared

like a dolt and said nothing. Finally, she cleared her throat and said with a calmness she didn't feel, "What do we need to get out of the way? Do you need me to kick your ass? Because that I will happily do." "Always with the attitude," he murmured, as he thrust his hand into her hair and held her immobile more with the force of his will than his grip. "This is what we need to get out of the way." Before she could protest, he lowered his head and kissed her. God, Ani tasted good. Like crisp black cherry soda on a hot summer's day. Like sin too, because the piercing in his tongue picked up the electricity she naturally threw out when she felt attacked. Or in the mood. Ani would deny the last part, of course, but Creed was prepared for that. He'd given himself a nice long pep talk as his Harley roared up the bends of the old mountain road to the ACRO-rented house across the street from the piece-of-shit mansion that housed yet another piece of shit, kind of like those wooden Russian nesting dolls. He never understood the point of those dolls anyway, but Ani in his arms, her breasts rubbing his chest and his thigh between her legs, that was a point he always understood. And, he noted with satisfaction, it took her quite a while before she jerked her mouth from his. Her normally lush lips were swollen. Her hair remained in its perfect blonde pageboy, her eyes an icy blue that made him fucking hot. His erection strained against the confines of his leather pants and he shifted but did nothing to hide it. Til help, Ani.

You just have to do one more thing for me." "Yeah? What's that? And stop calling me Ani." Her arms were crossed in her familiar I-will-kick-your-ass pose, and why wasn't taking her right here on the table an option? Lightning cracked the air over the house and got his attention. Yeah, right, ghosts. Bad guys. Missions. He turned back to Annika. "All you have to do is tell me how much you want me. Because when this is all done, you're going to show me." Her lip curled. "Not going to happen, Ghost Boy. Grab a Hustler and use the bathroom if you need to get off, because that's the only way anything's going to happen." But Ani's words were lost on him because Kat froze - and so did he. His ink tingled, head to toe and every place in between and, for the moment, sex was forgotten. This was heavy shit. "Creed?" Ani asked, tapping his arm. But he shifted away from her, because right now, her touch was too much. "Demons," he murmured, more to himself than to her, as his body rattled with the complete and utter sinister nature of this job. He knew that, even though ghosts didn't carry guns, there was always the possibility when dealing with the supernatural that he might not get out alive, no matter how much otherworldly protection he carried with him. "More than one." "So we'll go kick their asses. If your girlfriend will cooperate."

"Kat is not my girlfriend," he muttered, even as Kat pinched him hard. Kat was the spirit who'd been with him from birth. At once fierce protector and monkey on his back, there would be no relief from her until he died. She was as much a part of him as the tattoos he'd been born with. The piercings? Well, those he'd added himself. And Annika had enjoyed the hell out of them. They hadn't been together since last month. He'd thought about her every night since. Looked for her on theACRO compound. Practically jumped at the chance to work with her. Until now, there was no possibility of having any kind of relationship beyond a quick roll with any woman - maybe twice if he was lucky before Kat got up in arms and made his life miserable. She was jealous and possessive and, until Annika, he'd been resigned to remain a man who slept around and never got close to anybody. Until Ani. Because, fuck me. there was no getting over this woman. Ever since he'd slept with her on their last mission, his body burst into flames whenever he thought about her. Kat wasn't happy. Granted, she didn't seem worried, because Annika made it clear - crystal - she wanted nothing to do with him. Of course, she was protesting way too much. Which turned him on and made him more determined than ever to mate this much more than a series of one-night stands. But all that was no longer a concern at the moment He barely realized he was out of the house, walking across the lawn while staring up at the

haunted mansion, Kat whispering in his ear. Evil. Unnatural. The man called it and now even he can't control it. "We're going to have to." There are too many to count. "Creed, we need a plan." Annika was literally grabbing the back of his leather jacket to stop him from continuing his march to the house. He'd already crossed the dirt road that separated the houses and was almost at the front door of the mansion without really remembering the walk. That was the way it always happened. Between his ghost-calling abilities and Kat, he went into near trances when he was on the job, which made it tough to work with anyone human. He remembered he'd scared Ani the last time he'd tranced out. And still, he couldn't help it. "When it comes to the supernatural, plans never work. I prefer to just go in—" "-half-cocked." He turned to her, his mouth pulled into a half-smile even as he felt himself drift away again to focus on the house. "We don't have time to talk about my cock now, Ani. But later - I promise..."

Two "Creed?" Annika tugged on his jacket. "Creed, dammit, answer me!" He just stared through the rain at the other house, even as the hairs on the back of her neck rose and she got that feeling she'd gotten yesterday, just before the invisible things attacked her and zapped her battery. This was so

not cool. They were too exposed here. A shadow appeared in the front window of the creepy mansion. In one swift motion, Ani gripped Creed's jacket with both hands and wheeled him behind a hedge. He shook his head, coming out of his weird trance. “

Hey." He blinked down at her. "What are you doing?"

"Keeping us from getting killed.” Blinking again, he took in their surroundings. "Damn," he muttered. "Shit. Sorry, babe." Babe. In any other situation she'd have kicked his ass for that, but right now, his pet names were the least of their worries. "What's going on, Creed? Are you OK?" Lightning flashed overhead as he wiped rain out of his eyes. "Yeah. I'm good. But there's something really wrong here." "I know. Michael Bendouer is a chickenshit scumbag who has holed himself up and enlisted demons to watch his slimy back." "He's lost control." "What?" she yelled over the boom of thunder that shook the ground beneath them. Creed scrubbed his face again. "He's lost control of the demons. Damn, Annika, this is too big for me and Kat-" A shot rang out. Annika threw herself at Creed, and they both hit the soggy ground. Cursing, she drew her pistol from her shoulder harness, rolled, and came up on one knee behind a brick barrier between the

driveway and the yard. Creed joined her, keeping low. The window where she'd seen the movement was open, but whoever had taken a shot at them was gone. Still, the mansion's north wing wrapped around behind them, leaving them too vulnerable to remain in place. "We've gotta go,” she breathed. "Back to the house?” She cast a longing look at the rented house, and shook her head. "I don't like it. We could get picked off while we're out in the open. We need to get into the mansion. I couldn't do it by myself, but if you and Kat can deal with the hellspawn, we're good." "Let me give ACRO a call first. Tiffany specializes in demonic activity." Creed fished his phone out of his jacket pocket and cursed. "It's not working. They're blocking us." Annika checked hers. "Mine's hosed too. Stupid demons." She tugged on Creed's arm and, crouching, led them to one of the places she'd scouted out earlier as being a potential entry point. Another shot rang out, and chunks of brick exploded just inches from her head. Spinning low, she returned tire, putting a bullet through a window in the north wing. "Cover me," Creed said. As she drilled more shots into the target, he slipped away, and she heard the shattering of glass, followed by the screeches of something very inhuman. The high-pitched, hellish screams crawled up Annika's spine. "Creed?" A shadow passed by the north-wing window and she tired, blowing out the last remaining shard of glass that clung to the frame. "What's going

on? Talk to me." She turned in time to see Creed disappear through the basement window he'd broken out. With one final shot at the north wing, she darted to the window Creed had gone through. Gunfire burst apart the air, and on its heels came a flash of lightning and crack of thunder so loud Annika's ears rang. She dived through the hole, tucked, and hit the cement floor with a bone-jarring impact to her shoulder. Sucking air against the pain, she rolled, and she'd barely come to her feet in the darkened basement when something slammed into her gut. Instinctively, she struck out, but her fist sliced through empty air. Another blow cracked into her jaw and sent her wheeling into a support beam. Out of nowhere, Creed grabbed her and pulled her hard against him. "Don't move!" "No problem." Man, she hated this supernatural crap. Give her a dozen bad guys with guns, and she could handle it. But this ... this was like cheating. Creed tucked her behind him and began some sort of monotone chanting. His head moved as though he was tracking something, and then, in a motion so fast she barely saw it, he hurled a handful of what looked like rock salt. An agonized, high-pitched scream jolted the fillings in her teeth, and a few feet away, where the salt had landed, a twisted, spindly shape took form. Red eyes pierced the darkness, and then disappeared. Annika swore the very air breathed a sigh of relief. "Is it gone?" "For now. We need to get your terrorist. He bound these things to him, so

until he's dead or the object he used to bind them is destroyed, we're screwed.” "OK, then,” she said, heading towards the staircase, "we find Bender.” "Not so fast, babe.” Creed grabbed her by the elbow and swung her around. "Ground rules." "Shoot to kill.” She jerked out of his grip. "Those are my ground rules.” Creed caught her wrist again. "Listen to me, Annika. I know you can handle the human in this house blindfolded and with your hands in your pockets, but you've got to promise to stick to me like Velcro.” She snorted. 'You will do anything to get into my pants, won't you?” "You bet.” His voice was gruff and full of authority, so sexy. "But this is about keeping you safe. Kat and I are going to handle the demons so you can get Bender.” He fished around in his jacket pocket and removed a vial of liquid. "Take it. It's holy water. I've got salt, too.” Salt. Holy water. Annika rolled her eyes. She was so much more comfortable with guns and knives. "Fine. Let's go.” "Annika..." The warning in his tone had her spinning back around to him, but not without a huff of frustration. They were never going to get Bender at this rate. "What? We need to get moving." "Promise me you'll stick close." "Yeah, yeah. Can we go now?”

"One more thing.” Dammit. "What now?" "When we're done with this, we finish what we started at the house.” "Dream on, Ghost Boy.” She started up the stairs, heart pounding, but not from the impending danger. No, it was Creed's dark chuckle behind her that scared the crap out of her, because she had a feeling he was deadly serious. She shouldn't be here. "She's going to kill the bad guy, Kat," Creed told her before she began to screech in his ear again. Always an effective method of getting his attention. But this time, Kat’s words were calm. They bothered him, more than anything. She doesn't believe. "She will," he insisted. Ani will. "As interesting as this one-sided conversation between the two of you is, can we get a move on?" Annika snapped impatiently and, yeah, it must be frustrating for her to hear only his voice when he was talking to Kat, but he'd got used to the strange looks from people who assumed he was speaking to an imaginary friend. Annika glared, the energy in this house was quickly draining her of any patience at all. Maybe even making her paranoid. There wasn't a hell of a lot he could do about it. Kat helped keep the bad karma off him, but Ani would be powerless. All the same, Creed began to climb the steps from the basement to the kitchen noiselessly, Annika's boots slamming the steps behind him.

He turned before they got to the door. "Listen carefully,” he whispered against her ear. "Demons can't force their way into your mind or body they need permission to enter.” "I'm sure not going to give it to them,” she murmured back, the butt of her Sig pressed against his side. "But I'm going to make certain you're covered when you go into one of your trances, right?" "Just keep your ears open. Don't answer any strange questions." "Anything else, Ghost Boy?" Her words were softer than usual. "No destructive thoughts. No anger. No resentment. Think happy. Demons hate that." "Most of the time, so do I," she muttered. Without further talk, he moved aside so he could watch Ani kick the door open with one fluid motion, her body vibrating with energy. He knew she'd want to take point, be in the lead - and keeping her happy was right up there with keeping her safe on his priority list. Beyond that, he trusted her with his life. Whether she felt the same way remained to be seen. Creed stared over her as she bent at the knee, hands outstretched and weapon trained, surveying the scene in front of them. An empty kitchen, shrouded in darkness. Rain slamming against the windows, wind howling. She used a single fingertip motion to zing electricity7 to the light on the ceiling. It sizzled and smoked. "Power's cut," she said. "Probably from the storm. But the room's clear-

of humans anyway." She stepped aside to let him pass, her gun still at the ready. Kat told him that blood sacrifices had taken place here. That meant the energy in this place was corrupt. The majority of the cleansing would have to occur after that bastard Bender was killed. He's in the attic, Kat said. Which left them three floors to move through. More demons to conquer. The one in the basement was nothing compared to what was coming. He turned back to Ani, who was staring at the ceiling. "If I had an ACRO AK, I could shoot him straight through the floors.” He didn't doubt it. Annika had training most special-forces soldiers would kill for. She'd been practically bred in the CIA with some special childtraining programme and she'd worked on more covert ops by the time ACRO had taken her in than most agents worked in their entire careers under ACRO's leader Devlin O'Malley. She was strong and sure, handled weapons better than any man - and that was before she used her special powers. The woman was a force to be reckoned with, although he'd much rather tussle with her in bed. Wind whooshed through, nearly knocking both of them down. He grabbed for Ani but she'd already latched on to him as they lost their footing. Kat had begun to chant but she had to be careful of the demons too - their influence extended to ghosts and, although she and Creed had never been parted on a hunt like this, they couldn't afford not to be cautious.

He actually felt Kat's fingernails clawing at his neck as she held on too. It's forming. Kat warned. Creed began to chant with Kat as he felt himself fade away. He heard Ani calling his name, but when he faded out like this, it was hard to come back until the job was done. "Creed, I can't move," Annika persisted. And yes, the demon had taken an opportunity7 to encircle them and bind them to the floor. "Welcome, Annika." A smooth male voice. Bender. "I was hoping you'd come by."

Three If glares were lasers, Bender would have had four smoking holes in him. But since Annika didn't have laser eyes (like one of ACRO's newest operatives did), she'd just have to make those holes the old-fashioned way. She raised her weapon . . . only to have her arm gripped by some invisible force and pinned to her side. "You son of a bitch," Annika gritted out. "Can't play fair, like a normal bad guy. Have to hide behind ghosts and demons." "Normal?" Bender laughed. "You're one to talk. Is anyone at ACRO normal? Are you?" OK, he had a point. But still, using the supernatural to do your dirty work was just low. She opened her mouth to tell him how low, but Creed cut her off. "Annika! Don't talk to him. Don't say another word."

Thunder shook the house, rattling windows and Annika's nerves. She really, really hated this supernatural crap. And no, she didn't consider special gifts like hers to be supernatural. Most of the operatives at ACRO, with their super speed or ability to control the weather, were considered anomalies of evolution. But the ghosts and demons and freaky mindreading stuff? Yeah .. .if Annika couldn't see it, she didn't want any part of it. "I think I know how to handle a pathetic little human bad guy, Creed." "He's—" Creed clutched at his throat, eyes wide as he struggled to breathe. "Stop it!" She lunged at Bender - tried to, anyway. Her feet were frozen to the floor, her weapon arm still as useless as if it were superglued to her body. 'You son of a bitch! Call off your dogs . . . hellhounds. Whatever they are." Bender gave a dismissive snort. With his spiky blond hair, emerald eyes and sharply defined facial features, women probably panted after him. But Annika thought he'd look so much better with a bullet hole in the centre of his forehead. "Tell me," Bender said, as he circled them, trailing his fingers over the dusty dining room table on his way past, "how many more agents can I expect to show up?" "Screw you." "If you want your partner to live, you'll answer me." Bender halted in front of Creed. He cocked his head and, suddenly, Creed's face turned into a crimson mask of pain and his struggles became more frantic, as though what little air he'd been getting had been cut off. Annika's pulse pounded in her ears as bands of panic tightened around

her chest. Not that she'd ever let Bender know she was anything but cool and collected. "A dozen," she said. "They're on their way right now." "You lie." Bender waved his hand. Creed let out an agonized hiss and dropped to his knees. Don't react, don't react . . . "You won't believe me no matter what I say, so why are we playing this game?" "Game" Bender snarled. "This is no game. You will tell me the truth and, trust me, I'll know if you're lying." Roughly, he gripped her hand and pressed two cold fingers to the pulse in her wrist. She resisted the urge to shudder, but couldn't stop her skin from crawling at his touch. "How many agents are on their way?" Swallowing dryly, she glanced at Creed. He was clawing at his throat, gasping for air, but he shook his head fiercely at her. The message in his dark eyes was clear: don't tell him anything. What the hell was he thinking? Yes, every special operator, whether they were military, paramilitary, government agent or ACRO, accepted the risks and knew they might have to give their lives in service to their country. Annika might not like Creed, but she wasn't going to let him sacrifice his life right now. She'd been in worse situations than this before, and no way was Creed going to die over a dumb answer. Besides, she had a plan. She always had a plan. "None," she snarled. "We couldn't call in back-up because your minions screwed up the signal." Bender's evil, twisted smile froze the blood in her veins. "Thank you."

She smiled right back at him, and fired up her special gift. Electricity rippled through her, starting somewhere deep inside and forming a circuit through every cell until she was a giant live wire. Bender's eyes shot wide open as she slammed 10,000 volts into his body. A split second later, in a blast of fire and smoke, she flew backwards, crashing into a cabinet and dropping, stunned, to the floor. In her fuzzy head, she heard laughter. Inside her head. In her veins, evil ran like a sludge. Distantly, she heard Creed yelling her name, and then his hands were on her and he was chanting again. She raised her weapon to blow his brains out. No! Her arm kept lifting, bringing the barrel of her pistol even with his temple. Noooo! Her finger slipped from the trigger guard to the trigger itself. Deep inside her mind, she screamed at herself to stop, but something else had taken control. What if it was stronger than her? More chanting - urgent, loud - and then, in a whisper of air, the evil was gone. Creed was holding her tightly. She trembled in his embrace no matter how hard she tried to control it. "Annika? Hey, are you OK?" Numbly, she nodded. "What happened?” she whispered against his chest. "He possessed you. I tried to tell you he wasn't human.” Creed inhaled raggedly. "And I told you not to talk to him, dammit!” He pulled back, gripped her shoulders and met her gaze head-on. Angry red splotches put colour in his cheeks. Oh, yeah, he was royally pissed. "I told you not to

answer questions! He was a freaking demon, and you never, ever, want to tell a demon the truth. When you did that, you allowed him inside your head. When you tried to shock him, you gift-wrapped a conduit for him to get inside your body.” Oh God. With that demon controlling her body, she could have killed Creed. Could have gone on a rampage few people could have stopped. "I'm sorry Creed. I didn't know.” "That's because you didn't trust me.” The truth of his statement hit too close to home, so she dredged up some righteous indignation. 'You were going to die! What was I supposed to do? Let it happen?” He shook his head. "Kat was working on it. And even if she failed to keep the demon from strangling me, better that than letting it gain control of your body. What do you think would have happened if a demon was running around with the freaking power to electrocute people? He could have gotten inside ACRO by pretending to be you. How much damage could that have caused?” Nausea turned her gut inside out at that last thought. "I told you, I'm sorry —"

He cut her off with a gentle shake. "Annika, this is my job. I know you're unmatched at yours, but you've got to trust that I'm just as good at mine. We're in this together, like it or not, and you've got to listen to me like you would any other agent you work with. I know you don't like that we've slept together, but that doesn't change the fact that I'm fucking great at what

I do. Got it?” Man, it bit to admit she was wrong, but she'd just nearly got him- and maybe herself-killed. She knew she'd made all of this too personal, which pissed her the hell off. She was normally a cold, efficient agent with no emotions, and the fact that she'd put that aside the moment she'd seen Creed was inexcusable. "OK, yeah. I'm sorry. I trust you." For a long, tense moment, he just stared at her. And then, with a nod, he stood and held out a hand. Annika's first instinct was to ignore the offer and get up without his help. But something told her this was a test, and one she couldn't fail. Taking a deep breath, she took his hand and let him pull her to her feet. One floor down, two to go. Creed's throat felt like he'd swallowed fire, but otherwise he was all good. Ani held him by the biceps as if to steady him and he felt Kat leave his side and head up the stairs, abandoning them for a second. Annika stopped to let Creed catch his breath. ''What did that demon try to do with you?" she asked finally. "I mean, was it really going to—" "Kill me? Yeah." Kat had fought with everything she had to keep his protective shield up, but despite all his warnings to Annika, Creed found it very hard to keep his mind free of thoughts of her. Right now, she was his main vulnerability. "Thanks for trying to save my life." He wasn't sure if it was his imagination or if her cheeks pinked slightly before she asked, "Are you ready to move?" "Ready."

"Good." Ani took the lead up the stairs, calling, "All clear," when she reached the top of the landing. “Well, of humans, anyway," she said with a shrug. "We're clear of demons on this level, too. Kat's worked her magic," Creed told Ani, as Kat crowed triumphantly in his ear. "Bender's definitely on the third floor, along with two of the stronger demons." "What does it feel like, when the demons are fighting with you?" she asked. "Is it like when the demon got inside me?" "A little, I guess. Only they don't get inside me. The only way lean really describe it is that we fight with our minds clashing together. Hurts like a mother." She nodded and started to walk, but he stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. "Sometimes it's worse than others. Adrenaline kicks in, that helps. I'd imagine it's not much different than when you're fighting." She nodded. "Sounds it." "Ready?" he asked and she hesitated. He'd never seen her do that before. Typically, she needed to be held back, as she had a tendency to go balls-to-the-wall, zero-to-one-hundred, without listening to anyone. "What's got you shaken about this guy? I thought he was your standard issue, jack-of-all-trades slimeball. Nothing you haven't dealt with before." He waited for her to turn on him, to get pissed and tell him she wasn't scared of anyone or anything in this world. But that didn't happen. Instead, she stiffened and her eyes glittered with a harsh flash. "He trafficks children."

Creed felt his body go cold. Even Kat stopped her screeching for a second to listen. "What?" "He finds the right kid for the highest bidder - for adoption or sex or whatever the hell someone would want a kid illegally for. Sometimes, it's just for someone who gets off on torturing and killing them." He nodded, waiting for her to tell him more. Because yeah, that was one sick dude, but for Ani to get this worked up, there had to be something more behind it. "You're so angry about this." "Damned right I'm angry. This bastard. He hurts children. No one has the right to hurt children.” He hadn't even seen Ani... emotional. Not like this. From the little he knew of her background, her own childhood hadn't been particularly easy or even much of a childhood at all. No, Ani had appeared to be born a trained operative and soldier. In a way, they'd both been born into their current professions, with little choice in the matter. But he'd had a semi-normal life growing up. Adoptive parents who loved him. Accepted him - tattoos, spirit guide and all. Whatever Ani had lost out on in her childhood, the demons were sensing it. Trying to use it against her. He couldn't let that happen, even if it meant sacrificing himself. "Ani." But she stood, as stiff as a board, eyes screwed tightly shut, hands fisted at her sides. And then she started shaking her head back and forth, murmuring, "No. no. no," over and over as if trying to block out voices in

her head. "Bender . . . no . . . no goddamned way," she whispered. He didn't like the shock that clouded her blue eyes. "Annika—" "Oh my God," she rasped. "Bender found me. That's how the CIA knew where to find us. He's the one who targeted me, sold my location to the CIA so they could kill my mother and take me from my family. I was just a toddler. This bastard is responsible." Her body shook with rage and anger, and the house - the demons - responded to those emotions. They could bore their way into her brain easily now that her defences were shaken. They could possess her and then he'd have a hell of a time stopping them. By God, he wanted to race up the stairs right now and strangle Bender with his fucking bare hands for stealing Ani from her parents - from stealing her sense of peace. Do something! Kat yelled at him. "They're talking to me," Annika whispered. She clamped her hands over her ears and shook her head but that wasn't going to do her any good. "God, I wish they'd shut up." "Stop listening." "I'm trying, Creed. But they're telling me things - horrible things. And I can almost hear those kids screaming as they're hurt." He grabbed her and kissed her hard. Deep. A kiss designed to make him think of nothing but her touch. Instead of giving her permission to the demons, she was offering herself to him, pressing herself to his body, drinking him in. It locked her mind to his completely. When she was kissing him, she

was happy, damned happy. And even with the lightning and hail slamming the house so badly the floorboards shook under their feet, Creed wanted her. And nothing - not even demons - would stop it. He tried to tell himself it was for the good of the mission- and it was -but that's not why he wanted her. He wanted the curve of her breast in his hand, wanted to tug her taut nipple between his teeth, to fill her with his cock until she lost complete control and let the electricity sizzle between them, bringing both of them to screaming orgasm. Yeah, he could come just thinking about it. And, judging by the way Ani wrapped herself around him, she was pretty damned close herself. Not the time. Creed, Kat admonished. But it was exactly the right time. And he ignored Kat, who finally left them alone to deal with the hell breaking loose within them. He would deal with Ani, who clung to him as if needing him to make everything right. He pushed her against the wall, spreading his legs to gain balance while her hands moved between them to stroke him through his leather pants. He moved her shirt up to mouth a nipple, the electricity strumming through her and catching on his tongue piercing, creating an incredible, mind-bending buzz that had her calling out his name and wrapping her legs around him. The house went completely dark as his mouth met hers again.

Four

God, this was crazy. A hot rush. Danger was definitely an aphrodisiac. And as Creed's hands roamed into all Annika's sensitive places, triggering a rush of liquid need, she barely found the presence of mind to flip the safety on her pistol. "Creed . . ." His name was little more than a moan against his lips. "We can't. Not . . . now. We'll be vulnerable." "Shh." His hands tore at her jeans. "Your mind is vulnerable already. Focus on me, Annika. Focus on me." "But—" She broke off as horrible images stole into her brain, scenes from the horror movie that was Michael Bender. The things he'd done, the people he'd hurt . . . including the grandparents she'd never known - he'd tortured them to learn where Annika's mother had taken her. Once he discovered two-year-old Annika's location, he'd given the CIA the information they'd paid for, and then had moved on to another evil deed, this one involving bombs and American lives overseas. "Hey!" Creed's voice, urgent and demanding, pierced the veil of horror and competed with the dark whispers that were telling her awful things. "Stay with me. We're stronger together. We need to keep busy while Kat's doing her work." Creed kissed her fiercely, driving his tongue against hers and forcing her attention. Boy, he got it and, as he kissed his way along her jaw and neck, her thoughts began to clear and fill with only the here and now. With only Creed. Before she knew it, her pants were down with one leg freed, and Creed he was filling her body as well as her mind. He cupped her butt and lifted her,

and, with a groan, she wrapped her legs around his waist and welcomed him as he pinned her to the wall. "You're so beautiful,” he whispered, and his voice, raw and ragged, sent a ripple of pleasure from her heart to her core. Heat licked at her with each thrust, and tension built quickly, like the storm outside. Amazing. Oh, damn, this was good. She'd never liked being touched, but Creed's hands and lips were magic as they caressed her skin. A gasp escaped her when he changed his rhythm and ground his hips. Another fell from her mouth when she met his gaze and saw the hunger and possession flashing there. This would be trouble later, she knew, but right now she didn't care. Her skin sizzled and her core clenched around him, and, when the storm outside reached its peak in an explosion of light and sound, she joined it. With a scream, she bucked against Creed and let loose a blast of energy that would have killed anyone else. But his big body buffered her spasms and her shock of electricity, and, as if her climax were a trigger, his took him hard. He shouted her name and pumped into her mercilessly, and she loved every second of it. She especially loved how he threw his head back in pleasure, his neck muscles straining, his teeth bared in masculine ecstasy. In the flickering light from the storm, his tattoos writhed and his piercings sparked, turning him into a wild, fierce warrior who could have stepped out of a medieval battle. God, it was sexy. With a ragged groan, he collapsed against her. "Damn," he whispered. "Yeah." She dropped her feet to the floor, and he caught her when her

knees buckled. Mumbling a "thanks", she slipped to the side and out of his grip. She was still holding her pistol. Talk about safe sex... "Hey." She glanced around the room, which was actually just a huge landing that led to the attic. "The voices are gone." Told you." Creed shot her a cocky, lopsided grin. She snorted. "You really will do anything to get in my pants, won't you? 'Hey, babe, if you don't screw me you'll be possessed by demons.' Does that really work with women?" He winked at her. "Worked with you, didn't it?" Annika punched him in the shoulder. Hard. Oh, she knew he was kidding, but he deserved it anyway. Mainly because what he'd done had earned her gratitude - and her respect. She didn't need to be softening towards him at all. It was business. Ruthlessly, she shifted into mission-mode. "So what now? Obviously, Kat handled the demons." "Now," he said, sobering so fast her gut twisted, "we have to kill Bender and rescue Kat." "What do you mean, 'rescue* her?" He scowled as he stared up the dark staircase that led to the attic. "She fought the demons to get them away from us, but they have her. Up there. With Bender.” Annika definitely did not like Creed's ghost tagalong, but she was part of him, and she'd just sacrificed herself to keep them safe.

"OK, then,” she said, flipping the safety off her pistol, "since Bender loves those demons so much, let's send him to hell to be with them." Annika didn't bother with stealth as she mounted the stairs to the attic. Bender knew they were coming, so there was no point in wasting energy. But that didn't mean she wasn't cautious. Moving carefully, crouching with her gun drawn, she eased through the doorway, Creed on her heels. He had that intense look in his eyes again, and she knew he was either communicating with Kat or trying to handle the demons. Whatever he was doing, it kept the path clear for her to get to Bender, and that was all that mattered. Leaving Creed at the door, Annika eased behind an antique wardrobe. A flash of movement in her peripheral vision alerted her to trouble a split second before the bullet punched into the wood. Pivoting on the balls of her feet, she returned fire, and the muffled grunt told her she'd hit her mark. Score. "Be careful,” Creed whispered, as she started towards the corner where Bender had gone down. "I'm ... shitV His head rocked back like he'd been struck, and then he was launching himself at something she couldn't see. "Dammit, Creed! What can I do?” "Nothing!" he snarled. "Go!" She hated feeling helpless, but he began to chant and hurl salt at a shimmering mass of air, and yeah, that was his battle. After casting one last, regretful glance back at him, she crept towards Bender. The guy was so going to pay for every evil thing he'd done.

She darted between two furniture boxes, feeling oddly like she was being followed. Suddenly, pain, ripped into her side. She whirled around, but nothing was there. Nothing but claw marks over her shirt and skin. "Hurry up, Creed," she muttered. Ignoring the stinging cuts, she cleared the boxes, dropped to one knee, and fired at the human crouching on the floor. Bender dived behind a dusty desk, and her bullet only grazed his hip. Before he could recover, she fired again, but once more, an invisible force struck at her, this time snagging her arm and sending her pistol flying. Bender took immediate advantage and charged her. His shoulder rammed her chest with the force of a damned truck. They tumbled to the floor and - oh, this asshole was so dead. She fired up her electric talent and,.. nothing. Bender's fist cracked into her cheek. "You are going to die in a storm of pain, you little bitch!" Hatred flashed in his eyes as he hit her again, harder, and agony spiderwebbed through her face. "Kill the male," he screamed, andAnnika's stomach wrenched at the sound of Creed's grunt of pain and the crash of glass and breaking wood. The edges of Annika's vision blurred with blood that splashed in her eyes. Bender was bigger and stronger, and, without her killing electricity, she was seriously compromised. But she wasn't at a total disadvantage. Annika had been raised to kill, had cut her teeth on knives, and was hitting bullseyes with crossbows and small firearms at the age of six. Bender was going down.

In a quick, smooth motion, she rocked her legs up and kicked the son of a bitch in the side of the head. He bit out a curse that cut off when she hit him from the other side. Off balance, he rocked backwards, leaving her the opening she needed. Three hard hits to his nose, throat and mouth knocked him off her and she pounced. She drove her knee into his gut and, when he gasped, she jabbed her knuckles into his windpipe. His eyes bugged out as he clawed at his ruined throat, desperate for air. Oh, she wanted to make him suffer, but the sounds of Creed battling creepy, screeching things prodded her into action. She flipped Bender over, planted her knees in the small of his back, and then, with cold deliberation, twisted his head sharply to the right and broke the bastard's neck. She didn't waste time savouring her victory. Not when Creed was still fighting. "Creed?" "They're weakened!" he shouted. "Just another second—" She didn't hear the rest. A massive pressure slammed down on her head, and all went black. Creed was fighting for his life, vaguely aware that Ani had killed Bender. Broken his neck. Yeah, somewhere in the periphery of his mind, he remembered why he never wanted to piss her off. But then . .. she was down. But before he could help her, he had to help himself. Right now, he couldn't even speak, no matter how hard he tried.

Although he'd stopped one of the demons, the strongest was still active, controlling Kat and now controlling Creed as well, at least partially. It wasn't the first time he'd felt Kat's fear, but it was definitely one of the strongest vibes she'd ever given off. Kat had called his name as he cleared the landing. The attic was unfurnished - old and dusty. Bender was lying dead in the middle of what Creed thought was a reverse circle of protection, a demon version of a safety spell against humans. Kat had broken that circle, but in the process, she'd become the demons' hostage. Bastards. "You let her go." She's ours. Creed, they're so strong, Kat told him. Something clawed down his back. A ferocious headache hit him and it was like inhaling fumes of fire when he attempted to breathe. He went down on all fours, thanks to a heavy pressure from above. He began to crawl towards Ani, who lay next to Bender. But one of the demons dragged him back. It was time to end this shit. He threw a handful of salt over his shoulder and heard a hiss and a howl. He smelled something burning. Must have singed one of the bastards. But it wasn't enough. With his eyes screwed tightly shut, he allowed himself to go into a trance, one where he chanted in strange tongues and was pretty sure that

more spirits than just Kat moved through him. But the spirits had always been benevolent and had never asked him to host them after his job was done. “Kat

needs all of you -please," he heard himself say and felt the jolt as

spirits travelled through him. He heard Kat's wails -first of pain, but then followed by a triumphant yell of freedom. There was a squeal, like two cats fighting, and then a demon materialized over Ani. It was looking down, rubbing its hoofed hands together, like it had picked her for a meal. Or worse. It was about to pounce when Kat went flying at it. She was a tiny spirit, but like Ani, she was hell on wheels. No one fucks with me, she told the demon. Then she proceeded to show him why, using an enchantment spell that she'd never revealed to Creed. Now Creed - throw the salt! He did, gagging at the stench the burning apparition left behind on the fast track to hell. He ran over to Annika, who hadn't moved. "Ani, please . . . please be OK." He turned her over and checked her pulse. It was fast, but that was normal for her. Her colour was all right - a little pale, but her eyes weren't opening. Bring her downstairs. Get her out of the house, Kat told him. He didn't have time to wonder why the hell Kat was being so nice about a woman he was interested in romantically. He simply followed Kat's directions, moving down two sets of stairs and kicking open the massive front doors. The sun had burst forth over the house. The grass was still wet but

Creed knelt there anyway, with Annika still in his arms. And then, without thinking, he brought his mouth down on hers and kissed her. Gently. He moved his lips to her neck and held them there for a few minutes, until she began to rouse. "Creed," she murmured. I’m here, baby. It's all good. You got Bender, I got the demons." "Good." She licked her bottom lip and sat up, still on his lap. "Let's get out of here." "I’ll call in an extract for you, but I've got to stay." "I thought you killed the demons?” "Until this demon link is broken, the entities Bender's called on will continue to manifest. They won't be limited to this house. People in the area will be vulnerable. So this will spread if it's not completely cleansed." "How long will that take?" He shrugged. "Days, probably. Just let Devlin know I'll be back soon." But she was dialling her phone - he saw ACRO flash on her screen and then she was barking an order before clicking off. "I'm staying with you." Hot damn, he wasn't going to argue. "Just tell me one thing." "What's that?" "Before, when I told you to think happy thoughts - what were you thinking about?" She yanked him close, a hand on the back of his neck, at once gentle and

strong, 'You know it was you, Creed. Always vou."

TAG Team Nicola Marsh

The woman had balls. Big, brass cojones according to rumour circulating the ADF, though the technical terms in Coralee Keaton's Australian Defence Force file read "brave, brilliant, resourceful”. Garcia Diaz - Fox, to anyone who wanted to walk out of his office without a permanent limp - had witnessed her demonstrate those admirable qualities first-hand. Now she was back. To muscle in on his operation. Again. "Son of a bitch," he muttered, squeezing his eyes shut, pressing the pads of his thumbs into them, wishing he could obliterate the memory of this woman and what he knew about her. It didn't work. Her file was embedded in his brain: Coralee Keaton - Lee, if you didn't want a Remington 870 shotgun aimed at your head - thirty-four, joined the 4th Battalion, Royal Australian Regiment (Commando) after six years

army service, and became part of the embedded Tactical Assault Group (TAG) after 9/”. An integral part of TAG, if her results were anything to go by. This, on top of her leadership in 4 RAR Impressive. Was there anything the ball-breaking wonder woman couldn't do? A brief pounding on the door had his eyes snapping open in time to see her stride into his office, her expression a study in polite professionalism, her eyes eerily blank, as if she didn't know him. Intimately. "You cut your hair," he said, throwing his pen on the stack of monotonous paperwork in front of him, pissed at her intrusion yet glad for the distraction. Coralee Keaton might be a pain in the ass to work with but her taut body, long legs and impressive D cup more than compensated for the grief. "You cut your surveillance on the Ebola job." She slammed her palms on his desk, loomed over him. "It nearly botched the whole operation." "But it didn't." Leaning back in his chair, he locked hands behind his head, thrust his chin up, his smug smile guaranteed to grate. She reared back, her blue eyes as frigid as the Yarra River on a winter's day as she stared him down. "You better not make the same mistake on the ricin job." He'd had enough of this crap. Balling his hands into fists, he stood so fast his chair slammed into the filing cabinet behind him. "I don't make

mistakes, Coralee." He deliberately used her full first name, hoping to get a rise. It worked. "Then what the hell am I doing here?" “

Wasting tax payers' money?” Stalking around the desk, he stopped a foot

in front of her, invading her personal space, daring her to make an issue of it. With a toss of her glorious shoulder-length black bob, she met his taunting gaze head-on. "I'm the best there is." Jabbing his chest for good measure, she smirked. "And don't you forget it." Like he ever could. He'd tried to forget, dammit, tried with every rebellious cell in his body, but the memory of the last time they'd hooked up on a job was burned into his brain. The Victoria Police Special Operations Group had requested the semces of an expert from TAG to deal with a terrorist plot involving the Eureka Towers, Melbourne's tallest building. He'd resented the inference from his superiors that he couldn't deal with the case of his own, a resentment that peaked when Coralee Keaton had strutted into this very office in a tight, poppy-coloured power suit, packing a lethal smile along with her weapon. She'd wielded her sexuality better than her Heckler & Koch MP-5 pistol and it had pissed him off more than her cocky attitude. Resistance had been futile; and he wasn't just talking about where the

bad guys were concerned. The memory of their one incredible encounter had him hard the instant she stabbed at his chest. Gritting his teeth against the urge to grab her, he said, "What do you know about the ricin threat?" As he switched to business her shoulders loosened slightly, an infinitesimal movement that would've gone unobserved by the average person. But his highly honed observation skills picked up on it, along with the subtle shift in body language as she relaxed off the balls of her feet, settled back on to her heels. Good, he wanted her off guard when he gave marching orders. "When we foiled the Ebola plot, the same group responsible threatened to release ricin within the month." She tapped her watch. "Our time's up. Intel suggests the attack will happen in the next twenty-four hours." "Any ideas where?" He had his own sources, had an inkling, but wanted her to show him hers before he showed her his. Childish? Hell, yeah, but this woman didn't play fair. She played to win, even if that included making him look like an incompetent jerk. "Ricin does most damage when ingested so we think the attack will be via a supermarket food source.” He swore. "Yeah, like we can shut down the whole damn food chain in this state.” "It gets worse.”

He raised his hands palm up, wiggled his fingers. "Give it to me.” For a tension-fraught second he imagined her doing exactly that, the sudden flare of heat in her eyes garnering an instant response in his groin. But the flicker died before he could analyse it as anything other than a figment of a wishful imagination and he damped his libido with a mental curse. "Liquid ridn can contaminate water too.” She ticked points off on her fingers. "Water storages are in danger. Milk supplies. You name it, this baby can contaminate it.” "A friggin’ nightmare.” He dragged a hand through his hair, a habit he’d tried to conquer and failed. Another thing that pissed him off. He hated failing. At anything. "So what you're telling me is if we don't stop these psychos, we've got mass casualties on our hands?” She nodded, her expression grim. "Ricin's a potent toxin, a phytotoxalbumin protein derived from castor beans.” He screwed up his nose, remembering his mum trying to shove spoonfuls of horrific castor oil down his throat when he had pneumonia as a kid. "Always knew that castor oil shit was lethal.” The corners of her mouth twitched. "Ricin's a waste mash from producing castor oil. It's created relatively easily and inexpensively.” "This just gets better and better.” She paused, gnawed on her bottom lip, a strangely vulnerable gesture, which ratcheted up his concern further.

If the bad guys had kick-ass Coralee worried, he should be worried too. "Tell me the rest.” As if coming to a decision, she squared her shoulders, nodded. "Ricin isn't an ideal bio-weapon but due to the fact it's widely available and easily produced .. .” She shrugged, not needing to elaborate. He understood the threat they all faced, the hairs on the back of his neck standing to attention as a shiver of foreboding crept along his spine. "If we don't manage to stop these bastards, what symptoms do we look for?" Fear, potent and insidious, shimmered in her eyes before she blinked, effectively shutting down any sign of emotion. "Fever, coughing and gastrointestinal problems are likely to be the first symptoms. Ingested, ricin causes stomach irritation, gastroenteritis, bloody diarrhoea and vomiting, followed by vascular collapse and death." His loud expletive didn't elicit a reaction as she continued. "There's no treatment or prophylaxis. The good news? If exposure isn't fatal within three to five days, the victim will usually recover." "Ain't that just peachy. So if you don't bleed out your ass—" he bit down on the rest of his crassness and she frowned "—you might stand a chance?" "The other good news? Because it's a large protein it isn't easily absorbed across the skin so dermal exposure isn't a problem." "Meaning if you're contaminated and I touch you, I'm safe?" This time, he definitely didn't imagine the flash of hunger in her greedy gaze, the hint of hope he'd actually do it.

He reached for her, trailed a fingertip down her forearm, lingered on the back of her hand before slipping underneath, tracing her pulse point in slow, languorous circles, savouring the rampant pounding which indicated she was as turned on as him. She endured his caress for a moment before spinning away, turning her back on him. 'That's right. Any other questions?" Her voice, so steady and sure moments ago, held a subtle quiver in undertone that urged him to push her, to get her to admit the spark between them needed little to ignite. "Just one." Propping his butt on the desk, crossing his ankles, he waited for her to turn back to face him, knowing she would, with curiosity eating away at her. She didn't disappoint, swivelling back to face him, but not before he'd copped a very nice eyeful of the sensational butt he remembered grabbing during their lone memorable encounter. "Spit it out." “

When all this is over, want to get together again?"

Lee clenched her hands, welcoming the bite of pain as her fingers dug into her palms, the faint sting from her bitten nails a distraction from the urge to plant both palms squarely in the middle of Fox's chest and shove, hard. The guy hadn't changed a bit. Still insufferable, still cocky, still too damn much.

She knew he'd bait her the instant she'd landed this assignment, knew he'd taunt her with references to that one crazy momentary lapse in reason three years ago. She'd wiped that memory, eradicated it along with every other insane impulse she'd ever followed through with. Hooking up with Fox had been dumb. Rating their mind-blowing encounter as the best sex of her life was dumber. Here, now, with him radiating that potent masculinity she responded to on a visceral level – the dumbest. She could handle men. Good ones, bad ones, she kicked their collective asses and enjoyed it. But there was something about Fox . . . something about the way he looked at her, as if he could see down to her soul. That scared her more than all the terrorists in the world. "We need to concentrate on the assignment.” His confident grin didn't slip. "And later?" Eye-balling him, she said, "I walk out of here and everyone's happy." "Spoilsport." He ducked forwards quickly, his whisper in the vicinity of her ear catching her off guard, as much as the fact she let him get that close. The door to his office flung open and they leaped apart like two rabid dogs doused with a hose, his expression instantly shuttered as he glared at

some guy in an ill-fitting suit. "Sorry to interrupt, boss." ''What's up, Forbes?" "Intel update just in suggests threat escalating." Fox's eyes narrowed. "Suggests? What the hell is that? Do we have anything definite?" Forbes stiffened and for a second Lee could've sworn she glimpsed malevolence behind his guarded gaze, resentment in his thin lips. "I'll email the latest report through right now." 'You do that." Fox's dismissive nod would've annoyed the crap out of her so she could only imagine what it did for a resentful subordinate. "Wound a bit tight?" "Him or me?" He dropped into his chair, swung the screen on his laptop into view, waving to the seat opposite. She obliged, but only because her feet were aching from the new boots she was wearing in. "Your lackey's a little stressed." "New guy," he said, his eyes riveted to the screen. She admired that about him, his dedication, his ability to switch off to everything other than the task at hand. She was the same. Except around him. For some insane reason, he was the only guy she'd ever worked with,

defence force or otherwise, who could rattle her. It bugged the hell out of her and she handled it the only way she knew how. By busting his ass. 'You planning on sharing any of that intel, hotshot?" His gaze swung her way, amusement warring with concentration. "That depends.” "On what?" He crooked his finger, the corners of his mouth curving into a sexy smile that jump-started every starving hormone in her neglected body. He wasn't handsome, not in the technical sense. Nose broken too many times, eyes a muddy mix of greyish hazel, jagged scar extending from the corner of his mouth to his chin. The scar should've detracted. Instead, it enhanced the potent ruggedness he wore like a badge of honour. Ignoring his beckoning, she deliberately sat back, raised an eyebrow, pretending his flirtation didn't excite her, that she didn't give a damn about his response. "On whether you ..." His head snapped up at the sound of a high-pitched wail, disbelief slashing a frown before he leaped from his chair, vaulted the desk and grabbed her out of the chair before she could say "What the f—?" "Safe room. Now!" The urgency underlying his deadly calm tone chilled her blood more than the threat sending them into hiding. "What's going on?"

"Just move!" A burst of gunfire had them dropping to the floor and crawling commando across the office at a cracking pace. She should’ve been scared. Instead, the crack of gunfire sent a shot of adrenaline so potent, so addictive through her, she responded by rote. She was trained for this, had faced worse than some nut infiltrating police headquarters. Her only regret? This whole thing would be over before she had a chance to kick some sicko ass. They'd almost made it to the safe room when an eerie silence descended and Fox held up a hand, calling a halt. Before she could blink he'd changed direction, slithering across the floor towards the window, half raising himself to take a peek while she shook her head and made a slicing action across her throat. Yeah, like he'd listen to her, the testosterone-fuelled fool. Shimmying on her belly, she joined him, earning a withering glare. She blew him a kiss. He frowned but couldn't hide the gleam of admiration in those silver eyes. So the hotshot liked a bit of sass? Like she didn't know that already. When they'd hooked up, the wordplay had been just as exciting as the foreplay. As for the sex . . . when she squirmed on the floor this time, it had little to do with getting closer to scope out the target and everything to do with a scorching memory that heated her cheeks. And she never blushed. Signalling her to stay down, he slowly pushed into a half-crouch, peeked over the window ledge and promptly dropped flat to his belly

again, his face ashen. She raised an eyebrow, asking a silent "what?" Before he could respond, she got her answer. "Get that useless bitch Keaton out here before we blow this slut's brains out." Her right hand automatically reached for her weapon, clenching in fury. The bitch label she could handle. Calling her useless was just plain untrue and well below the belt. "You've got three seconds.” Un-holstering her weapon, she crawled towards the window, ignoring Fox's vigorous shake of the head. "Safe room, now!" he mouthed, as the booming, arsenic-laced voice screamed, "You want another death on your conscience, bitch? Fine." Her gaze darted towards the door. Three seconds wasn't terribly long to fling it open and pop the psycho holding some poor woman hostage, and that's without the advantage of casing the scene first. "One." She edged closer to the door. "Two." Her hand hovered on the knob, twisting slowly. "Three." But before she could wrench the door open, two things happened simultaneously.

A gun blast roared in her ears as Fox tackled her to the ground and dragged her towards the safe room like she weighed nothing. "You think they won't do the same to you the second you step out there?" he hissed, bundling her into the safe room and hitting the electronic button to seal the door. As the door clicked shut, she leaped to her feet and grabbed hold of his shirt, hauling him to within an inch of her face. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" She recognized her mistake a second too late. Having him this close, his shirt bunched in her fists, touching him, was asking for trouble. "Saving your sweet ass." With a smile dripping pure sin, one hand snaked around and cupped her butt, caressing the curve before squeezing gently. She should've reared back, given him a swift knee in the jewels for his trouble but the instant he stroked her, the latent heat within her exploded. Without pausing to think or rationalize, she slammed her mouth against his. There was nothing remotely tender about the kiss, just a hungry melding of ravenous souls feeding an unrelenting, driving urge to get lost in the moment. Tongues duelled in a battle of wills, but in this game, she didn't care who won. Breaking the rules, gaining the upper hand, all meant nothing with his talented mouth playing havoc, stoking her inner fire, driving her wild with need.

Desperate for more, she clung to him, angled her head for better access, moaned, shocked at how fast he'd pushed her to the point of no return. As she ground her pelvis into his, he broke the kiss, his breath ragged, his eyes unfocused. Mortified, she shoved him away, ran a shaky hand across her face, taking valuable seconds to compose herself. When she was certain her voice wouldn't shake, she schooled her face into an impassive mask, met his gaze. "Want to tell me what's going on?" 'You're the one who kissed me." "Not that." She folded her arms, paced the claustrophobic space, silently cursing her lapse in judgment, her lack of concentration. They wouldn't be in this safe room unless the situation was serious and not knowing what the hell was going on didn't sit well with her. And the madder she got, the more likely she'd do something stupid again; like wrap her legs around the sexy SOG commander with the power to drive her wild with a touch. "How the hell did some lunatic breach SOG security let alone bring weapons into the joint? And who was the poor woman who got killed because of me?" She stopped pacing, fixed him with a death glare. "And what the hell were you thinking dragging me in here to hide like a mangy dog when we should be out there busting asses?" Sorrow wiped the smugness off his face as he ran a hand over the back of his neck. "We couldn't have done anything to save her. There's a team

out there, six from a brief head count. The ringleader had Senior Constable Lina Bader in a headlock with a gun locked on her temple, the rest of the goons had M4A5 Carbines pointed at the other staff. Get the picture?" Yeah, she got it. If she'd opened the door in an attempt to save the life of that woman, she would've suffered the same fate. Not that she was afraid of death. She'd faced it several times now, stared it in the evil eye, won. But the injustice of Snr. Constable Bader dying because of her, trading her life for hers, would eat away at her for many a lonely night yet. "What I want to know is what they want with you?" "How the hell should I know?" she snarled, racking her brains for a clue, any clue. He pinned her with a searching stare that would've had subordinates squirming. She eyeballed him back, not giving an inch, a small part of her aching for that senior constable, a larger part of her mad as hell. You've got no idea?" Muttering a pithy curse, she swung away, glared at the steel door. "If I made a list of every freak that had it in for me, it"d circle the Australian coastline, twice." "Same here." She heard an edge in his voice, as if he were holding something back. She slammed a useless fist against the door, winced at the pain, then turned back to face him.

'You're not telling me everything." Wariness clouded his eyes as he compressed his lips. "Come on, Fox, spit it out. We're in this together." She only just caught his muttered "worse luc"' as he hit a button on the key console, bringing up a plethora of screens depicting different areas of the SOG offices. "See that?" He jabbed a finger at the top right screen and she squinted, scrutinizing the scene. "Some suit dragging the body away." "Not a suit. That's Forbes." Her eyes widened as realization hit. "He's your leak?" Malevolence turned his eyes brittle blue. "I saw him alongside the perps. He must've let those bastards in." Fox blamed himself. She could see it in every tense line creasing the corners of his eyes, bracketing his tight-lipped mouth, in the rigid neck muscles. And though it was none of her business, she wanted to offer him some small comfort. Laying a hand on his forearm, she said, "It's not your fault." Pain flickered in those steely slate depths before he masked it with rage, shrugged off her hand. 'Wrong. I vet all my personnel, so damn right it's my fault." She could've offered false platitudes, more trite apologies, but it wouldn't help. She'd been in a similar position on the front lines once, had a major she'd personally trained go AWOL after botching a big offensive.

He got two soldiers killed in the process. Though there hadn't been a thing she could do at the time, she'd beaten herself up over it for months afterwards until she'd realized her own career was suffering. Fox couldn't change what had happened but she could help him manage the outcome. "So what's the plan?" With his eyes riveted to the screens, he said, "We wait." Patience, as well as humility and backing off from a fight, wasn't one of her virtues. She'd learned the hard way that it paid to be on the offensive, to have one up on your enemy before they jumped you. And while being locked away in a safe room looked like the bad guys had the upper hand right now, she intended on switching the positions real fast. "Got a better plan?" He tore his gaze from the screen, let it roam her body at will, a long, slow, leisurely perusal that left a tingling trail as if he'd physically touched her. She didn't move, didn't flinch. She'd been trained well. But she seethed on the inside with a terrifyingly potent cocktail of lust and hormones and blinding need. "They want you. They're not getting you. So we wait to hear their other demands.” "What if there aren't any? What if I'm it?" "Then screw them."

She shivered at the resolute set to his jaw, glad one of them was convinced. Hostage situations were a pain in the ass and being in the middle of one - being the prime target -annoyed the crap out of her. As if she wasn't haying a shitty enough day. "You cold?" She shook her head, cursing he saw her reaction. "Scared?" His voice dropped to a low murmur that caressed her nerve endings, smoother than silk, soothing. For a second she contemplated what it would be like to give in to the alien impulse to fling herself into his arms and blot out everything else. "Cretins like that don't scare me." She jerked her thumb at the screens, her attention snagged by the leader waving his gun around. 'You have sound on this thing?" He shook his head. "Only if they come into my office." "Looks like you're about to get your wish." He followed her line of vision, eyes narrowing as they watched all the perpetrators, bar the leader, evacuate. "What's he up to?" she muttered, scanning the screens to keep track of the leader's movements as he strode across the outer office, grabbed hold of Forbes, and held the gun to his head. "Nothing the little shit doesn't deserve," Fox said, jamming his hands into his pockets as he stepped closer to the screens.

"No one deserves a bullet in the brain.'' Raising an eyebrow, he darted a quick glance her way. 'You're not going soft on me, are you?" "Hell, no." She winced as the leader jabbed the gun barrel into Forbes' head, the traitor stumbling, falling to his feet, before being kicked along. Straight into Fox's office. "They can't hear us?" she whispered, grateful when Fox shook his head and pointed to a tiny green button. "Only if I hit this. Away to communicate if needed." "The bitch in here?” She stiffened as the leader's booming voice filtered through the safe room's intercom, took a slight step back despite the reinforced stainless wall separating her from a potential bullet. Forbes nodded, his snivelling whimper eliciting disgust as Fox swore, his finger hovering over the button but refraining from stabbing it. "Then where the hell is she, shit-head?" Forbes jerked a shaky thumb in their direction. "S-s-safe room." As the leader stalked towards them, his face tilling the screen, a flicker of recognition lit her conscience. She knew him, had crossed paths with him .. .but where? After several useless attempts at banging against the smooth steel door, he swivelled, strode back to tower over the cowering Forbes.

"Open it." "I c-can't." The leader smiled, a purely evil grin that raised the hackles on the back of her neck, as he levelled the muzzle against Forbes' temple. "I said open it." "Jeez," Fox muttered, turning away before the inevitable shot came, harsh, distorted through the intercom. "Now who's going soft?" she said, wanting to offer him support, knowing he wouldn't take it. "Just can't watch one of my SOGs cower like that. Goes against the grain, you know?" This time, when she laid a hand on his arm, he allowed it to linger. "Yeah, I know." Kicking Forbes limp body, the leader turned in their direction again. "I know you can see me, Garcia. See that?" He toed Forbes' head, what was left of it. "Your little lackey gave me all the information I needed. I know all about you and the second-rate hack team you run here." Swinging the gun Forbes' way, he fired off a few more rounds into the lifeless body, which jerked like an obscene marionette. "I'm going to systematically execute every one of your people unless you hand over that bitch now!" "Fox ..." His name hovered on her lips, a pleading whisper. For help? For advice? For salvation? He held his hand up, not even looking at her. "I'll handle this."

Punching at the green talk button, he growled, "Go to hell." She flinched, waiting for another outburst of bullets to riddle Forbes. Instead, the leader grinned an ice-cold grin that sent a shiver of foreboding creeping along her skin. "A man of few words, Garcia. I like that." Without warning, he angled the gun towards the interior glass windows of the office and fired at random, shattering every one, not caring who stood beyond them. In that second she knew, no matter what they did or said, this psychopath wouldn't give a damn. He had his own agenda, had no value for life, believed he was God. They were screwed. Dropping the gun to his side, he leered at the camera. "Much like me. I prefer to let my actions speak louder than words.” He glanced at his watch, evil grin widening. "You have exactly five minutes left to hand over the bitch before this place blows.” To her surprise, Fox chuckled. "Amateur.” Sidling up to him, she peered at the screen. "You know something I don't? Or does the thought of fireworks turn you on?” "You have no idea what turns me on.” He swung and grabbed her so fast she didn't have time to react. Her, with her lightning reflexes and superior evasive skills. With all her training. "Are you nuts? We're about to be blown to—"

"It’s a bluff." Fox jerked his head towards the screens without releasing his hold on her. "You think he'd be hanging around if this place was about to blow? No bloody way. He's a redneck punk who has a grudge against you and thinks we're stupid enough to fall for his tricks." "He's killed two of your people." His expression sobered. "The guy's a loose cannon. He has about five minutes before back-up uses the subterranean tunnels to storm this place." "And there's absolutely no way he could have the office wired?" Fox shook his head. "Nobody can get close to the outside perimeter. Only way he got weapons in here was through Forbes. As for explosives ..." He glanced at the screen again, at the leader pacing his office with an angry scowl. "He's still here. Even if he had smuggled explosives in, wired this area, he wouldn't hang around." It made sense, but she couldn't shake the trickle of unease prickling her skin. "We should find out who he is, what he really wants." "Last chance, Garcia." Their attention snapped back to the screen in time to see the leader head for the door. "That bitch screwed up my Ebola plans. Not a chance in hell she's tampering with the ricin." "Jeez! That's where I’ve seen him before." She smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand. "Ansel Aquino. Was on the fringe of the Ebola conspiracy. Nothing ever connected to him. No one talked. TAG assumed he was a bit player in the end, didn't pay him much attention."

"Bit player?" Fox's eyebrows shot heavenwards, his lips compressed in an unimpressed line. Not needing to defend herself to anyone, least of all this guy, she frowned. "Guess we both messed up, huh?" "Point taken.” He grunted, having the grace to look sheepish. "Heads are gonna roll over this, probably mine." "These guys are good. Infiltration takes years of training.” She jerked her head towards the screen, at Forbes1 corpse. "They're patient as well as crazy.” Her earlier unease spread, roiling up from her gut, upwards and outwards, as she registered the empty room on the screen. "You know your theory about Ansel sticking around if the place was wired to blow?” Fox followed her line of vision, nodded. "Yeah, I know. The bastard's gone” "Which means .. .” "Either we're about to meet our maker in a million pieces or back-up will be here in four minutes." He tapped his watch, pulled a rueful face designed to make her smile. Pity she didn't feel like laughing. "I don't know about you, but if these are my last four minutes on earth, I'm going to make the most of it.” "By doing what?” "This.”

He yanked her into his arms, crushed her mouth in a devastating kiss that caused more fallout than any potential explosion. With her hormones instantly hot-wired, she kissed him back, desperately, frantically, crazily, before the reality of the situation crashed in and she planted both palms against his rock-hard chest. He didn't budge an inch. "Are you nuts? We can't do this—" 'You want to spend your last few moments on earth scared witless or having the best sex of your life?” "Cocky bastard," she muttered, a quiver of excitement making her hands tremble, betraying her answer before she spoke. "Am I wrong?" He ran a fingertip across her bottom lip, not giving her a chance to speak. "As I remember from our last encounter, you're qualified to judge." "Jeez, you're a—” He kissed away any potential protest. Any argument would've been a moot point anyway, as she couldn't fault his fractured logic. If she had a few minutes to live, she'd be doing just that - living - not counting down the seconds to sayonara. "Stop thinking,” he murmured against her lips, tracing their contour with his tongue, nipping, nibbling, teasing her to join in the fun. "Make me." He didn't need to be asked twice, backing her up against the nearest wall, devouring her with his mouth. His hands roamed everywhere, eager, searching, frisking her better than

any border patrol guard. "Damn you're hot." He groaned as she arched into him, pressing her pelvis into his groin, wanting to torture him as much as he was torturing her. "Right back at you," she whispered in his ear, biting him, revelling in driving him wild as he tugged her panties down along with her trousers. "You know Td take this slow if we had the time, right?" "Fast is good," she bit out as his thumb zeroed in on her hot spot, circling her clitoris while his fingers delved into her wet heat, ripping a moan from deep within. Tension coiled as he picked up tempo, her muscles taut, expectant, stiffeningas the wave of unbelievable bliss built, sweeping her closer to a mindless ecstasy she craved. "Oh yeah, Fox ... now—" Her pleasure peaked, crescendoed, as she rode the crest before crashing over the other side, spent and sated as she sagged against the wall, her hands clutching his shirt for anchorage in a world suddenly tipped on its head. Surprised to find her eyes closed, she opened them, the sheer unbridled sexual intent in his burning gaze plucking an answering response deep within. The orgasm had been mind-blowing. She wanted more. Heck, she wanted it all. Now. "How many minutes we got left?"

"Long enough.” His wicked grin notched up her anticipation as he grabbed his wallet out of his back pocket, yanked a foil packet out and fumbled with his belt buckle. "Let me." She would've liked to tease him, to prolong the build-up, but they didn't have the luxury of time. She deftly unbuckled him, making quick work of the button and zip, the back of her knuckles grazing his erection in the process and eliciting a low moan before he clamped down on her hand. "Two minutes and counting.” He sheathed himself in record time, hoisted her up and braced her against the wall, and, as she wrapped her legs around his waist, he drove into her with a ferocity that made her gasp. "Yeah, just like that,” she sighed, the tension building again as he slid in and out. Harder. Faster. The delicious friction of him filling her, thrilling her, had her clamping around him, wishing she could prolong the incredible satisfaction for ever. "Come for me,” he said, a millisecond before she did, her tightly wound tension exploding in a fireball of sensation, annihilating everything but this moment, with this man. His orgasm followed a moment later as he threw back his head, neck muscles rigid with rapture, his face twisted in a mask of sweet agony. "That was-"

“

Friggin' amazing."

He had an annoying habit of finishing her sentences but she'd forgive him. This time. Allowing herself the luxury of touching him, she stroked his cheek, savouring the stubble prickling her palm, hoping she could convey her rampaging, rioting feelings with a simple caress. If she were to die in the next minute, she'd go happy. “

Fox-"

A sudden burst of gunfire drew their attention to the screen and they grabbed their clothes, redressing in a tangle of arms and legs. "Gunfire's good, right?” She hopped around on one foot, trying to shove her toes into her trouser leg. He reached out, steadied her with a helping hand, his thoughtfulness scaring her more than the intimate contact they'd just had. "Yeah. Means the cavalry's arrived.” She picked up an edge of the unsaid in his reserved tone. "Or?” "Or there's dissention in the psycho ranks." Finally fastening the snap on her trousers, she said optimistically, "I'm vying for the first option." As if on cue, a SWAT team swarmed his office, looking like ravenous ants at a gourmet picnic. "Guess this means we live to fight another day."

Her voice held the slightest quiver, the impact of what they'd just faced, what they'd just done, finally hitting her. Understanding gleamed in his dark gaze as it roved her face. "You OK?" She nodded, swallowing the sudden lump in her throat. She didn't know what unnerved her more: the incredible sex, his surprising tenderness or how close she'd come to death yet again. "About what happened—” "Ssh . . ." She placed her hand over his mouth, not wanting to hear any trite lines, any false excuses. "Heat of the moment. Lost our heads. Let's leave it at that.” He pressed her hand against his lips, placed a scorching kiss directly on her palm before curling her fingers over it. "You sure you want to leave it?" He slid an arm around her waist, tugged her closer. "We're pretty good together.” Damn him for being right. Damn him for tempting her to feel. To feel anything other than the enforced emotional numbness she lived with every day. "Garcia, you in there?” Relieved, she jerked her head towards the console. "Duty calls." He searched her eyes, looking for . . . what? A sign that she cared? Some flicker of emotion other than passion? He'd be searching a long time. She'd learned to mask emotion from an early age, had learned the hard way it didn't pay to show weakness.

"We're not finished," he murmured, brushing a soft, barely there kiss across her lips that reached down to her soul and tweaked, hard. 'Yeah, we are." Inhaling a sharp breath, she jabbed at the button to open the door, marshalling her defences, slipping her take-no-prisoners badass mask back in place. Yet as she stepped through the door, Fox's hand resting lightly in the small of her back, she knew that what had occurred in the safe room had rattled her far more than any bio-weapon threat she'd faced. Fox nodded at the chief SWAT. "Place secured?" "Yes, sir." "Casualties?" “

All infiltrators taken down, sir."

"Their leader?" The chief nodded. "Affirmative, sir." "Damn," she muttered, a small part of her glad the world was rid of vermin like Ansel Aquino, a larger part annoyed as hell they wouldn't get to interrogate him and discover how far-reaching this plot was. "Good work." Fox slapped the SWAT chief on the back, led him away, their heads bent close as they exchanged info. Info she should be privy to, given the ricin threat. "Fox, can I have a word?"

He held up a finger asking for a minute while she inwardly fumed. She wasn't one of his subordinates, some lackey he could order around. Who the hell did he think he was? Taking several calming breaths, she deliberately turned her back on him, knowing her foul mood had little to do with him and everything to do with the jumble of dangerous emotions careening out of control within her. She should never have done him in the safe room. As his hand landed lightly on her shoulder, he spun her around, his gaze warm. Regret tore through her like shrapnel. Regret she'd let him get close even for a few minutes, regret she'd opened herself up to him a second time when she never, ever, went back for seconds, but most of all, regret she had to walk out the door and not look back. "What's up?" Shrugging off his hand, she crossed her arms. "The ricin threat? Or have you forgotten?” "You think what happened between us in there—" he jerked his thumb at the safe room "—made me lose focus?" His eyes darkened to polished pewter, the scar beneath his mouth twitching. "As hot as you are, Covalee. I don't ever lose sight of a target.” "Don't call me that!” she snapped, more pissed off at her blush than his use of the name she hated in all its feminine glory. He scanned her face, his expression inscrutable. "Relax. Your mate Ansel had a mini hard drive on him. Techies are working on it now; we should

have all ricin data in a few minutes. From the prelim reports, it looks like the threat is over. He ran the show, nothing happens without his say-so.” "Good." She glanced at her watch, eager to get home, wash this day off her. "That means Fm not needed any more, so I'm outta here." "You're wrong." He grabbed her hand before she could take a step. Despite her struggles to get free, he held fast. "You're needed." He didn't have to say where or when. She read the intent in his eyes, the insatiable, irrational hunger that dragged a visceral response from deep down in her belly. "I have to go." This time, when she wrenched free he released her. As she strutted to the door, he called out, "This isn't the end." Like hell. She slammed the door: on him, on the mistakes she'd made, on any possible future with a guy who undermined her better than her past. She could handle abuse, torture, retribution. She couldn't handle feeling anything for him. Ever. But then the door creaked open and she stiffened. "Lee?" Determined not to break stride, she picked up the pace. "See you at my place tonight. Eight sharp."

A ready curse, telling Fox exactly where he could shove his cocky command, sprung to her lips. "We owe it to ourselves." His low tone, the simple truth, reached deep down and tweaked her fortified heart, making her feel when she'd spent a lifetime trying to do anything but. Feeling left her vulnerable. Feeling left her weak. And she couldn't be either, not in her profession. But after what they'd just been through, maybe he was right? Maybe they did owe it to themselves. What did she have to lose? She glanced over her shoulder, her lips curved into a smug smile. "See you there. If you're lucky." His triumphant grin sent a shiver of anticipation through her. Tag, you're it.

The Game Gennita Low

Advantage - The first move, by White, begins with a slight advantage in time. Small advantage - An advantage so insignificant that the opponent sometimes doesn't even realize it is an advantage. Accumulation of

small advantages leads to a winning attack.

One John Dallas adjusted his binoculars. Scowled. Adjusted them again. "Well, I'll be damned,” he muttered softly, so no one could actually hear his words. His horse moved restlessly at the sound of his voice. His displeasure must have somehow conveyed itself to the man on horseback beside him. "Do you not like what you see, Johan?" The man spoke in accented English, using the Muslim variation of John's name. "I assure you she comes from good stock. Maybe your European schooling has made you unused to her clothing, but I have been told she is pleasing to look at." The last sentence was spoken loudly, so the others behind them could listen in, if they chose. John snorted, his eyes glued to the binoculars. He knew what the man was trying to do - make sure he didn't forget he had a role to play. As if he could. His grip tightened as he surveyed the approaching group of people. His companion obviously didn't like that reaction, because he started speaking in his native Pakistani dialect hurriedly. "She is a little old, but that's because she, unlike most village women, has been to school. But that's what you demanded, that she be educated. And you agreed that her dowry is what you wanted." Yeah, amazing how they came up with the perfect candidate. He'd thought his request almost impossible, but as always, the powers that be had a way to make things happen. He reined in his temper and put away the binoculars. He pulled at the collar of his garment. It was stifling hot and

he wanted out of these Pakistani sacks. He wanted to be back in the States. So the faster he went through with this, the quicker he would be able to demand an explanation. He didn't quite know how the hell he had gotten into this mess. One minute he was just negotiating for a unique exchange. The next, he found out he was part of it. He gritted his teeth, then tried to pass it off as a smile to reassure his increasingly alarmed companion. "Everything is well, Hashem," he told the man. He couldn't afford to make anyone nervous right now. They were being watched, he was pretty sure of it. "She looks exactly as I'd imagined." Indeed she did. There was no mistaking the face, even though the rest of her was swathed in those black umbrella-shaped garments in which the people here imprisoned their women. Heart-shaped. Small nose. A mouth made for a man's fantasy. John couldn't believe that this was happening to him. She was his dream woman. A killer dream that visited him whenever he let down his guard. A witch who wouldn't let go of his balls. And he was marrying her today. All around them were mountains. They had travelled four days to reach this particular spot and everyone was dusty and tired. It certainly was not the usual way to meet a wedding contingent. The groom-to-be sat on his black horse, looking expectantly in the direction of the approaching group of people. The men behind him, at some given signal, started clapping their hands in unison, a sign of welcome in these parts. One had to make noise to

show approval; silence meant confrontation. They also knew there were eyes in these mountain parts, eyes that reported anything out of the ordinary. The arriving contingent rode over the slope, trotting at a moderate pace, and finally came to a slow halt not far from the waiting camp. John and his friend, the only ones on horseback, rode to meet them. They ignored the heat as they studied the other group. The waiting men in the other group eyed the tall one on the black mare, perfectly aware which of the two was the leader. Dressed like that, in traditional garb, he looked like one of them, black hair and fierce dark eyes that assessed each and every one of them. "Salaamua'laikum. Welcome," John said, "brothers." "Not yet," the one in front replied, a bite to his voice. John lifted an enquiring brow. "Of course. Whenever you are ready." "Do you have what we asked for?" This was spoken in a low voice. John leaned forwards on his horse. From afar, it looked like a warm gesture, brother to brother. "As long as you have what I want," he answered cryptically, giving a passing glance to the cart that had stopped behind them. It was pulled by two donkeys, and flanked by men on each side. "Which one of the women is mine?" The Pakistani's smile was very white against his dark tan. His English was perfect New York. "The one staring back at you. She can speak English, cook, sew and dance. Just a little too old, and thus a little disobedient. Not what our village men usually go for. What do you

think?" John looked over the man's shoulder. His intended was certainly being disobedient, daring to stare at her future husband straight in the eye. At least she wasn't smiling. He nudged his horse to turn around, gesturing for the others to follow. "She will do." An old maid's wedding wasn't anything more than a quick handshake in these parts of the world. The woman would be grateful, glad to find someone to take care of her. Her relatives would be relieved. Unmarried women in villages were frowned upon, unless they were maids or nannies. So the man and the woman joined hands under the stern eye of an imam and a cloudless sky, and that was it. There was the marriage tent, staked for the night while the witnesses gathered outside to make a record of the event. The men drank sweet coffee and sang. The women held their own party inside a separate tent. A gentle mountain breeze streamed through the camp, and the atmosphere became slightly more relaxed. The newly married wife carried a jug of water from a nearby stream, and waited by the front flap of the tent for her new husband. He was in the men's tent, signing documents, taking note of what she came with. She couldn't quite believe that he had actually gone through with the marriage, but of course, he had no choice. He needed her dowry. A reasonable time must pass before her husband could come to her. She was no young maiden and he was no eager youth clamouring after his first wife. The Muslims, she noted, were allowed four. At her age, she supposed, she was remarkably fortunate to be the first. The last thought

was made with her usual sarcastic sense of humour, something no one here knew existed. Well, no one except her husband. He knew. And she knew he would be exacting revenge as soon as they entered their tent that night. And sizzling anticipation thrummed through her, even as she stood waiting just outside their tent, serene as the first light of dawn. Male voices mingled with the approaching darkness. Torches were lit. She smelled the food. She heard the soft whinnying of the resting horses. The cooling mountain air was welcoming. Somehow she hadn't quite envisioned her wedding day to be quite like this. Shrouded. Alone. Waiting like a supplicant. Her husband suddenly appeared before her, a menacing figure in his robes, six feet two inches of masculine power. She waited till he paused in front of her, close enough that she caught the scent of man and horse. She had been waiting for this moment all day. Bending down, she picked up the large jar of water. On cue, her husband sat down on the stool she had readied. Not a word passed between them. She knelt down, placed the jug close by and slowly unshod him, first one foot, then the other, before starting the traditional footbath a married man in these parts received before entering his abode. It was an hononr a newly wedded woman bestowed on her man. His tension was evident in the way his calf muscles were clenched. It

was dark enough to allow her to explore him more curiously than was proper, and she moved her fingers boldly and slowly over the top of one foot. She palmed the arch of the other as she poured water over it, taking her time as she ran her thumb around the sensitive pads under the toes. Leisurely, she dried them with a towel, inserting a finger between his big toe and the one next to it. Ah, he liked that. He jerked forwards, locking her finger with his toes. He stood up so suddenly she would have fallen on her backside if he hadn't grabbed her under her arms. There was masculine laughter from those gathered close by as he jerked the tent flap open and unceremoniously hauled her into their temporary home. So the groom was impatient for his bride after all. A most auspicious beginning, murmured the imam to Hashem, who wiped his brow nervously. A newly married man had his priorities. John pushed his bride on top of a bed of pillows, straddling her in one swift move. He bent down and kissed her thoroughly. It was either that or yell at her and he didn't want to start their wedding night that way. God, he had forgotten how a kiss could be hotter than a desert. And how he could lose himself in the heat. Her tongue darted into his mouth mischievously and, immediately, every cell in his body responded like fireworks on 4 July. He'd gone too long without her, that must be it. Impatiently, he lifted his head, looking for an opening to her garment, his fingers skimming everywhere. This robe thing must be a version of the chastity belt. "How the

hell do you get out of these mummy sheets?” he finally demanded. "Husband, we have all night," purred the woman under him, her face flushed from his kiss. She had the voice of a seductress, low and full of promises, but instead of answering him, she held a finger to her reddened lips and moved to sit up. John didn't like the way she could make him forget important things, such as safety and privacy. This wasn't the first time either and that was why he stayed the hell away from her. He put his weight on his knees, so she could move to a sitting position. He liked that she had to look up at him this way, so he didn't move. Not when he fully intended to be on top tonight. He watched as she removed part of her head covering then loosened her collar, exposing her neck and shoulders. The object dangling from a chain around her neck caught his attention, stopping his more lustful inclinations for an instant. She took the chain off and handed it to him. "Continue what you're doing,” he ordered, before reluctantly getting off her so he could scan the room for listening devices. Apparently, she didn't trust things to be as they seemed either. She continued taking off her garment slowly, watching him with her tawny whiskey-coloured eyes. They could make a man weak in the knees with just a heated look, yet would glitter with predatory alertness when she sensed danger. He dreamed of those eyes often - half open, slightly tilted at the corners, a dreamy wildness in them just before she succumbed to passion. It was that look that would wake him up sweaty and horny in the middle of the night.

Her burnished brown hair was longer, braided down well below her shoulders. A grey tank top clung to her, emphasizing her small breasts. Its oval neckline was mouthwateringly low, and when she bent forwards to untangle that horrible thing she was wearing, the soft mounds looked like they were going to pour out of the top. John swore softly, and she glanced up, innocence in her eyes. The tent was "clean", and she nodded when he handed her gadget back. "Missed me?" she asked, stretching out of her clothes. A fine film of perspiration covered her body, clad only in the taunting tank top and underwear. Clothes were amazing things, John concluded, looking at the concealing garment tossed on the floor and what she had on now. And the woman who wore both had the same effect on him, no matter how many layers she put on. Missed her? That ought to be the understatement of the year. All he could do was look at her hungrily. And angrily. She had no right invading his world. "What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, pitching his voice to a low growl. "I was supposed to exchange the weapons for the downed pilot - and babe—" his eyes swept down her body "—you certainly don't look like the picture of Captain James Kirby to me." "He's dead." John sucked in his breath. That wasn't the answer he'd expected. “What do you mean?" he demanded. "They wanted weapons for the hostage. There was no way they were going to kill him till I saw him. I want some explanations, Kel."

"Leiha." John frowned. "Leiha," Kel insisted, calmly standing up and looking around the tent. She seemed totally unaware what her half-naked body was doing to him. She opened a small trunk and pulled out a towel. "Your wife, remember?" That is another thing I want explained," John said grimly. He walked purposefully to Kel and put both hands on each of her arms. Damn. He wanted to shake her and pull her close at the same time. "Quit playing games with me, Kel." Kel's head snapped up, her eyes glittering. "I thought that was what you liked, Dallas," she drawled. “

When you walked out of my life, I remember distinctly your last words

being, 'I can't leave the game, babe.' I don't know what you're complaining about." He stared at her. "That was—" He tended to yell when he was frustrated, but now wasn't the time to lose his cool. Taking a deep breath, he adjusted the volume of his voice, "—three years ago! And you're taking my words out of context. You were after marriage, babe, and you gave me an ultimatum.” "Hah. And like a coward, you left." She pushed against his chest, trying to break free. Ignoring her efforts, John hauled her closer. "Of all the twisted—! You were the one who walked out on me!" He'd woken up one morning and she was gone, having left a note telling

him where to find her. As if he was going to run after her. So he'd given her time to cool off, but, after a while, it became abundantly clear that it was over when she wouldn't even take his calls. Not long after that, she had requested a transfer and she was out of his life. Well, that suited him just fine . . . he didn't have time to mess around with a smart-mouthed trainee, no matter how addicted he was to her mouth. God, he had missed her. Every day, like a man on narcotic withdrawal. It'd been years, but that kind of high was unforgettable. His training had been his salvation. He had ruthlessly pushed away that part of him that wanted her back. He had a job to do, lives to save. Time passed quickly when you travelled all over the world negotiating with danger and death. But now, time seemed meaningless because here she was, in his arms again. That same lush mouth was curled into that mocking pout that make him think of sex. Apparently, he was still a hopeless addict. And, he still loved her. Wanted her. "Nonsense. You didn't even call me for a month!" Kel slithered her arms up his chest and locked her fingers behind his neck. "That meant you walked away from me first." John ignored the way her breasts were pushing against his body. There was an argument going on here. He wouldn't lose just because she was trying to distract him with unfair tactics. "When you didn't return my calls, that meant you wanted out," he countered. He also tried to ignore the sensuous undulating of her lower body against his. Well, parts of him weren't succeeding. A growing part definitely wasn't. He muttered, "I wasn't going to make a move until you

gave in." It sounded stupid now, whatever murderous revenge he'd planned to take when he saw her again. Incredibly stupid, when he knew he could have been doing all the undulating he wanted with her the last three years. The reasons he'd given her were still valid, though, but he was sure he could have talked her into agreeing with him if he'd been given it a chance. Kel glanced down meaningfully at the part of him that was moving. A mischievous smile lifted her lips. "Endgame, honey?" she purred, conjuring up naughty images of good times spent in his bed with a certain food item. John swallowed a laugh. No one but his Kel was such an outrageous lover. His Kel always had her mind on food - and sex - a truly hungry woman at all times. He frowned at how easy it was to start thinking of her as his again. No way. Not again. "OK, so we're here in no man's land between Pakistan and India. Tell me why you chose this place for our honeymoon?" he asked. "And where is the dowry? Most importantly, what is it?" The simple assignment he thought he had, a quick H-A-X hostage/arms exchange - had more twists and turns than he liked. First, he'd been informed the exchange location had been moved to mountain terrain. Then he'd found out that there was no way two parties could meet in the mountains and not be noticed, and the Resistance insisted on a marriage fagade. He had baulked, like any man would. His famous temper started factoring in when a call from the Temple instructed that they wanted him to go through with it, that the game had changed. The dowry was important, the messenger told him. He had to go

along with the marriage. Lives were at stake. OK, lives were in danger, so he did it. The woman in his arms had all the answers. That meant she had the advantage on him. He didn't like that one bit. Who was in charge of this assignment, anyhow? "Don't you like it here?" his tormentor questioned, obviously enjoying herself. She'd always liked beating him at anything. "Lord and master. Four wives. All the women you want. You're in absolute control. Male heaven, I'd imagine." "So how come I feel absolutely powerless?" John murmured, more to himself than her. He played with her braid, twisting the end of it with his forefinger. "How come I'm the one who feels that he's been forced into marriage? I know that was what you wanted from me, babe, but this is an extreme way to get a husband." "I figured three years were long enough. A woman can only wait so long, Dallas." "Who said I wanted you to wait?" he taunted, slowly twisting the thick braid around his hand now. 'Wasn't that part of our argument?" she reminded him, unconcerned that he had her prisoner by the hair. She mocked him with an imitation of his voice, continuing, "'I think we should wait, Kel. This thing we have could fizzle out, Kel. Let's wait for a few years, Kel.'" John winced at those quotes. Damn woman had the memory of an elephant. He held her head still as he lowered his. Her eyes gleamed back in the gaslight expectantly. A nasty thought occurred. "You waited three

years to make your move?" Her smug smile answered him better than words. He tightened his hold of her braid as the revelation sunk in. The woman was incredible. She had a move planned years in the future. "Three years? You decided three years ago to get me to many you? That couldn't be!" He looked at her incredulously. "Hate to point out the obvious. You are, as of today, married to me." Murderous. That was what he felt. Yet, he'd also had to admit that he hadn't felt quite as alive as he did now for a long, long time. The years without her paled in comparison to her presence in his life. Kel had a way of making every minute memorable. He placed an experimental kiss on her waiting lips, as if tasting them for the first time. "I’ll have to think of my next move to get out of this trap," he said against her lips. Another thought occurred. "Ha, I’m married to a woman named Leiha, not Kel." Her smile grew wider. "Technical, technical.” She lifted her lips and kissed him back, softly and tenderly, as if she'd waited for a long time for this moment. Three years, actually, John thought, still in disbelief. "Husband of mine - Leiha is short for Kaleiha, the Muslim diminutive for Kel." John wanted to .. . He never ever knew exactly what he wanted to do with Kel Grant. She had been his trainee but sometimes he wasn't sure who was training whom. And like a damned fool, he'd chosen to ignore the part of him that screamed not to get involved with a woman like her. Look what that had got him into. His disgust must have shown on his face because Kel laughed, not a bit

perturbed that her groom should be so reluctant onhis wedding night. The combination of her womanly scent, perspiration and baby powder was heady and he wanted to just forget about winning an argument right now and do what he wanted. "Come on, Dallas," her smoky voice mocked. "All these years with the Temple should have taught you something. There's always more than one move." "Oh?" Not if you were trapped. Checkmate. But he wasn't one to ignore a way out when it was offered. "It's easy, actually. It's a Muslim marriage. All you have to do is say 'I divorce you' three times and you have your freedom back." But of course. He knew that. "I knew that," John said. "See? You can say that any time and we're through." "Just like that? I can say that now?" he challenged, wanting to push her as much as she was pushing him. Her eyes turned predatory. "I let you go the last time, didn't I?" she asked softly. "Go on. Say it now if it makes you feel better." John studied her face as she waited. She looked like a doll - big eyes, delicate nose, elegant arching dark eyebrows, lips made for kissing. But he knew the woman underneath; she was no lightweight in the grey matter area. What was it about her that made things both simple and complicated at the same time? He could say those words now, undo the deed and that should set the record straight. If he wanted to be married, he'd be the one doing the asking. Three easy words to say. It was his feelings that were

causing difficulties. "Later," he said instead. She wanted out so fast? She could wait, he decided. "Dallas?" "What now?" 'You going to hang on to my hair all night or are you going to kiss me?" "Actually, I was going to hang you with your hair." He looked at it, wound around his hand three times. "I can't believe how long it's grown." She moved even closer against him and he forgot about her hair for the moment. "Dallas, if you don't kiss me properly, I'm going to tell all the women out there tomorrow you're a lousy lover." "I want it on record that I'm doing this under duress,” he informed her as he lowered his head to her uplifted face. "Duly noted. Now kiss me like a lover should. You're out of practice.” A man could only take so many insults. John decided to show her that being married meant she could be shut up, just like that. Her mouth opened eagerly under his, and he started practicing. Kel Grant loved two things in her life: her job and her man. One she kept a secret, the other she kept an eye on. She'd never known a life other than the one that had been chosen for her since birth and, sometimes, she felt some regret that she couldn't lead a normal existence, one with a nine-tofive job and a husband and two kids. But she found out that you couldn't just pretend not to catch things that she was trained to see. She couldn't pretend to be something other than what she was.

That John Dallas was the love of her life was a secret even to those in her inner circle. There must be no vulnerable chink in her armour if she were to do her job right. She had asked him one time, and one time only, to get out of the game. When he'd refused, she knew she had to let him go for a little while. A close call with death right after that convinced her she'd done the right thing. John Dallas could end up a target if anyone knew how important he was to her. The long hours of recuperating alone in her room gave her time to do what she did best - to think, to lay out a strategy of defence. How did you keep a love safe? A clean break. How would you keep an eye on love? Be in power. How could she go on living without her love? Commit to a time schedule to get him back. What if he wouldn't take her back by then? Worse, what if he found somebody new by then? She was a master strategist; she'd deal with those problems when they arose. Lately, she'd been hearing things about the Black Knight. He had been asking questions about certain classified assignments and she had felt the ripples of concern from those who didn't like to be questioned. Her sources were good. Her love, she was told, could be in danger from all sides, and no one would help him then. Well, she had kept an eye on him all along, hadn't she? Time to come in and ... and what? She had a game plan but it was not easy to manipulate John Dallas. He was one of the Temple's best operatives, specializing in hostile negotiations. The man's instincts were fine-tuned to every invisible signal given on both sides of a bargaining table; he would be suspicious of any

obstacles that appeared to be out of place. In fact, she knew there was no way to stop his persistence. He'd try to get answers. But if she were close by, at least she would know when he was too near the truth for his own good. One thing was eminently clear - only she could protect him. She didn't trust anyone else not to sacrifice him for the sake of the game. Three years hadn't diminished two facts. She still loved him to pieces. And he still sent her up in flames with just his kiss. No one kissed like John Dallas. Slow and wet and sensuous. Searching and finding all the secret dreams of her soul, as he sucked on her tongue and explored every part of her mouth. Releasing her lips, only to recapture them, until there was no doubt who owned them. Mine, he told her silently, as he ate her like a sumptuous feast. Mine, he demanded, as he drank and sipped as if she were his favourite '84 Merlot. Mine, he claimed, over and over again, his tongue dancing with hers in an endless promise. How, she wondered in a daze in between his kisses, had she survived this long without him? She moaned softly as he sank deeper into her, trapping her under his weight. When John finally lifted his lips from hers, Kel found herself looking into his fierce dark eyes. This close, she could see the light grey ring around the black orbs, with the luminous grey striations that had always fascinated her. When he was angry, they seemed to flash like little lightning bolts. As they were doing right now. Kel grinned up at him. She liked her opponents angry, that is as long as she remained calm. His black brows crinkled together in suspicion. "You know I want you,"

he stated the obvious, since she could feel just how much he did, "and I have questions that go beyond this job. Hell, it might take me another three years to get all my questions answered, but this isn't the time and place. Kel, what are you doing here?" "And if I tell, what then?" she baited. He shifted position, putting more weight on his elbows, glaring furiously as her smile grew ever wider. "Damn your kinky ass, you always liked to get me up at the wrong times.” He leaned down closer, as if to kiss her again, then shook off the temptation. "What is your role in the game, Kel?" This time, his voice brooked no argument. She lifted a hand to stroke his thick hair back. It was a little damp from the heat and perspiration. "I was in the vicinity when the Sphinx went down," she explained, "and they sent word to me to retrieve some information from the surviving pilot. Being a woman, I had to move among the villagers but the Resistance was very helpful, craftier than we had thought. They have a smuggling system that is quite sophisticated, using the villagers, especially the women. You would be amazed how many places you can hide guns under that black garment." John's eyes lit up with interest. Kel knew that he liked this kind of information for future negotiation ventures. "Continue," he said. "Don't you want to get more comfortable?" she invited. 'You must be hot in those clothes." "Very," he admitted, "but I like being on top of you too much. I missed this, you know."

Her heart bloomed with pleasure. She had wondered whether he still wanted her as much as she wanted him. Time was different for a man, and she was too realistic a woman to imagine that John's feelings had remained constant. "I missed this too," she told him softly. The flecks in his dark eyes gleamed. "But not enough, apparently.” There was a hint of bitterness in his voice. As if he didn't want to think about it, he changed the subject back. "Go on. Tell me what happened to the pilot. I was set to do the H-A-X. and now you tell me the Resistance knocked him off. What did he have on him anyway?" "I didn't say they killed him. He was in worse shape than anyone let on, and was already dying when I got to him. On the way down he landed in a ravine that cut up his 'chute." Kel lost her playful mood for the moment as she recalled the dead man. "The villagers really couldn't do anything about his head injury." "What about the Sphinx?" "You know the government's men are swarming over the thing by now, trying to dismantle it. Study everything." "I don't get it," John said. "Why then are we exchanging arms for a dead man? How would that keep the Sphinx's technology out of enemy hands?" Kel watched as he mulled the information over in his mind. His weight left hers as he turned on his back to lie at her side. He stared up at the ceiling, continuing to ask questions, his voice quieter now. She didn't attempt to answer him, understanding that he was just thinking out loud. That he was doing so told her a lot about how much he trusted her, and

she felt a little twinge of discomfort. She firmly tucked it away. There was nothing to feel guilty about. "Why does the Temple care about the Resistance? Why aren't we negotiating with those who shot the Sphinx down?" John jerked his head to the side, looking her straight in the eye. "Unless the pilot is the most important thing. What is it, Kel? They must've known I'd arrive too late. What does the dead Captain have that could be more important than the newest military air toy? Who are we negotiating for? What information did you retrieve?" Kel turned to lie on her side so she could see him better. His flowing robe hid most of his body from her eyes, but it also emphasized the breadth of his shoulders. He never did like wearing too many layers, so it was easy to guess that he hated what he had on. But he was too good to let it show when he was doing his job, of course. Her John was essentially a T-shirt and jeans man, but sometimes casual clothing wasn't an option in his job. "Relax. Take off your clothes," she ordered softly. Well, she had her own selfish reasons. This time, it was his turn to smile at her. A sinfully wicked curve of those sexy lips. It sent shivers down her back, and it was way too hot to catch a chill. Always a tough negotiator, he asked, "And what would I get in return?" She rested her head on her arm, while her other hand strayed tentatively over his chest. “What do you want?" she teased, ever the strategist. "Me? Or answers to your questions?" He didn't even take a moment to consider. "You."

"That's nice," Kel murmured, and pulled at the cloth covering his neck, "but why do I get the feeling that you'll try to get the answers anyway, likely using unfair methods?" His smile became even more wicked, if that were possible, as he began to loosen his thick waistband. His eyes never left her as his hands tugged at his clothes. "Oh, it'll be very fair,” he promised. "You'll find it extremely satisfying." Kel's breath caught as his naked chest came into view. Lord, but that man had a nice chest - smooth where it should be, lightly patterned with hair where needed. She was suddenly greedy to see more, but he was deliberately moving too slowly. With rare impatience, she ripped off the loosened sash at his narrow waist, along with a bunch of buttons. She didn't notice that John had become still, passively letting her do as she wanted. She didn't notice anything at all, in fact, but the tremendous swell straining against his white underwear. "Oh my,” she whispered. And licked her lower lip. She ignored John's choked groan. When she reached out her hand, he grabbed it. "I thought you wanted me out of my clothes,” he reminded her, although his voice sounded a little forced. Kel had waited all this time; she could wait another five minutes. Besides, she had her reasons to prolong this little torture. It wasn't easy, but she swallowed her impatience. "OK," she said.

John literally slid out of his clothes, not even sitting up to remove his pants. He kept his eyes on her as he kicked them out of the way. She took in all of him - the thickly muscled arms, the flat stomach, the powerful thighs covered with a fine sheen of perspiration. The years had made him leaner. There was one offending garment left. She stared at the item meaningfully. "What do you want?” John echoed her earlier question. Kel reluctantly looked up and the desire smouldering in his dark eyes was almost too much. But things were moving faster than she wanted. Timing was important here, she reminded herself. She wanted to make sure that the information she'd be giving John Dallas tonight was just the right amount, no more, no less. If her timing was off, she knew he'd force her to answer the questions she didn't want to. Exactly what had happened three years earlier. She inched a little closer, taking great delight in being so close to her man again, taking in everything she had missed so much - his scent, his nonchalant sexuality, his responsive body - and wanting more than anything else to close the emotional gap between them. "Food," she replied, and it wasn't exactly a lie. "I haven't eaten since midday." John stared back at Kel. She was serious. She really meant food. He didn't doubt it because he knew how ridiculous her metabolism was. The woman could out-eat a horse.

'You teased me out of my clothes and now you want to eat?" he asked. He slowly turned until they were facing each other, several inches apart. "What sort of wifely behaviour is that?” 1

You did ask me what I wanted." She looked at him in amusement.

"Dallas, you just have to learn how to slow down a bit. Besides, you always did like to watch me eat." John laughed huskily. You're the only woman I know who thinks food is foreplay." He leaned forwards and kissed her. 'You're going to have to hurry. This husband is hungry too." He needed to calm his raging libido, anyway. There were things more important than sex. Yeah, keep telling yourself that John, while your brain cells and important body parts vehemently object. Kel Grant didn't just show up like a desert mirage for no reason; the woman had specifically avoided being physically near him for years. Sure they'd had one or two conversations on the phone whenever their jobs happened to cross paths, and she'd never hidden the fact that she still found him attractive, but no matter how hard he tried to persuade her, she'd never once agreed to see him. Not once. Until now. He wasn't given the codename Black Knight for nothing. The moniker wasn't meant to denote some romantic notion of a medieval warrior - it was the chess piece that he was named after. In the game, the Knight negotiated a stealthy path, neither straight nor diagonal, hiding motive and purpose from his opponents. He was trained to see what others hid, and Kel Grant, the woman who had haunted him all this time, was hiding a lot.

Part of him accepted that because she was an operative doing her job. Part of him was furious because she'd chosen to play his opponent instead of his sidekick. Every move she'd made so far was a delay tactic. He was, after all, a negotiator in this business, and she was nowhere near capable of hiding anything from him for long. His eyes narrowed as he watched her walk to the tent's back entrance. She bent forwards to pick up a large tray that he hadn't noticed before, giving him a tempting view of those bikini briefs that barely covered her ass. Yeah, some negotiator. Dallas. So far, his wonted steel-trap mind and cool logic had failed to function at all. Things that he'd been trained not to allow had dominated all the present negotiating- a low-cut wisp of a tank top, a pair of long legs that he knew were ballerina-flexible. Her lips asking to be kissed. He frowned. How many others had kissed them since him? He angrily jerked up into a sitting position. Let her eat. Let her relax. It would give him a chance to settle down so he could concentrate on things, like getting information about this operation. What she had told him so far had only led him to more questions. Kel was a courier, not a negotiator, so she had information to pass on, obviously retrieved from that dead pilot. But to whom was she passing it on? And what could be so important that the Temple had sent her ahead of him? They apparently had thought that the pilot might not survive. That didn't surprise him. The Temple seldom executed any plan without a dozen moves thought out ahead; he was, after all, part of that system, and understood very well the

strategic lessons of preparation. However, things had gone through too many unexpected twists lately, and the pattern pointed not to coincidence but to planning. He studied the woman laying out the small plates of food on the eating mat. How much did she know? Or was she just on a routine courier mission? At that instant, Kel turned around, her head cocked. "Well, are you going to eat with me, or not?" Dressed as she was, she looked slightly ridiculous sitting on the ground, in the traditionally demure female position, feet tucked sideways. And her smile was anything but demure. "Aren't you hungry?" John felt his body responding to her unspoken invitation. There was no way he could hide how she affected him, not when he was down to his underwear. He joined her on the mat with a grimace. Cross-legged wasn't one of his favourite positions. He looked into her amused eyes, and the conflicting emotions rose in him again. He wasn't pleased to see her; he was ecstatic to see her. He didn't want her around; he wanted her to stay. He needed to question her about the operation; he was dying to talk about the two of them. He glanced quickly at his watch. Daybreak was his deadline. Accepting a bowl of roasted meat from her, he smiled. "Sure." Wanting to test her, he continued, "After we eat, I'd like to be entertained with some stories, Scheherazade." Kel paused with the food halfway between her bowl and mouth, and then he was rewarded with a rich, husky laugh. And, like the newly married queen from -4 Thousand and One Nights, the woman in front of him settled back, looking absolutely confident that she could keep her

husband interested all night long. John Dallas couldn't take his eyes off her. He was hungry all right. But not for food. Enveloping Attack - An attack from behind the enemy forces. Counter-play - The opposite side takes aggressive action. A player who has counter-played well puts himself on equal footing with his opponent.

Two John closed his eyes, relinquishing all control. Her hands touched him. Her lips. Her mouth. Her tongue took over his world, which had rapidly diminished into one burning powerful need as he had somehow ended up on his back after dinner. She explored his body, first with her small hands, gliding all over each part of him so slowly that he had to grit his teeth to stop from begging. Her hair was the softest silk - he couldn't remember undoing that braid - as she bent her head. His muscles contracted when he felt her lips following the path of her hands, a sensuous, wet path that stopped to investigate all the right spots. She sucked his nipples, nibbled her way down his stomach ... damn if the woman wasn't hungry still... and he groaned as her mouth hovered over his painfully erect cock. Take it. Take me. Was he even speaking in English? He couldn't hear himself amid the roar in his ears. He was so hot for her, he was going to . . . and then her lips closed around him and he groaned. He was in heaven. And she was the angel of his dreams returned to him. She rolled her tongue and he almost shot off the floor in response. The welcome wetness of her

mouth took ... everything. Everything. When she'd left him, he felt she'd taken everything with her, but he could never name what those things were. It was just the emptiness inside that told him she took something valuable. A growl escaped his lips in protest when she stopped. Don't. Stop. She only laughed and came back up to kiss him. God, she tasted so good. He pushed his tongue into her mouth with the ravenousness of a wild man. How many others had there been? The surge of jealousy caused him to kiss her more roughly than he intended, but he didn't care any more. She was his wife, wasn't she? She was his. His. He lifted her off him and was on her immediately. Flesh on flesh. He was going to take back what was his. How dare she leave him? Her throaty encouragement urged him on as she moved sinuously under him. He didn't need her to tell him what she wanted - he could feel her wet and ready. "John." How could the mere whisper of his name in his ear make him almost lose his control? It was the way she said it. She never called him John, except during heated moments of intimacy. John - in that husky murmur. John almost French sounding, the way she sighed it out. She gripped his arms as he guided himself inside her. Hot. She clenched around him in fierce possession, all sleek feminine eagerness. He pushed and almost lost it again when she arched into him with wild abandon. Stroke for stroke, she drove him higher and higher.

He tried to focus. Her eyes were half-closed, looking back at him. Little pants escaped her parted lips. He couldn't really see. Or think. She gasped. "John .. .John ... Johhhnn!" Forget focus. His world exploded into pure heat. And still he kept driving into her, needing her all over again. Her writhing response only rekindled the pleasure that washed his senses in waves. John closed his eyes. When he reopened them, everything still looked out of focus. He frowned. His body was stiff, as if he had been sleeping in the same position too long. As the ceiling of the tent became clearer, so did his thoughts. What time was it? His wrist appeared in front of his eyes and the watch read 06.00 hours. Six in the morning? He squinted. He couldn't remember going to bed. Couldn't remember a damn thing after he sat down to eat dinner with Kel. He jerked up as if hit by an electrical current Images swam in his mind images way too sexy to be just a dream. He looked down. Oh yeah, he was naked under the sheet. The pillow next to him had an indentation. Her scent lingered tantalizingly on him still. Something was very wrong. He usually didn't have sensational sex and not remember doing it. Well, actually he recalled some pretty incredible details, but the memory felt. . . distant. A cough interrupted his disarrayed thoughts, and John looked in its direction, ready to demand an explanation. Except that the woman sitting quietly near the entrance to the tent wasn't

Kel. It was one of the women who had sat beside her in the donkey cart yesterday. What the hell was going on? John's eyes caught sight of the previous night's leftovers sitting innocently on the tray not too far away. A nasty suspicion surfaced. Fury awoke the rest of his half-asleep mind. "She told me to tell you not to yell," the stranger in his bridal tent said softly, her accented voice trembling slightly from fear. "She said shouting would only make trouble." John glared at the woman, even though it wasn't her fault that he was wearing only his birthday suit in a stuffy tent in the mountains of goatherding country. And, oh yeah, he was the top-notch liaison that was supposed to be in charge of a hostage arms exchange. At current status, he had no hostage and had given away a whole cache of arms. He scowled fiercely, although cussing would have felt better. A strange woman was less than ten feet away from his naked ass, and she was already looking at him as if he were an ogre. "Where is she?" he asked, his morning voice huskier than usual. He cleared his throat and looked around the tent to make sure Kel wasn't hiding under any of the camel-hair sheets. The other woman's gasp halted his scan, and looking down he noticed that the not-too-big sheet protecting what was left of his modesty had moved and now he was really in danger of scaring the poor lady. She was, after all, bundled up like a proper Muslim woman, but he had no idea whether she was for real or not. Her horrified eyes seemed to say she was definitely for real, though. John sighed, and pulled the sheet higher. Oops. Too high, judging from

her ever-widening eyes. He tugged at the other end of the sheet. Obviously, his wife thought this up as some final joke. His wife. He glared at the woman again, and repeated his question. "Where's Leiha?" To his relief, the woman took her eyes off his body, and answered, "I am Leiha." Oh, that was all he needed. Morning-after surprises. "I mean Leiha, my wife." He tried to sound reasonably patient. He could have been crude by explaining about the Leiha who had been naked beside him the night before, but he had a feeling that would only earn him more female problems. "For now, I am Leiha, your wife." She stepped closer, in the manner of a person approaching an angry bear. That was it. John's patience was definitely wearing thinner by the second. He moved forwards and she shrieked, falling back a few steps. "Leiha, or whoever you are," he told her, wondering whether he had somehow woken up in the twilight zone, "I just want my clothes. OK? Look, they're all over the place. If you can just throw me . . . ummm-“ skip the underwear, he decided "—the pants over there, I'd really appreciate it." She vigorously nodded her head in agreement, and ran to fetch the garment. Staying a few feet away, she tossed the trousers into his arms. John waited. And waited. Finally, he sighed. "If you don't turn around, I can't put them on without embarrassing you." It mustn't have occurred to her, for her face went fiery red. But she still didn't turn away. "I have never seen a naked man before," she told him.

Oh, now he was the zoo animal for display. "Lady, I'm sorry to hear that, but until we've been properly introduced, I'd rather not give lessons in anatomy, if you don't mind." He watched in amusement as she finally turned her back with a show of reluctance. A few minutes later, he was dressed enough to conduct a normal conversation, although there was nothing normal about the whole damned state of affairs. It was barely six thirty in the morning, and he felt as if time had escaped him somehow. Leiha, the other Leiha, his Leiha, was still missing. This new one was moving around the tent as if she were really his wife, picking up discarded clothes and putting things away in the small trunks by the entrance. He scratched the back of his neck in frustrated disbelief. "What else did she say, besides not to shout?" The woman dug into her robes, and pulled out a piece of paper. "She wrote you this letter." John tore the envelope quickly. Dallas, I know you will remember everything I told you last night. This is Zaleiha, your wife. Take her with you and hand her over at your next stop. She can't return to the village now because she is, of course, me, and you and your wife's journey will be watched over. I'm sorry I can't stay with you. I know how much your freedom means. If you like, I'll mutter "I divorce you" three times as soon as I cross the border. Be careful. You have completed your part of the deal but the game isn't over. Oh, eat this

note, darling. Love, Kel P.S. Last night was more than fair. Let's do this info barter again some time. John wanted to pull his hair out. He'd barely been with Kel for twentyfour hours and already she was driving him crazy. The trouble with her was he never knew what was going on in her head. She was one complicated package, always with her fingers in ten different projects. She was the only woman who made him want to strangle and kiss her all at once. I know how much your freedom means. He squashed the note, startling Zaleiha, who was watching him with fear in her eyes again. Just to appease his current bad mood, he scowled at her fiercely and, just like that, the woman dropped the folded garments in her arms and scuttled off, heading for the tent exit. Ah, shit. John sighed, attempting to control his temper. "Don't be frightened,” he said. "You're Zaleiha, right?” She nodded. "She said you were going to be like a drunk donkey when you woke up," she said, her voice accusing, "and that I have to get you a cup of coffee with lots of milk.” "Donkeys don't get drunk,” John pointed out politely. He spied the sash for his robe and went to retrieve it. "But yes, coffee with milk. That sounds like the best thing right now.” As if she had been waiting for his permission, Zaleiha immediately went

over to a tray and poured coffee out of a flask. The aromatic brew must be strong as hell because the whole tent smelled of roasted coffee immediately. John took a deep breath, wondering if that might just kickstart his brain cells again. He accepted the cup from her, looking at the coffee longingly. "You didn't spike this too, did you?” "Spike?” She frowned. "Spiked ... as in drugged." "Oh." She nodded in comprehension, then, realizing that she might be misunderstood, quickly shook her head. "Of course not. She says you will kill her if your coffee doesn't taste right.” She cocked her head. 'You must be a very nasty-tempered man, killing so easily.” Did she just make a joke? John sipped on his coffee, studying the woman. She had a very earnest demeanour, when she wasn't cowering. "Well, bad coffee is a serious offence,” he commented, and took another big gulp. "But not to worry, this particular batch is absolutely line.” "She made it herself." John sighed. Might have known. "Is there anything else she said to you?" It pissed him off, having been out-manoeuvred like that. He knew the Temple was behind it, but why did it have to be Kel? If it had been anyone else, he wouldn't have been tricked so easily. He was pretty sure the sex was just Kel's own way to poke a little fun at him. OK, so it had been fun for him too, but surely she knew that she didn't need to drug him for that

kind of cooperation? He'd have been more than willing. "She said lots of things, but I don't know what was meant for your ears.” John looked at Zaleiha, who resumed putting away things. "Where did you learn your English anyway?” he asked. He rolled up the eating mat after she put the dinner trays into a basket. "We girls all went to school, you know, until the revolution. Now they no longer allow us to be educated. I was going to go to college but my parents were killed.” Zaleiha shrugged. "But this is my way out. You are my way out.” For the first time since waking up, John felt in control. Negotiations and exchanges. That was his domain. Zaleiha was part of the H-A-X. "Can you tell me about the pilot that died? The one Kel. .. Kaleiha talked to. How did your people find him?" "The villagers saw the plane come down. Then they found him in a deep . . .how do you call it... valley? Deep valley?” "Ravine," John supplied. "Ravine. Then they kept him for the Resistance. She showed up not long after. I think she talked to the pilot but I'm not sure." Kel had told him she did. "So the Resistance didn't know that the man was dying until they saw him, right?" She nodded. "Then Kaleiha showed up and talked to the Resistance and then, somehow, you became involved." "I was chosen because I can speak good English and I'm not married. It's hard to get married when you are smarter than all the men in the village."

John had to smile. He liked the woman's directness. "Right. So you get to come with me, then. Did Kaleiha tell you what's going to happen? Did she prepare you for the journey?" She gave him an indignant look. "Of course. She was very nice to me and we brokered a deal." He cocked a brow. This he wanted to hear. "Oh?" "If she chose me as the one to go to freedom, I have to treat you exactly the way she teaches me." John crossed his arms. He wished this wondrous teacher were around at the moment. There were several great ways to treat runaway wives in this culture. "And how are you supposed to treat me?" Zaleiha backed away, her eyes wary. "Very carefully." Two hours later, John felt eminently better. He had freshened up by the river, taking in the banter of the other men in the camp. Up so early already? The mountain air wears one out you know. Can he make it down the mountain, you think? He wondered what they would have done if they had woken up to find another woman in their tent. They were all packed and ready to make their way down the mountain trail. Hashem was the only one in his group who knew that the woman on the donkey cart, completely veiled now from head to foot, was not the same woman he had married. The leader of the visiting group, Ahmin, had a twinkle in his eye when

he shook hands with his new "brother". "I trust you are pleased with your woman." John lifted a brow sardonically. "I don't have any complaints." "We are happy too. We needed the supplies you gave us." They climbed on to their horses, trotting side by side with him for part of the way to show respect. John studied Ahmin, who looked like a regular Pakistani until he spoke in that New York accent. He wondered at the circumstances that made an obviously Westernized, educated man decide to go to war. But it was none of his business. His job had always been only as the go-between, making sensitive, unsavoury exchanges that governments didn't wish to be publicly known. Lately, however, he had some questions that he knew could get him into trouble. Little things about the last four or five operations had bothered him. Like this one. With the dead pilot and the obvious fact that an expensive wreckage lay abandoned in these mountains but wasn't, somehow, considered important. That was too weird. Technology like the new Sphinx would make for some serious exchange negotiations. So, how come the Temple still wanted to extract a dying pilot? And when they couldn't, why did they send a courier? And to retrieve what? As if reading his mind, the other man turned to him and said, "She is something special. If she weren't so old, I would have married her myself. She refused, though. She's a tough negotiator. Wanted more than farm animals. She told me she intended to see the Taj Mahal. I hope you can afford such a wife." John gave a slow smile. A test was a test, after all. The man wanted to see exactly how much John knew about the dead pilot situation. Kel didn't

really leave him totally in the dark; they did talk some during dinner. "We Westerners have something called a honeymoon. She mentioned Agra last night." “So, we may

meet again."

Interesting. Kel had a date to meet up with this man? John shrugged, "If it's important enough, I'll be there," he replied. "Goodbye, then, John Dallas," Ahmin said. "I do miss the United States, you know. New York pizza, nothing like it. And, of course, meeting with married women is unheard of here. I look forward to doing business with your wife. She promised me a good pizza dinner." They parted company, moving in opposite directions. It killed John not to be able to pull the man off his horse to ask him exactly when and how he was meeting Kel Grant. Kel Dallas, he corrected grimly. Oh, the journey downhill would provide ample time for him to think out a plan. First, he would reassemble all the information Kel had given him last night. Then he would piece it together with what he had found out through Zaleiha and Ahmin. Lastly, he was going to give his wife a hell of a surprise. Pizza dinner, right? Would she really mutter "I divorce you" three times like she claimed in the letter? John gripped his horse's reins tightly as he motioned for the men to start moving out. Did she think she could just up and walk away like she did all those years ago? Did she think he would be satisfied with a quickie Muslim divorce, especially now he had her in his arms again? What was he, some sort of a one-night stand before heading off to a date with a pizza-loving, gun-toting,

New York Pakistani? The more he thought about that last question, the more incensed he became. He needed the information she had retrieved. There was something going down at the Temple and he intended to find out what. It was important enough to draw Kel out to see him again. His eyes narrowed. Unless, of course, that move was just meant to distract him. So many missing pieces. He hated it. He wanted to know everything about Kel Grant. . . Kel Dallas, he muttered under his breath. She wasn't divorcing him until he was damn well ready. It wasn't easy leaving her warm sleeping man in bed. Kel closed her eyes, picturing John asleep, one arm flung over his head, the other holding her hand as if taking her for a walk in his dreams. His mouth had been slightly open, and she had placed a soft kiss on his lips before leaving. A night of losing had left her wanting more and her heart screamed at the unfairness of it all. She sighed. What heart? She had already left it with John Dallas a long time ago, little did the stubborn man know. In many ways he was still the same man - damned good at figuring people out; lousy when it came to dissecting his own emotions. Somehow, she confused him. She could see it in the way he constantly fought himself. As an opponent, she could take advantage of this so easily, but as a woman who loved him, she wanted him to be very sure about her. She certainly didn't want him to think she forced him into anything. It wasn't her way. Of course, she imagined, at that moment he probably wasn't confused at all. In fact, he was probably trying very hard not to roar like an injured bear. Poor baby. Kel grinned. He was always such a sore loser. The mild

sedative she had given him was just enough to stop his determination to ask too many questions. His motor skills, she recalled in amusement, were functioning just fine. Eyes closed, she crossed her legs as the images flooded her mind. Peeling the underwear from her half-conscious man was the most erotic thing she'd done in a long time. John Dallas totally in her power. Oh my. And totally responsive, calling her name in that demanding tone, even with his brain addled. "Take me, Kel," he'd whispered. Her heart thrilled at those words. Every inch of his magnificent body was committed to memory. She had touched him. Stroked him. Kissed him. Tasted him. And he'd done the same to her. She quivered as if his hands were caressing her again. The way they had moved up her inner thighs. The way he had massaged the sensitive area at the top of her thigh. Then his thumbs moved inwards and parted her like a curtain. The growl he gave had her near orgasm, and when he'd touched her, she almost screamed. He'd explored her like a blind man, slowly and deliberately. Well, the drug gave the effect of drunkenness, so he probably hadn't been able to focus. Which was what she'd wanted, she thought, opening her eyes at last. She had chosen the drug precisely for that reason. She didn't want him to see too closely, otherwise he'd question things - like her tattoo. She had just wanted him to touch her. Damn, she didn't want to think about that right now. She was lonely and missed Dallas. She hadn't allowed herself to indulge in Dallas fantasies too often. It made the loneliness even worse afterwards. But this memory was so good. The man was definitely talented in bed, even half-cons do us.

She frowned at the twinge of guilt again. Oh, stop. He wouldn't have let her leave on her own and Kel was glad to be away from the traditional confines of the mountain people. To pretend to be subservient 24/7 was no easy feat. She was used to working alone but that wasn't possible in a culture that subjected the female population. In some ways, it worked to her advantage; she could move among men without being noticed. Who would have suspected a woman courier? So after the Sphinx's crash she'd managed to slip past the guards and those who patrolled the villages. John wouldn't understand. And he would have definitely insisted on knowing why his presence was needed at all, when the pilot was already dead. His guess that the pilot's message was more important than the aircraft was too close to the truth. Her instructions from HQ had been specific. The message was only for the King's ears. Nobody else. Once she had reached the meeting point, changed clothes, and flew across the border to New Delhi, India, she was back in the hustle and bustle of Asian culture, with its open markets and noisy, haphazard traffic, the intense mix of modern industry and ancient temples. Here, after passing off the message through a secured line, she became a tourist, constantly hounded by beggars when she ventured out on to the streets. In this heat, at least, there was air conditioning in the hotels. And she was glad to have escaped the suffocating head-to-foot burka. And yes, there was food. Her burp was loud and unladylike as she leaned back from the room-service trolley. God, it was wonderful to eat good food again. She had been constantly hungry in Pakistan, restricted by custom and the constant company of other women. The power bars she had hidden in the folds of her garment tasted like sweaty cardboard after a while. She made

a face at the memory. Indian food had her vote for sure. She looked at the dishes before her: biryani rice with chicken, kebabs, beef baked in clay pots. A culture could be studied by the food its people ate - she popped a piece of the kebab into her mouth - and Indian culture was unapologetically spicy and overdone. She liked it. The hum of the fax machine by her bed caught her attention and, wiping her hands on the tablecloth, she stood up to check the message. Her next mission. She read it twice. Interesting. She had thought it was going to be a simple meeting with Ahmin in Agra, the historic city, four hours away. That was another thing John wouldn't understand, she thought. The fact that she was meeting the man again after the exchange. Ahmin wanted an audience with the person in charge of this H-A-X. Apparently, he was more than he seemed. Kel scratched her nose as she contemplated the upcoming meeting. She had a feeling many things were going to happen in Agra. She'd better figure out how to handle them all. "You look different in T-shirt and jeans," Zaleiha commented. John looked up from the file he was studying. After several dusty days down the mountain trail, they had finally reached their destination, where they were given papers and changes of clothes. It was the usual drill bribes, phone calls, more bribes at the checkpoint, and the liaison at the waiting place - but for Zaleiha, it had been an eye-opener. She'd pulled a dress out of the small suitcase that had been given to her and held it up to

her body, exclaiming at how clever Kel was to know the correct size. Then she'd taken a look at slender pumps included in the case and had fallen in love. John grinned at the memory. It was funny watching a woman drool over footwear. He'd seen Kel with the same look in her eyes when she shopped for shoes, so he recognized the reaction immediately. Women and shoes. He shook his head. Why there must be three pairs for each outfit was a mystery to him. "You look different too,” he told Zaleiha, who stood at the door of the office. Without those confining clothes, he saw that she was thinner than he'd thought. Her dark hair was pulled back under a scarf, indicating her Muslim beliefs. Her almond-shaped eyes didn't meet his. She was shy, he realized belatedly. He scratched the back of his neck. Hell, he had no knowledge of how to treat shy women. "Umm . . . come on in. Let me look at you properly." She obediently walked into the room, carefully placing one foot in front of the other, like a model. "Do you think where I am going, I can buy more shoes?" she asked. John frowned. "Why, don't you like the three pairs you have?" "Oh, yes! But Kel said I have to buy another outfit, a nice one, for dinner dates. And I would need more shoes for that." She bit her lip. "Taller shoes, she said, I think." "Ah ... high heels," John told her, then shook his head in disbelief. He couldn't believe that he had been assigned the role of Professor Higgins to Eliza Doolittle here. High heels and evening gowns, indeed. His frown

deepened. "You're not thinking that I'll be taking you out to dinner, are you? I won't be around once the next liaison arrives. He or she will take care of you." "Of course not. You're a married man!" Zaleiha exclaimed in shock. "When I go out to dinner with a man, it will be with an available one. Kel said to look for the right kind." "Kel said, Kel said." John felt his temper rising again. "Kel seems to have spent a lot of time with you." Zaleiha nodded. "She asked me many questions, said she wanted to make sure this was the right step for me. She didn't want me to feel out of place, alone and unwanted." Something glowed inside him, hearing about Kel's concern for a stranger. She very seldom showed this soft side of herself, and he had forgotten how it made him feel whenever he caught her doing the unexpected things that had nothing to do with the Temple or her job. When he was asked to profile Kel as part of her trainee evaluation that was the first thing he had noticed about her. She was very protective of people she cared about. "Tell me, Zaleiha, how did Kel explain the situation to you? Did you have any idea then who she was and what was happening?” "Well, I land of understood some land of exchange was going to take place. The Resistance likes to do that - trade things with different people. That's how we all survive. Kel told me that she works for a group which specializes in brokering deals between agencies.”Zaleiha frowned, trying to work it out in words. "It's complicated, but she put it in the simplest way,

and now I’ve forgotten how exactly. It has something to do with the war game, checkers.” "Chess," corrected John. "Go on, try to remember exactly how Kel explained it." "Ummm .. . something about her job as moving the pieces in the game to make sure the right pieces ... the right moves? No, the right pieces . . . make the right move.” Zaleiha shrugged. "I understood it when she said it but not any more, I'm sorry. She told me about you too, that your job was more active because you were the negotiator, while she is more like a messenger.” Kel's explanation was important to John because it told him what she had in mind and how she played the game. As a negotiator for the Temple, he'd had to set up a dummy corporation as a cover. The parties involved never really knew who they were buying from or exchanging with; usually, they were more than happy with the money and the terms. And if they happened to be inquisitive enough to search deeper, they would just come up with Knights Inc., the dummy front, a company that specialized in treasure hunts. His own group of "knights" were hand-picked by him. He trusted them. What Kel said to Zaleiha wasn't too far from the truth. He was a negotiator and she was a courier, a messenger. Simple as that. Who they worked for was a little more complicated to clarify. The game wasn't for everyone. Its participants were very selective. He shuffled through the papers in the folder as he analysed what he had found out in the last few days. The thing was, what was he supposed to be

negotiating for? And what message did Kel get from the pilot? Usually, all the details were given to him to ensure his success, but lately, it seemed as if someone up there wanted him to fail. This wasn't the first time that he'd conducted business that seemed to have nothing worthwhile in return. He frowned. What was so important about a damned message? "What are you reading?" Zaleiha interrupted his thoughts. "Stuff." “

Ahh."

John lifted a brow enquiringly. "Ahh?" "Kel said—" She stopped when he groaned, lowering his head in a gesture of total defeat. "I'm sorry, is something wrong?" "No, no, please continue," he said, wanting to hear what other wisdom his Kel had imparted. “What was the 'ahhh' for?" Zaleiha sat down on the Victorian embroidered chair, and crossed and uncrossed her legs, studying how they looked. Finally, she put them together and tucked them femininely to the side. “

Kel said," she continued, as she tried to keep her balance, ''that 'stuff

means the man doesn't want the woman to know about whatever he's doing. It's part of the secret code of male domination, she said.” John coughed. The woman was incorrigible, and he didn't mean Zaleiha. "I think you shouldn't take Kel so seriously. She has this strange sense of humour that isn't really proper." He could manipulate information just as well as his darling wife.

"She told me to ignore any insults you say about her," Kaleiha informed him, and her eyes widened when she finally looked up from her feet. "Oh, don't be angry. I don't know how to make her good coffee to calm you down ... and the other way is impossible." OK, he'd bite. "Go on. What is the other way to calm me down? Drug me?" he suggested, with remarkable calm, he thought. Kaleiha blushed and, again, wouldn't look him in the eye. He narrowed his suspiciously. "Well," she said, her voice shy. "It's impossible because I don't know what to do with a naked man, but Kel said, she can calm you down once you're naked." John stared at the woman. Her face was bright red with embarrassment. "You know what," he said, although the sound of his voice seemed a little choked to him, "I think I'm going to take you to Agra with me. I need to show you off to Kel." Delight fused with embarrassment. The woman, who, a few days ago, was probably the epitome of a demure and quiet female, jumped up, squealing. She quickly covered her mouth. "Oh, thank you, thank you! Kel said if I said the right things, you would take me along!" John contemplated tearing the file in his hands in half. Fate giving him one manipulating female was cruel, but to then give him another who was obviously in training to be just as bad was simply evil. He had to go to the source, return this evil thing to the giver. He thought of Kel - he wasn't going to let time pass again. She couldn't hide from him, not ever again. Yes, he was going to find the evil woman in Agra and ... and... get naked. Knight's Tour - A puzzle or task in which a knight has to move over

an empty chessboardr visiting each square only once. Three "AARRRRRRRGGGGGGGHHHHHH!" John opened one eye, his right ear ringing from the high-pitched scream. "Take a nap," he advised. "If you don't look, you won't see a damned thing." The woman beside him sat stiffly, both hands gripping the backrest of the front seat, as she stared with saucer-eyes into the traffic in front of her. In the driver’s seat, the turbaned Sikh had one finger poked into his left ear while steering with his thumb pressed insistently on the car horn. "How can you sleep?” Zaleiha shrieked back over the din. "He is constantly making that horrible sound with the horn! How can you sleep with four hours of car horn?” Her voice rose into a hysterical pitch. "He needs to do that,” explained John in a mild voice, "to let the people ahead of him know he's right on their asses and if they don't move to the other lane, there's going to be a crash.” "That's it! That's it!" Zaleiha yelled. "Why do they drive like there is just one lane? Even I can see there are two lanes clearly marked! Why are the drivers in the middle of the road and why must this driver keep honking until they move? When we used to have television, the people in the shows didn't drive like this!” John sighed, and opened his eyes. It wasn't easy explaining to somebody about driving in a country where no rules is the rule. First of all, there was

probably only one traffic light from New Delhi to Agra. One traffic light, and that was near the palatial government building. After that, it was every citizen for himself, so to speak. Every driver, every school kid on a bicycle, every crammed-to-the-seams busload of Indians, every wagon of workers, every crisscrossing cow for himself. At varying speeds up to eighty miles an hour, he had to admit it could be harrowing to a first-timer. He'd learned to just let go of the mounting horror of being killed and take a nap. If that was possible, that is, with everyone beeping their horn as if their life depended on it. Which it did. Just close your eyes, and pretend you're in New York. In the year 2050. Okay, that was probably not usable advice for a young woman on her first car ride. So he patted her on the shoulder in the awkward manner that he'd seen his pals use to comfort a crying child. "It's all right,” he said, in what he hoped was a soothing tone of voice. "They're used to it. Really. We are going to arrive in one piece. Right, David?" David Singh, the Sikh driver, nodded. "Oh yes,” he said, shaking his head in typical Indian fashion. "No problem. We're there in no time at all. Maybe five minutes. The Miss has nothing to fear, nothing to be afraid of. I'm a very good driver.” John looked back at Zaleiha. "See? Everything's under control.” At that moment, the car swerved hard to the left, barely missing a wayward cow. Zaleiha's high-pitched scream had both men wincing. "What control? What control?” she asked, as the car bounced over several packages that fell from the cart ahead. "This is madness! This is a killing

field! Why are there cows on the road?” "They're holy. They can go wherever they want.” "Look out!" The woman pointed to another cow lumbering toward them, then threw herself against John, hiding her face in his chest as she prayed in her dialect. Her stranglehold on his neck was amazingly strong, and John couldn't disentangle her hands as she sobbed, soaking his Tshirt. He looked up and caught David Singh's sympathetic eyes in the rearview mirror. John sighed, sinking back into the seat. When they reached Agra, the car would slow down and maybe he could dissuade this woman from making a giant hanky out of him. He’d forgotten exactly why he chose to bring her along ... oh yeah, to give her back to Kel. Let her be Professor Higgins. He forgot about the woman in his arms as soon as they entered the limits of the old city. The head-splitting honking stopped. That was because there wasn't a moving car in sight. Not a soul walking anywhere. It looked like an abandoned town, but with cars parked haphazardly all over the place. "David?" he asked. The driver shrugged "Well reach the hotel in no time at all - no traffic!” He drove on, obviously unperturbed by the non-activity around them. John frowned. He’d been to Agra before, and at the height of tourism, it was impossible to navigate on foot the closer one travelled to the Taj Mahal. Hawkers roamed everywhere selling fake marble items and bad replicas of the tomb. Beggar children literally chased the unwary foreigner

all the way from the hotel to the famous site. And there were the thousands of visitors, locals mingling with the very obvious foreigners, taking photographs and buying mementos. Where were they? This was the equivalent of walking down Fifth Avenue all alone. For a moment, he thought that maybe some sort of terrorist virus attack had killed off the population. Then he caught sight of a few cattle strolling down the street. Okay, strike virus-attack off the list. When they finally arrived at their destination, they found Indian soldiers in front of the hotel. One of them demanded identification as soon as David Singh rolled down the car window. Hot humid air immediately gushed into the cool interior. David exchanged a few words with the soldier, and then turned to John. "We aren't allowed to stay here." John arched a brow. "We have reservations.” "Yes, but the President of the United States has a suite here at the moment. Those people in the lounge are all like in the movie Men In Black, you know?” "Secret Service," John confirmed, as he eyed the black-suited, sunglassed, expressionless men. He vaguely remembered watching the news about the President's travel itinerary for some business summit. Apparently, the Temple was somehow involved. Well, at least he now had an explanation as to why the city was deserted. Probably under curfew. "No one is allowed to move around in the city. Soldier said if you give him some rupees, he will make problem go away.”

John sniffed. He doubted it. The Prez's blacksuits weren't going to let an unidentified car slip away without checking him out. "Tell the soldier I'm on my honeymoon, David,” he ordered. "And my wife is suffering from the heat.” "Yes, sir.” The soldier looked through the window and studied John, who was still holding Zaleiha. He shook his head. "Sorry, but security reasons," he said, apologetically. He shook his head sympathetically when Zaleiha moaned into John's chest. "Look, here are one thousand rupees.” John handed over the money. "My wife really needs some fresh air. If we could just rest up at the restaurant for an hour, then maybe she would feel better. Besides, we aren't allowed to move around the city, so how are we supposed to find other accommodations?" The soldier pocketed the bill. "You are right, sir. No travelling because of curfew, so you have to at least stay here until I find out what to do." "Thank you," John said, wryly. He whispered in Zaleiha's ear, "Keep it up." When the soldier opened the door, John climbed out with Zaleiha in his arms. He took the stairs and walked into the lobby. The Secret Service men spoke to the soldier John had bribed. The one in charge approached. "How is your wife, Mr ...?" "Dallas. We didn't know about this or we wouldn't have made the fourhour trip from New Delhi, I assure you."

"Why don't you sit down here and we'll get some water for her?" the man said. "I need to ask a few questions before I can let you through, I'm afraid. Every guest in this hotel has to be accounted for, and identified. Can I see your reservation papers?" "No problem," John said. "I understand thoroughly. Can you pull the envelope out of my pocket? My wife is still feeling rather weak. Here honey, let's just follow this man and sit down in the lobby for a few minutes, okay?" The man glanced through the papers, then looked up quickly, new respect in his eyes. "You're John Dallas, CEO of Black Knights, Inc.? Your executive secretary is already here, I believe. She signed up for a whole suite and left instructions for you. You're late for the Taj Mahal, I'm afraid, but the President is scheduled for another quick tour to Asoka's tomb." John nodded. Interesting how things could change just like that. He must be getting more important in the Temple's standings, meeting with the President of the United States now. When you didn't know what the hell was going on, the golden rule was to go with the flow. "Yes, I'm aware of that. My delay was unintentional." "We'll call up to your suite to announce your arrival. Just pick up the keys at the front desk and go straight up, Mr Dallas. Sorry that your wife feels so sick." "She'll be fine." John wondered whether she had fallen asleep, she was so still. They went to the registration desk and the Secret Service agent gave the

papers to the clerk, nodding his approval. "He's on our list. He can come down and sign in later," he instructed. "Let him get Mrs Dallas upstairs first." John thanked the man and took the electronic key cards in the small folder. John Dallas. Kel Dallas. His heart skipped a beat. More and more interesting, he thought. There was a weapon detection device just outside the elevator. John didn't put Zaleiha down, smiling apologetically at the security guard who waved them through. The elevator door closed before he spoke again. "Are you awake?" "Of course. But it feels good to be carried." She looked around her. The elevator door opened and, lo and behold, who was waiting for them outside but his dear wife. The real Mrs Dallas. John scowled at her. Arms folded, she scowled back. "Gaming your wife across the threshold, Dallas?" Kel greeted with heavy sarcasm. The tone of her voice perked John's attention. My, but he finally got some positive reaction - he took note of the glare, the glint in those golden eyes, the set of her lips. Yes, yes, all the signs of a jealous woman. He stepped out of the elevator. "Do show me the bridal suite, dear executive secretary." He smiled. Kel continued glaring at him, then turned around, marching down the carpeted hallway. John followed, his smile widening as he studied the stiff back of the woman ahead. She was wearing a pair of old jeans that clung to her in all the right places, and he eyed them appreciatively. He used to

love seeing Kel in jeans. Guessed he still did. The suite was huge. He immediately noticed that it had several bedrooms. He settled the very quiet Zaleiha on to the expensive-looking brocade sofa. Her eyes were still round as saucers as she looked about her. Kel leaned against the well-stocked bar nearby, her eyes glittering. "Nice, dutiful husband," she mocked. "The call from the lobby a moment ago said that Mrs Dallas was suffering from the heat. I don't see any such thing." "She was hysterical." "Sure she was. Heat can make a woman like that. She sure looks hysterical now too," Kel came back, disbelief in her voice. "It was the ride from New Delhi that frightened her," John explained amiably. He was enjoying this jealous Kel a lot. "We came this close to hitting some cows!" informed Zaleiha, thumb and finger emphasizing the danger they'd been in. "I was so frightened, and John comforted me. He is a very nice man to hug." "Uh-huh," said Kel. “I’d

better go down to reception to finish signing us in," John said,

knowing that this was the perfect moment to let the woman stew. Now Kel knew how he'd felt for the last few days. "Care to fill me in about what I need to do?" Kel's sideways glance was expressively clear about what she thought he needed to do. He grinned. Things were looking up; he was the one screwing with her mind this time. "1 can do that later," he continued, and studied her luscious figure, "but business before pleasure, and all

that." "Did you check up on your next assignment?” "I did a lot of checking up," John told her, and this time he watched her closely. "I have quite a few questions for you, Kel Dallas.” She blinked at the sound of her married name. It sounded strange to him too, but certainly not as strange as he’d thought. And, most importantly, she hadn't mentioned anything about changing it back to Kel Grant. "Questions later. You're a VIP guest here," Kel said, as she walked into the room. She handed him an envelope. "All the IDs you need right now. What did you tell them about the fact that you weren't here for the Taj Mahal trip?" John shrugged as he tore open the envelope. "Delays, whatever. Why are we here to meet POTUS?" "Side negotiations. We're actually dealing with a Mr Dante. When you're downstairs, leave a message for him too." She handed him an envelope. "It's important to write that message in exactly the same way as it's written in here, symbols and all." "Yes, ma'am. I want to do things exactly your way." She snorted. "I doubt that's what you want, Dallas." He wanted to kiss her, actually. But that wasn't in the instructions. He had a feeling if he kissed her right now, he would forget to go downstairs. Besides, there was Zaleiha. "We're finally here, Za. Where is your big hug for your friend Kel?"

Zaleiha was looking at them like they were both wild beasts. 'You had better make some coffee for her," she advised. "She has the same evil look in her eyes that you did the morning I first met you." "like a drunk donkey?" John asked helpfully. When Zaleiha nodded, he added wickedly, "Sorry, Za, coffee won't do it. There's only one way to soothe Kel." Zaleiha's face went red. "Oh," she squeaked. Kel was scowling again. Oh, he was enjoying this. Let's see Kel stew in her own juices. "See ya both in a bit," he called out, as he strode out of the suite. The moment he was in the elevator, he pulled out the envelope. The information was the usual deal. His next job. Yet, there was an odd feeling about the whole thing. His instincts told him that the last few assignments were connected somehow. If only he could see past the obvious. But he must be doing something right, or they wouldn't have sprung Kel on him. Twice. Twice, after three years. He chewed on his lower lip, as the lift descended back to the lobby. Did she know how much she affected him? Was that why they sent her so he might be distracted for a while? He frowned at that thought. Mostly because he had been distracted. There were several bedrooms up there and he'd lock both of them in one. The elevator door opened with a quiet hum and he exited, giving the security guard an absent-minded smile, his mind on the woman upstairs. He had plans for his own personal version of an information exchange. It took him quite a while to get to the registration desk. Security was tight, what with so many important people within the walls of the hotel. He

wondered whether the people working at the desk were really employees; their smiles of welcome were a bit too fixed. John copied the message inside the envelope on to a piece of hotel paper, folded it, and asked the desk clerk to make sure to put it in Dr Dante's box. He gave the man a tip for his trouble. If the clerk was really an undercover agent and snuck a peek, it’d read just like an innocent business message. This Miklos Riman Dante guy sounded familiar. After going through another security point, he strolled down to the lower area of the lobby, taking his time looking through the gift shops and boutiques. It was good to be alone again. He wasn't good with female company, never had been. The days with Zaleiha had taken a lot of patience. She had so much to learn about life outside a mountain village, and although she was a quick learner, he was not cut out to be her tutor. What the hell was the Temple going to do with her? Undoubtedly, she had to fit somewhere in their maze of plans, or they wouldn't have gone through the trouble of giving her a new identity. Seven years he’d been at this, and he had never even been close to actually stripping the veil of secrecy from the Temple. Everything was perfectly camouflaged, surrounded by layers of different dummy corporations. Hell, it was they who had shown him how to start Knights Inc., an international import-export business, specializing in antiques, even though he was nothing more than a glorified rogue treasure-hunter. He’d plunged into the strange world of finance, stolen artifacts, and government intrigue. The following years had made him very cynical about the power structures that held the world together -most of them, it seemed, controlled by a handful of men.

On the outside, he was CEO of Knights, Inc., a businessman who dealt in war artefacts, someone who financed a number of archaeological digs around the world, a low-key figure who made his money selling treasures to a selected few who belonged to the elite of the world. On the inside, he was a double agent, for the Temple and for Uncle Sam. There was no easy way to describe what the Temple really was. Uncle Sam sure didn't understand, but what Uncle Sam knew was that it was useful to have someone on the inside. The Temple negotiated for different groups of people who wanted to be anonymous, sometimes for treasure, sometimes for people, sometimes for politics. And the United States government was interested to know the details, or as much information as John Dallas, exmilitary, ex-CIA man, supplied them with. He’d discovered that one was never truly retired from covert work. Call it the seven-year itch but he'd been getting restless lately. The Temple, in the beginning, was a challenge, a personal Mount Everest. Like with the mountain, operatives had been sent up and defeated. However, nobody had been in there as long as he had - the former military man with an interest in treasure-hunting. He’d introduced himself to them as a modern-day Indiana Jones. Because of his success these past years, he was virtually autonomous in his dealings with them. In fact, John had more questions than Uncle Sam. Seven years, and all they'd ever contacted him about was a few weapons exchanges. That wasn't enough for him any more. So, instead of keeping a low profile and simply following orders, he had started to push a little more. Mount Everest wasn't totally insurmountable. A few people had reached its peak.

He just needed to make it his quest. At this point of the game, he didn't really care what Uncle Sam wanted. He was in charge of a group of highly trained soldiers-of-fortune. He'd even made his own fortune. What were they going to do, fire him? Kel heard the door to the suite open exactly one hour twenty-five minutes after John had left. She hadn't been worried when he departed. John Dallas knew how to get out of any sensitive situation. Plus, she could tell from that evil gleam in his eye that he liked having the upper hand again. She looked up from her work at the desk, pretending to be surprised. The evil gleam that shone in those black eyes always managed to give her a girlish shiver. He had a way of looking at her as if he were assessing every intimate secret in her mind. The daredevil glint challenged her every female instinct to yield to him. She jutted her chin out as he approached. She wanted so much more from this man, but she wasn't sure whether he was capable of giving it to her. "Worried about me?”he asked, coming to a stop in front of her. He was much too close. Whirling the chair from the desk, she tilted her head back and met those eyes again. Dark, devilish ... and yes, desire was in there too. She remembered that look only too well. "Should I be?" she countered. "You're probably just trying to get back at me for what happened in Pakistan.” "Damn right.” He moved even nearer, still not touching her. "What was that all about Kel? Really kinky, but not really a reunion, surely."

"Wedding,” Kel reminded him. "Wedding, reunion, whatever you want to call it," John said, his voice soft. "You know you didn't have to knock me out.” ''Would you have let me go off the next morning?" "You'll never know now, will you?" He leaned forward, putting his hands on either arm of her chair, trapping her. His body heat surrounded her and she breathed in his masculine scent. Why was it that the mere mixture of body temperature and chemical essence could heighten all her senses? When he was near her like this, her sight, her sense of smell, her hearing- every part of her- was focused entirely on his being. "It wasn't something I wanted to fight over," she explained, her voice husky. "I had a limited amount of time to spend with you and you were going to ask too many questions." "So you had your way with me and just left? Did you know we were going to meet again here, or were you going to wait another three years before contacting me?" The slight edge in his voice was the only thing that hinted at his mood. Everything else about him was very controlled, as if he had made up his mind not to lose his temper. Kel wouldn't have expected any less from him; his skill at negotiations was legendary. And he was in full battle mode now, trying to find the chinks in her armour, looking for a way to invade. He was definitely not going to play hide and seek with her anymore. She had been prepared for this, yet she still

felt the tiny flutters of nervousness in the pit of stomach. A big dose of John Dallas after years of starvation wasn't easy on a woman's peace of mind. "There was a chance that I would see you again," Kel told him, deliberately needling him. She noted the slight narrowing of his dark eyes. "Anyhow, I knew you'd come after me sooner or later, whether it was after your next assignment, or the next, but you wouldn't have left things as they were. As luck would have it, you were in Pakistan, and easily available for this job in India." "As were you," John remarked in a dry voice, pointing out the convenience of it all. She smiled at his sarcasm. He was mad because she was right. He would have gone after her, one way or another. "I knew you'd sacrifice something to come here; that was a given." She had to tease him a little. "Of course, there was a slight chance that you wouldn't make it, like an act of God, for instance." "Or if I had quit." Quit the Game? John? She raised an enquiring brow at the notion. "Sorry, that doesn't compute since our last big quarrel had to do with your loving the game too much. I believe your words were 'Can't leave it, darling. Don't make me choose between you and the Game right now.' Remember?" That had hurt. And because it hurt so much, she had pushed him, giving him an ultimatum. It might have been years but the pain of leaving him had stayed with her. What happened next had been an act of God, She had left him, thinking he would follow, and then - as the saying went -

shit happened. The choices after that weren't hers anymore. He studied her silently and she looked back at him, letting him draw his own conclusions. It wasn't easy staying one step ahead of him, and she knew that everything she told him would be filed away for later use. John Dallas was a consummate analyst, a necessary trait in the art of negotiation. She had no doubt that she would have to be very careful. What she needed to do, first of all, was to negotiate a truce of some sort. She had to be prepared for the barrage of questions coming her way and, she admitted, with both trepidation and thrill, to be the target of some very intense attention. The thrill was easily explained. After all this time, John still made her weak all over. She was so attracted to him, she ached from wanting him. No, she didn't need to hide how she felt about him; she couldn't even if she wanted to. All he had to do was lean forward now and kiss her, and she would willingly wrap her legs around him. As she thought about this, he moved even closer, until her only choice was to look into his eyes. Her heartbeat thundered. "Kiss me," she whispered softly. "Not yet," he told her, just as softly. "Why?" His breath was hot against her lips. "Because you keep asking me to remember this and remember that. I want you to remember something else." "What's that?” His proximity was driving her insane. She wanted to pull him closer somehow, but felt paralyzed by the sensuality of his gaze.

"I want you to remember that you asked me to give you more than you were willing to give me. I want you to feel this between us and realize that you gave it up for ambition. You walked away from us because you couldn't wait. You put distance between us because you were afraid." He couldn't have been more wrong. Kel didn't blink once through his accusations. Yet there was truth in his wrong conclusions. She forced a small smile. "How like a man to pick and choose what to remember and what to forget," she mocked. "Was what I asked so much? And just because I took another position within the organization must mean I did so out of blind ambition and fear, of course. If it were a man you would have said 'Way to go! Go for it!' You're a male chauvinist pig, John Dallas! If I were a man ..." "If you were a man, we wouldn't have been lovers and you wouldn't have given me an ultimatum!" John retorted. "If I were a man, we wouldn't be married," she finished. "If you were a man, we wouldn't have been allowed to many in front of an imam," he told her, a small smile tugging his lips. "Now that we've established that you aren't a man, why don't you tell me exactly why you married me and what is this game we're playing? Because, you know, it'd help me to understand the situation a whole lot better. Let's start with us." "This is my final assignment," Kel said, watching his face closely. “I’ve officially asked to be removed from the Temple's list. It's was a three-year deal I had with them, and I've finished." "Your final assignment was ... to marry me," John said rhetorically, his tone of voice deceptively casual.

Kel grinned. "No, my final assignment was to find the treasure that Dante wants. But marrying you was the opportunity to bring you close to me." He studied her for a minute. "Not once in the last three years, Kel..." he began. "It was part of the deal. No communications. John, I was on the list to be in the top tier and it isn't easy to quit. Sure, I was ambitious, but you meant more to me." She took one step towards him. "We aren't really legally married. It was just my way to tell you how committed I am to be with you. I can still say those magic words to free you." "Three years, Kel. Three fucking long years." "I know." "I can't forgive that. Not yet." "I know." There was another short silence. "This last game. How does it figure into your plans?" "If we win, I'm free," she told him. "We can be together and there won't be repercussions. I've protected you all along, can't you see? You think they don't know you're passing on information to the government? Don't be naive, John." "What if we don't win?" She knew she had to tell the truth. And she didn't want to hurt him. "There's a chance they won't honour our agreement if I fail to deliver," she said, then shrugged. "I've never thought beyond the promise of us. It's up

to you now. Do you want to take the chance?" She glanced up quickly and found his dark eyes focused intently on her. "I've always wanted you, Kel, and I don't intend to let you go. I want to get to know you again. Things have changed; we've changed. That I still want you might not be enough." "Then let's leave this decision till we've finished the assignment," Kel suggested. He wanted her. She could make him love her again. "No promises until you're sure. That's all I'm asking, John." She let the hope shine from her eyes. She wanted him to see how much this meant to her. She wanted time with him. Time to explain. Time to heal. Second chances were so rare and she was going to grasp at hers like a drowning woman after a lifeline. 'You're so lucky you're not a man, Mrs Dallas." Her heart thundered at his soft words. The look in his eyes made her weak in the knees. Come what may, she'd always treasure this moment. "So. Since I'm not a man, why are you still talking and not kissing me?" His eyes narrowed. "Good question," he murmured, and dipped his head.

The Traitor Debra Webb

One Huntsville, Alabama 4.00 a.m. NASA research engineer Jill Mulroney watched from her hiding place in the woods as the flames devouring her home blazed higher and higher against the dark sky. The first emergency response vehicles had arrived but it was already too late. The state of the art security system she had purchased upon buying the country home she had dreamed of owning her entire life had failed. Her life - past, present and future - was gone now. Emotion swelled in her chest, making it difficult to breathe. There was no one to blame. Not really. This was her fault. She'd trusted the wrong man. She had allowed him inside and he'd taken advantage of her naivete where matters of the heart were concerned. Here . . . now . . . her only choice had been to deactivate the home security system she'd researched as the best on the market and end it all. Nothing about her existed now. Jill turned her back on her mistake and picked her way through the woods. The car she'd bought with cash and purposely failed to register waited one mile away on a stretch of long winding road that scarcely anyone used beyond hunting season. Inside she had stashed as much cash as she'd dared to withdraw from her bank account and a few changes of clothes. And one photo. The only one she'd dared to save. She hadn't kept a single memento other than the one beloved photo of her and her father. It was all gone now. By dawn her entire life would be mere

ashes. Hours would pass before the authorities would realize there were no human remains in the rubble. That was her window of opportunity. She had to use that time to get as far away as possible. Before he and those he represented set out to find her. Eventually she would develop a new identity, find an insignificant job and live an equally insignificant life. This was the penance for her error. If she were extraordinarily lucky that would be the only cost. If they found her, she would die. Maybe she deserved to die. A low tree branch slapped her in the face, knocking her glasses askew. She grimaced and righted her eyewear. Twenty-nine years old and highly educated. How could she have made such a monumental mistake? Fury roared inside her. It wasn't fair! Not fair at all. But it was her fate. To protect the agency . . . to protect her country ... she had no choice but to vanish. The system she had designed for research - the same one the Pentagon had praised - existed no longer. Mere moments before her home had gone up in flames she had initiated the self-destruct virus via her home computer that by now had corrupted the files related to her prized project at NASA. There would be no resurrecting them. No piecing together the residual traces left behind that more than one federal agency would attempt to sift from the ruins. It was done. Years of work, billions of potential dollars for NASA's shaky

financial future had gone up in proverbial smoke along with her life. When her remains were not discovered, her colleagues would hate her. Some would hang on to the theory that she had been abducted along with the project. Others would be certain she had sold out to the enemy. A traitor. Her country - the one she had given up everything to protect - would label her a traitor. Her colleagues would work day and night in an attempt to recreate the system she had destroyed. That was the only part in all of this that she could be proud of. From the beginning, she had understood the implications of her project. Knowing its importance, as well as the fact that it could be exploited by any number of enemies, she had taken precise measures to build in a fail-safe. Now it was done. Over. It would take her peers vast amounts of effort to recreate her work. Perhaps during that time the powers that be would establish better security measures to stop such things ever happening again. Jill stopped to catch her breath as she neared that stretch of narrow, lonely road. She peered through the dense woods protecting her from view. The cheap little car she'd purchased waited amid the thick brush right where she'd hidden it. Had she not known the exact location she wouldn't have been able to spot the black vehicle. And it was only the meager moonlight glinting against the roof that allowed her to visually identify it.

All she had to do was cross the road and she would be home free. She would drive as fast and as far as her weary mind would allow. Stopping for a few hours sleep would be necessary, but not in hotels. She didn't want to be seen by anyone who might remember her when questioned. She'd packed an assortment of snacks and easily opened canned goods, as well as plenty of bottled water, to facilitate her escape. A couple of rolls of toilet paper would delay her need for a bathroom. She'd gone over every possible scenario. One final check of the dark road, left then right, and she dashed toward her safety net. She hadn't decided upon a destination. That part she would play by ear. Far away and obscure were her only requirements at this point. The humid air, even in late fall and at this hour of the morning, weighted her lungs as she unlocked the driver's door and slid behind the steering wheel. Relief made her arms and legs weak as she started the engine. Jill closed her eyes and recited the same prayer that had been her mantra for days now. Please let me escape this nightmare. Let me save the innocent from my mistake. With a deep breath, she eased out on to the crumbling pavement then pressed down firmly on the accelerator. The reality of her actions crowded in around her. She could never come back . . . never communicate with her few friends again. Fortunately she had no family. The thought tightened inside her. Not once in her adult life had she considered that fact fortunate.

Until now. If she'd had any family her actions would have put them in extreme danger. "Pathetic, Mulroney,” she mumbled. Her senses went on alert as a shadow in the rearview mirror appeared in the backseat behind her. Something hard and cold abruptly pressed against the back of her skull. The dark figure in the rearview mirror penetrated the layers of denial in her brain at the same instant the oxygen exited her lungs. "Keep driving," a deep, male voice ordered, "and you might just live through this."

Two It was him. Anger and self-loathing boiled up inside her. How could she have been such a fool? All her life she'd been touted a genius. Ha! If she'd been half as smart as all those professors had proclaimed she would never have been deceived so easily. "They'll stop you." The words shook, scorched her throat with equal measures of pain and rage. He wouldn't get away with this. Somehow he had to fail. "Take the next right.” The order was cold, ruthless. Why hadn't she recognized him as the

enemy before it was too late? An ache twisted near her heart. He'd wooed her . . . lured her into his sensual trap. And she'd fallen like the virgin fool she was. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. She hadn't wanted to see anything but the idea that he wanted her. So stupid. "Make the turn." The weapon nudged more deeply into her skull. The fury clenched her jaw all the harder. She braked and made the instructed turn. Where the hell was he taking her? Deeper into the middle of nowhere. That was glaringly apparent. Bastard. "What now?" she snapped. The road she'd turned onto led deeper into the woods. 'There's nothing out here." Except the state park. Her stomach sank like a rock in shallow water. That was the point. He would take her there - in the middle of nowhere - and kill her. First, he would torture her in hopes of obtaining the SASS. A smile tugged at her lips. But that was gone. The only blueprint for the Search and Surveillance System's program was in her head. She would never, no matter how intensive the torture, reveal the secret codes only she understood. None of the advanced programming geeks from the FBI, the CIA, or NSA had been able to decipher her specialized coding. "Stop." She braked harder than necessary. The muzzle bumped against her head. She winced but couldn't help feeling some amount of glee at catching him

off-guard even that tiny bit "Get out." Fine. Why argue? He was going to do what he was going to do. He had the gun after all. She threw the car into park and wrenched open her door. By the time she'd gotten out of the vehicle and on to her feet, he was looming over her. She slammed the door and faced him. "Are you going to kill me here?" He hitched his head in the opposite direction. "Let's go." For three seconds she glared at him. Every detail wasn't visible in the pre-dawn darkness but she didn't need any light to see . . . she knew him by heart. More than six feet tall, broad shouldered, well muscled. She shivered at the memory of all those well defined muscles banded around that lean frame. Black hair, thick and silky1. And those dark eyes. Her mutinous body quivered again. His eyes had gotten to her first. “You

through?"

Heat rushed up her throat and burned her face. "I just wanted one last good look at an enemy of the state." Victory trickled through her. Thank God she'd come up with a reasonable excuse for gawking at him... even if it had been a lie. "Get moving." She thought of her money as she marched away from the car, but she felt relatively certain she wouldn't need it where she was going. What good was money when you were dead? "This way.”

When they reached the main road, such as it was, he prodded her to the right. Her confusion deepened. This direction took them deeper into nowhere. A few miles farther and the mountain road started its spiraling descent into the valley. Why go this way? It didn't make sense. Only two houses, one abandoned. Nothing but woods and critters. She shivered again and this time it had nothing to do with the big brooding jerk behind her. It was the idea of all the wild animals lurking in those woods. As a kid she'd been terrified of the dark. Critters or no. She'd read herself to sleep with a flashlight under the covers every night. She'd been a nerd even then. A tall, skinny adolescent with eyeglasses, braces and pimples. In college she'd spent ninety per cent of her time either in the classroom or the library doing research and studying. No one had noticed her. It wasn't until she'd taken the position at NASA that anyone had given her more than a cursory glance. Yet even then the attention hadn't once been about her as a person . . . it had been about her work. Three years of hard work. Awards for innovation. All sorts of accolades for her ingenuity. Only to be remembered as a traitor. When it was the brute behind her who was the real traitor. Twice in the fifteen minutes that followed she opened her mouth to demand where the hell he was taking her, but she'd changed her mind each time. She hugged herself despite the unseasonable October heat. Fear, she told herself. There was absolutely no chance she would survive whatever was about to happen.

He - or whoever he worked for - wanted the SASS. She had destroyed all traces of the system. Killing her was likely his way of tying up the loose ends. In the event the government ever tracked her down she couldn't describe him. He would make sure of that. Whoever the hell he was. Trace Granger. Like that was his name. Nothing about him was as he'd told her. And she'd taken the bait, hook, line and sinker. Strong fingers abruptly wrapped around her right arm. "This way.” She stumbled as he lugged her off the paved road and on to a rutted dirt path. Couldn't be called a road. It had once been a driveway ... Total recognition flared. "Why are we going in there?” A new kind of fear ignited inside her. That he ignored her question sent outrage roaring through her veins. Enough to temporarily burn away the fear. "Fin not going in there." He dragged her when she resisted. Her feet scraped the uneven ground. She couldn't go in there. Fifteen years and the mere thought of the place scared her to death. No matter how she resisted, her strength was no match for his. "I can't go .. ." She shook her head. Tried to jerk free of his hold. As if she hadn't just burned her home to the ground. Hadn't destroyed years of work. All that mattered at this second was not passing through the gates of hell.

He yanked her toward him, chest to chest. "Keep it up and I'll throw you over my shoulder," he growled. As if her realizations, her actions of the past forty-eight hours, suddenly crushed in on her all at once she simply stared at him. She couldn't speak if her life depended upon it, and clearly it did. He grabbed her and threw her over his shoulder. She was going to die ... in Hell.

Three 5.03 a.m. Trace settled Jill on to her feet. She ripped away from his hold and spun around in the darkness. "I can't be here." Her hands came up to her face to right her glasses. If he could just get through the next half hour without her freaking out completely she would understand. She bolted. He grabbed her by the shoulders and towed her back. "Not yet." She whipped around, trembled. "Why don't you just kill me and get it over with." Jesus. He'd put his weapon away already. Did she really think he was going to kill her? He'd done what he had to do to ensure her cooperation. He hadn't liked it, but that unpleasant part was behind them now. 'You're safe with me."

Jill laughed, the sound dry and filled with derision. "Right. Yeah. That's why you have a gun, Trace." Daybreak wasn't far off. The sparse light leeching in through the cracks in the walls and roof allowed him to make out the shape of her face but not the expressions. "The weapon is for our protection. Nothing more." "You stuck it to the back of my head," she railed, daring to take a step closer to him. "You. .." She folded her arms over her chest. "You threatened to kill me. Don't deny it." He'd warned that if she wanted to live she would listen. Very different to a death threat. But he wasn't going to waste time explaining the subtleties of his line of work. "Trust me, you're safe." Her jaw dropped. That he clearly sawin the faint grey of dawn. "Trust you?" She backed up the step she'd claimed. "I might be naive but I'm not a total idiot. You cost me everything, Trace Granger - or whoever the hell you are. You're .. .you're a traitor. A terrorist!" Nothing he hadn't been called before. But. . . somehow it cut deeper coming from her. "I don't know what you think," he began, choosing his words carefully, "but I'm here to protect you." 'You're insane!" Another step widened between them. "I don't even know your real name." She would bolt again. He braced to make a move. "My name is Trace Granger. Major Trace Granger. I joined your project six weeks ago to ensure you had an exit strategy."

She shook her head, made a scoffing sound. "An exit strategy? I don't know what the hell you're talking about. But what I do know is that you betrayed me." She hugged herself tighter. "You wormed your way into my life ... and ... and you tried to steal my work." "I was sent to protect you and your project." How had she gotten such a ridiculous idea? He'd been watching her particularly closely the past few days. Her sudden withdrawal had warned that she was on the verge of making some kind of panicked move. "No way." Her head was moving side to side again. "You're just saying that in the hope that I'll cooperate with you. I know what you did." He restrained the frustration mounting in his chest. "What is it you think I did?" That was the place to start. She was upset, angry. He needed to lead her through this one step at a time. 'You," she stabbed an accusing finger at him, "showed up on my team six weeks ago. Made it a point to get close to me." Her voice shook on the last. That part was true. He'd set out to seduce her. The operation profile had suggested that might be the only avenue of approach. Jill Mulroney was a loner. No family, no friends to speak of. All work and no play. Lucky for him there had been some immediate chemistry between them so he'd gone with it. He hadn't felt good . . . especially considering her total innocence. He'd felt like the bastard he was. In his work, deception was often a key tool. An asset he used to his greatest advantage. But this time he'd miscalculated. He'd grabbed back control of the operation in the nick of time. He banished the thought of just how far under his skin she'd gotten. "I

can't deny using that tactic. It was necessary to the success of the mission." Her arms went up in frustration. "What mission? My only mission was to complete the system. Prepare it for presentation to the Joint Chiefs. There was no other mission." She was totally in the dark. He'd wanted to warn her so many times but that was not part of the strategy. Still wasn't. And her cooperation was essential. If giving her certain facts would appease her for the moment, then that he could do. "Forty-four days ago our intelligence group picked up on the rumbling of a plot related to new technology," he explained. "Within twenty-four hours it was determined that your project, SASS, was the target. Since the source of the threat was unknown but appeared to be on the inside, I was assigned to infiltrate your team and to stay as close as possible to you." You're suggesting that someone on my team - besides you - intended to steal or duplicate my system?” The disbelief in her tone signaled loudly and clearly that she wasn't buying his explanation. Could the time tick past any slower? "That's correct.” She made that incredulous sound again that was supposed to be a laugh. "Fat lot of good it did them. I initiated the self-destruct. SASS no longer exists.” He’d fully anticipated she would take that step when cornered. As close to the vest as she'd kept the intimate details of her much anticipated surveillance system, logic had dictated that she would also take steps to ensure no one attempted to steal it from her. "That changes nothing about

the intent of the unknown subject.” "Unknown subject?” She put her hands up stop-sign fashion. "What are you, FBI?" Hardly. "Fin afraid that information is classified.” "Of course.” She rolled her eyes. "This just gets better and better." "The latest intelligence suggests that the unknown subject was aware of your fail safe." She folded her arms across her chest once more and lifted her chin in defiance. "Then what’re we doing here? If whoever wants SASS possesses this information, then they also know the deed is done. There's no undoing it. The best engineers and programmers in the business will need years to rebuild the technology." That would be a far happier and easier ending. But life in the world of espionage was never that simple. 'You're leaving out one key element, Dr Mulroney." "There is no other element," she challenged. "It's gone. No one can steal SASS now. It doesn't exist." "But you do." Realization widened her eyes behind those clunky glasses. She had the bluest eyes. Long blonde hair that she kept in a meticulous bun. And a body that most women served extensive time at the gym to accomplish. Yet Jill didn't seem to understand that she was one hell of a looker. She was too busy hiding behind frumpy lab coats and big glasses. 'You're the target, Jill," he said aloud when she apparently started to

grasp her situation on some level. "If the enemy gets their hands on you, they'll drug you or torture you until you give them the blueprint you carry around in that pretty head of yours. Then they'll kill you." A sharp breath hissed past her sexy lips. "I. . . can't.. ." She glanced around the rundown shack, shook her head adamantly. "I can't stay here. We have to get out of here." He'd just told her that she was a target. That he was her only hope of surviving this ordeal. And she was worried about the accommodations? "We won't be here long." He surveyed the sagging walls and drooping roof before assessing the cluttered emotions on her face. "What's so bad about here?" "It's the devil's house."

Four If she hadn't looked dead serious he might have laughed. "It's an abandoned shack on the rim of a farmer's property." When he'd studied the least populated areas near her home, he'd read something about the so-called Hell's Gates legend. The old shack was used mostly by teenagers into drugs or satanic cults. The local authorities paid numerous visits each weekend to the spot to run off trespassing guests. But this was a weeknight and Trace had opted to stay dark - not using even a flashlight. They would be safe here until their transport arrived. "You didn't grow up around here," she argued, then bit her bottom lip, making his mouth water. "Everyone knows this place is bad." He resisted the urge to smile. "You're an advanced research engineer, surely you don't believe in all that crap."

"You wouldn't understand." She seemed to draw into herself, hugging her arms around her slim body. He moved a step closer to her. "Try me." She glared up at him, the morning light sifting through the numerous cracks in the shack, allowing him to see as well as feel the full measure of her irritation. "Why am I even talking to you about this?" she demanded. "You lied to me." He reached out. She flinched. As hard as he tried he couldn't help regretting that she did that. Instead of touching her soft cheek as he'd wanted he rubbed her arm reassuringly. "I did. I regret that was necessary. Your safety was top priority." She shrugged off his touch. "Was that why you kissed me?" She blinked twice, three times. "Held me in your arms all night more than once?" He'd wanted to do a whole hell of a lot more than that. The dossier he'd studied had given all the facts. Loner. No family. Few friends. Her life was all about work. But the report hadn't told him how desperately she wanted to have someone love her. How she remained a virgin at age twenty-nine. Jillian Mulroney was a genius, pure and simple. Her brilliance in the field of surveillance technology was unmatched. But on a social level, as a woman, she was innocent. Untouched. She'd only been kissed by one other man. She was right. He had held her all night on three occasions. He'd wanted far more than that but he'd refused to take what she no doubt would have given him due to the level of trust he'd built with her. Her feelings for him were all based on lies, lies to protect her, but lies

nonetheless. "You have no idea how difficult it was to hold you like that," he confessed. There were some truths he could give her. The confusion in those big blue eyes warned that she'd taken his statement all wrong. "I thought. . . I was doing something wrong.” "You did everything right,” he hastened to assure her. "I wanted to do more than hold you, but I wouldn't. Not with so many untruths standing between us.” She moistened her lips. His fingers twitched with the need to reach out and touch her again. "Tell me why you're afraid of this place,” he murmured. Their transport would be there any minute. This might be his last time alone with her. There were things he wanted to say. "When I was fourteen . . ." She dragged in a deep breath. "Brand new freshman at high school. I didn't have any friends.” She rolled her eyes. "Big surprise, right?” His gut tightened at the idea of how lonely those years must have been for her. "These two girls started being friendly to me. Even invited me to their houses.” She stared at the aged floorboards a moment. "I thought maybe they really liked me, but I was wrong.” "What happened?” Keeping his voice soft was next to impossible with anger curling inside him. "It was October. Like now. Closer to Hallowe'en. They talked me into

going on a ride with them and some of their older friends.” She shrugged. "You know, toilet-papering houses and other silly teenage stuff.” His gut tied in knots when he sensed where the story was going. "They drove here. Told me all the stories, some of which I'd heard around school, about this being the devil's house. I just thought it was stupid.” She fell silent a moment, her eyes distant. "Then they left me. Just drove away. I didn't have a cell phone. No one lived on this road.” "You were afraid of all the stories linked to this place?” "I was terrified of the dark." She looked straight into his eyes. "They couldn't have known that. It was a stupid joke. The old farmer who lives across the woods wouldn't answer his door. So I walked off this damned mountain. Alone in the dark. Until you brought me here, I'd never been back." He couldn't help himself, he pulled her into his arms. She resisted, but he didn't back off. He held her against his chest. Held her tight. "I didn't know,” he whispered against her silky hair. "In my brain I knew it wasn't real," she murmured against his chest. "But in my heart... I was terrified." He hated like hell that he was yet another deception in her life. She deserved better. "When I made it home and calmed down, my father explained that the devil was about fear." She drew back enough to look into Trace's eyes. "If that's the case, then the devil was right on my heels all the way off this mountain that night."

Trace told himself to stop. Didn't work. He leaned down, brushed his lips across hers. She stiffened, but didn't pull away. He kissed her softly at first, then more deeply . . . firmly. She tasted of that sweet innocence that made him want to protect her from now until eternity. He wanted her to know how it felt to have someone she could count on. He wanted it to be him. Her hands slid up his chest and went around his neck. She tiptoed, leaned into the kiss, her soft body pressing against his in all the right places. He smoothed one hand up her narrow waist and dared to cup one breast. She whimpered. This was as far as he'd gone on those long nights of holding her. He parted her lips with his tongue, delved into her welcoming mouth. The world . . . this precarious situation slipped away. He wanted so badly to take her right here on this decaying old floor. What if he never saw her again after this? His work could take him anywhere in the world. The thought thrust into his chest like a knife. The distant whop-whop-whop of chopper blades jerked him to attention. He lifted his face to the ramshackle roof. "What's that?" she murmured, her voice thick with the same desire raging through his veins. He wanted to say it was their ride out of here, but that was highly unlikely. He reached into his pocket, checked the beacon, still set on red. The red would have changed to green and the beacon would have vibrated

if back-up had arrived. This was the one means of communication they had agreed upon since the enemy was still unknown and they were dealing with technology engineers. No communication technology could be trusted during these final hours. The sound grew closer. He shoved the beacon deep into his pocket. This was trouble. "We have to get out of here." His gaze collided with Jill's. "We have to run."

Five The sun was peeking above the eastern horizon when they scrambled into the trees behind the Devil's shack. Jill held tightly to Trace's hand. She couldn't see the helicopter but she could hear its approach. The blades cutting through the air sent chills racing up and down her spine. If Trace was worried ... she should be terrified. "Hang onto my hand," he said over his shoulder as he plunged into the woods that surrounded the tiny clearing where the shack stood. She tightened her fingers around his and stumbled after him. The fallen leaves rustled and crackled beneath their feet. For early October a lot had fallen. Thankfully there was still some coyer with those golds and russets that still clung to the trees.

She tried to stay focused on his movements so she could keep up better, but her mind kept playing the guessing game. Jill had been certain Trace was the one who had attempted to steal SASS. She'd taken great pains to heighten the security of the system. The two attempts to breach that security had generated red flags that only she could see. She had known trouble was close. Then her superior had called her into his office and warned that an enemy had infiltrated their team. Her superior had initiated measures to determine who the infiltrator was. But that had been only two weeks ago. Trace had been involved with the project for more than a month. When the second red flag appeared, she had known what she had to do. Destroy the program and disappear until the dust cleared. If it ever did. She had allowed Trace closer to her than any other human, besides her father. It had to be him. Her gaze settled on the broad shoulders in front of her. Had she been that wrong? All her life she had been alone, except for her father. Her mother had died when she was an infant. Then, four years ago, her father had passed away, leaving her completely alone. Until Trace. He tugged more firmly on her hand as he pushed forward even faster. The thick underbrush slapped at her jean-clad legs. She had to focus. Trace darted in and around and between trees with amazing speed. The

rocky terrain beneath her feet made keeping her balance near impossible. Staying upright was only due to hanging so tightly on to him. The helicopter was so close. Had they spotted them? It seemed to be taking the same route. If they were caught she would be kept alive until the necessary information had been extracted. But Trace. Her attention moved to his dark head. They would kill him immediately. Emotion swelled in her throat. She didn't want him to die. She had been wrong. She'd blamed him when his only purpose had been to keep her safe. Her heart pounded. Could she make a deal for his life? What the hell was she thinking? These were evil bastards who wanted to steal SASS for their own purposes. She doubted they had any allegiance to any country. They likely wanted to sell the technology to the highest bidder. Jill could not let that happen. Was she strong enough to endure the torture and not give in to their demands? She had no training for such circumstances. Trace was her only hope. He stopped. She slammed into his back. When she would have asked what he was doing, he held up a hand for her to keep quiet.

Then she heard what had him listening so intently. Baying. Dogs. An element of the enemy was on the ground ... closing in. Fear coiled around her throat. Trace lunged eastward. She sprinted behind him, barely keeping up with his long, hurried strides. The blood roaring in her ears kept her from hearing anything other than the helicopter overhead, the dogs and their movements tearing through the brush. Her foot slid off the edge of a rock, twisting her ankle. She winced but didn't hesitate. Couldn't have if she'd wanted to. Trace hauled her forward, his movements becoming faster ... riskier. The baying and barking grew louder. The enemy was close. God, please don't let them catch us! She couldn't protect herself or SASS .. . she couldn't protect Trace. Fooling herself was crazy. She wasn't that strong. Yet, Trace was willing to risk his life to protect her. Fury erupted inside her. It was time to step up to the plate. Do her part outside the laboratory. She forced her feet to move faster. Her weakness was slowing Trace down. Run! Faster! Help him!

Another sound invaded her thoughts. Rushing... almost a roar. Water. Her heart rocketed into her throat. The river. They were almost on top of it. Trace stopped. She tried to stop. Stumbled. His arms wrapped around her waist, catching her before she propelled over the cliff. She stared downward at the rushing water far below their precarious position on the mountain's ledge. A hell of a long way down. They had to head north. She recaptured her balance and pulled at his hand. "This way," she urged. Then a voice— "Don't move!” Jill's gaze sought and searched Trace's face. His expression was clean of emotion. But his eyes told her to stay calm. "Move your hands away from your sides! Turn around slowly." Trace moved his hands away from his body as instructed. Absolute fear prevented Jill from taking a breath. Stay calm! Stay calm! Trace gave her a slight nod and she followed his movements, raising her hands away from her sides. As he turned slowly to face the enemy, she did the same. Two men, both with weapons aimed at them, waited less than ten yards

away. Dear God. Her heart thundered, making it impossible to think. "Toss your weapon," one of the bastards ordered. "Very carefully or the woman dies." Her heart flip-flopped. Trace pulled the gun from the holster at his side and tossed it into the brush several feet in front of them. What could they do? Jill's mind raced but couldn't settle on a logical move. The two men were dressed in military-type garb. Dark camouflage. Headgear that prevented a good view of their faces. Who were the traitors? "Start walking this way," the man ordered. Trace held out his hand. Jill glanced at him, then put her hand in his. His eyes kept sending the same message. . . be calm. "One slow step at a time," the man growled. "Do you trust me?" Trace murmured, his attention focused forward. "Yes," Jill whispered, daring to glance at him from the corner of her eyes. "On three," he whispered, "bend your knees and propel yourself backward with as much force as you can manage." Was he out of his mind? "Move it!" the man with the gun roared. "One," Trace murmured. Yes, he was out of his mind. "Two."

Jill sucked in a breath. "Three."

Six Gunshots exploded in the air as they plunged over the cliff. Jill felt something whiz past her thigh. Bullet? Then all she could feel was ... falling. The water seemed to rush up to meet her. She gulped a mouthful of air a split second before her body burst through the turbulent surface. Down. Down. Down. She hit the bottom hard. Her hand was no longer clutched in Trace's. She scrambled away from the rocky bottom. Tried to climb to the surface. Her arms and legs flailed frantically. That was when she remembered that she'd never been a very good swimmer. The water was dark ... thick ... she needed to breathe. Her heart felt ready to explode. Was it better to die this way than be tortured to death? Where was Trace? A strong hand suddenly manacled her arm.

She couldn't see. Where were her glasses? As if they would help her underwater anyways. The hand was towing her along through the water, but not toward the surface. She needed air. She fought the hold. Tried to lunge upward. The hand pulled harder. Trace? She blinked, peered through the murk}1 water. Maybe her father had been wrong. Maybe this was the Devil dragging her to hell. She fought his grasp. Didn't want to go. On some level she recognized that panic was distorting rational thought. She didn't want to die. Her knees hit something solid. Rocky. Painful. The river bottom. The hand continued to haul her forward. Her head broke the surface of the water. She gasped for air. Something pinged in the water next to her.

"Hum!" Trace's voice! Her heart burst with joy. She blinked. Tried to see. The form in front of her was blurry. "Come on, Jill. Hum!" More of that insistent pinging. Closer. Shots. She scrambled on to the bank, hauled along by the form that had to be Trace. Limbs and brushes were scratching at her. A cracking sound from the tree trunk closest to her made her jump forward. "Run!” Trace roared. She forced her legs to move faster. Her wet clothes seemed to drag at her, weighting her down. The woods swallowed them up. Tree limbs slapped at her shoulders, at her face. Running ... running ... she couldn't see where they were going. Couldn't catch her breath to ask. Faster. She stumbled. Trace pulled her to her feet. Yanked her forward.

She wished she had her cell phone so she could call for help. But she'd left it to burn with the rest of her life. Her home was gone. Her project was gone. Her life was over. Her body shook. How could this have happened? It wasn't fair. Like all those means girls back in high school. And all the indifference in college. Besides her father, no one had ever cared about her . .. except Trace. He hadn't lied to her. He had been telling the truth. Trace dodged around and between trees. She stayed close behind him to prevent a collision. Most of what she could see was nothing more than fuzzy forms. There was that sound again. That familiar cacophony. The helicopter. Oh, God! They were closing in! They hit a clearing. Trace stopped. She banged into his backside. Her mouth opened to demand why they had stopped, but he spoke first. "Don't move." She stared up at the sky. The helicopter hovered directly above them. It was dark. Maybe green or black.

Dammit! She needed her glasses! Something dropped from the sky. She jumped back. Trace grabbed her hand, pulled her back to him. "Grab hold of this." He pushed something against her. Then placed her hand on it. "Feel for the rungs," he told her. "Climb. Now! I'll be right behind you." "But it's-” "Help," he urged. "They're here to help us." Jill didn't understand. "Hurry, Jill." She reached up with her other hand. Felt the next rung. Trace placed her right foot on the lowest rung. She moved upward. Her body trembled. Maybe it was a blessing she couldn't see. Climb. He'd said to climb. She moved her hands up, one over the other, as quickly as she dared. He touched her ankle letting her know he was close behind her. They were moving. Her heart seemed to stop. The helicopter was moving! Fear overwhelmed her ability to move. Trace tapped her leg. She didn't dare look down but she knew what he was trying to tell her. Keep moving.

Up. Right hand. Right foot. Then the left. Up. Keep moving up. Strong hands grabbed at her from above. Her breath stalled in her lungs. "Come on, Dr Mulroney, we've got you." She couldn't see the face, but the voice was reassuring. With the help of one or more of the men in the helicopter she managed to climb inside. She was ushered into a seat. "There you go, ma'am." She nodded. Should have said thank you but she couldn't find her voice. "We thought we'd lost you, Major." Trace had climbed into the helicopter. "Thanks for the ride, Captain." Jill closed her eyes. This was all far too surreal. Her stomach lurched. What was happening? She didn't understand this. Her life was boring. Computers and research and labs. Engineers and computer languages. 'You okay?" She felt the seat shift as Trace settled next to her. She opened her eyes and tried to stare into his. She hated not being able to see without her glasses. "What's happening?” Her body trembled. She was sopping wet. As if she'd said the last aloud, he pulled a blanket around her. "We're okay now." She shook her head. “Who are these people?" "United States Army,” Trace explained. "They're from Redstone Arsenal.” Redstone she knew. NASA shared the base with the Army.

“So

you're Army?” The man who'd helped her into the helicopter had

called Trace Major. "No, not Army.” Trace put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her close to him. Til explain all that when this is over.” He kissed her forehead. "For now, just relax. You're safe. We're going to get these bad guys and then you'll have your life back." Tears burned in her eyes. How could he promise all that? A big, fat, hot drop slid down her cheek. She cursed herself for being so weak. He swiped the tear from her cheek. "It might take a little while to sort all this out, but you have my word that I'll keep you safe until it's over. And you will get your life back." She nodded. Tried to stop the river of emotion that abruptly overflowed. She never cried like this. Trace leaned his face close to hers. "You sure you're okay?" "Host my glasses." He smoothed the pad of his thumb over her cheek, clearing the path of tears once more. "I'll take care of that as soon as we hit the base." "Okay." She couldn't stop shaking. This was ridiculous. She was so confused. So tired. So . .. afraid. "Do you trust me?" The warmth of his big body so close, the sound of his voice, all of it surrounded her and the rest of the world faded away. "Yes."

He brushed a kiss against her cheek. "Good because I won't let you down." But what about when this was over? He would be gone! "When it's over you'll have to leave." "I'll always come back to you." He smiled, she felt his lips widen against her cheek. "Now that I've found you I'm not letting you go." Relief and plain old happiness tugged at her lips. "I'll hold you to that, Major." He kissed her. She lost herself to the feel of his lips. She'd lost everything to this man; the man she'd been certain was a traitor. Instead, he was her savior. Her life hadn't ended. It had only just begun.

Author Biographies

Michele Albert After graduating with a classical archaeology degree from the University of Michigan, she was fortunate enough to sell her second completed manuscript to Avon Books in 1997. She is a winner of the Romance Writers of America's Golden Heart Award (1997) and she has been nominated for Best Mainstream Novel twice by Romantic Times. She lives

with her husband and two lazy cats in a suburb of Madison, Wisconsin. www. m ich elea Ib ert. co m

Shannon K. Butcher After her husband (#1 New York Times bestselling author Jim Butcher) taught her how to write, she started her own career creating awardwinning romantic suspense and paranormals of her own. She lives in Missouri with her husband and son, where conversations at the dinner table are more often about things someone made up than about anything that's actually happened. www,shannonkbutcher.com

Rachel Caine Rachel Caine is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling writer of many series including Morganville Vampires, Weather Warden, Outcast Season, the upcoming Dead Sexy, and (via Harlequin Bombshell) the Red Letter Days romantic-suspense series. Lucia Garza, one of the two private detectives featured in Devil's Bargain and Devil's Due, is the main character of the story included in this collection.

Sydney Croft The pen name for New York Times bestselling paranormal author Larissa lone (the Demonica series) and romantic suspense author Stephanie Tyler (the Hold series featuring Navy SEALs). Together they write erotic paranormal

action-adventure

www.larissaione.com

novels

with

a

military

twist,

Rinda Elliott After publishing short fiction in the romance and horror genres, she found her niche in urban fantasy, where she could mix the two up. Her agent has her new adult urban fantasy, as well as her young adult paranormal

romance

currently

on

submission,

www.relliott4■

wordpress.com

Laura Griffin The award-winning author of numerous novels including Untraceable, Unspeakable, V\^hisper of Warning, Thread of Fear, One Wrong Step, One Lost Breath and more, she started her career in journalism before venturing into the world of romantic suspense, www.lauragriffin.com

Gemiita Low Three time RWA Golden Heart finalist and winner of the Romantic Times Book Club's Best Intrigue, GennitaLowis the national bestselling author of romantic spy-fi. She's a roofer by day and knows 600 ways to kill with a nail gun. She's popular for her COS Commandos and SEALs series, www.gennita-low.com

Nicola Marsh Former physiotherapist, multi-award finalist and bestselling author Nicola Marsh writes flirty fiction with flare. She's a Waldenbooks and BookScan bestseller and has published twenty-two contemporary romances with Harlequin Mills and Boon. www.nicolamarsh.com

Penny McCall Born and raised in southeastern Michigan, she is the award-winning author of several humorous romantic suspense novels, and a handful of short contemporary romances that have been also published in Germany, France, Denmark and Israel, www.pennymccaII.net

Cheyenne McCray New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, and twice winner of the prestigious Romantic Times Reviewers' Choice Award (with four nominations in total), she has written eleven novels and two novellas for St Martin's Press. Her brand-new, urban fantasy Night Tracker series, as well as the new romantic-suspense series LexiStelle, debuted in 2QQQ. www.cheyennemccrajj.com

Charlotte Mede Where there's desire and danger, there's Charlotte Mede - whose Romantic Times Reviewers' Choice nominations and starred reviews have drawn a loyal following for her sensual and thrilling romances. www. rea dch a rlo ttem ede. co m Marliss Melton A Golden Heart and RITA finalist, she has written ten books since being published in 2002. Wife of a retired Navy veteran, Marliss finds writing military romantic suspense to be a perfect fit. She lives with her husband and many children near Virginia Beach, where she is inspired by real-life stories of Navy SEALs. www. m a rlissm elto n.com

LizMuir Long-time writer, first time published, Liz Muir is the pseudonym for London-based writer and romance reviewer, Liz de Jager. Besides romantic suspense, she also writes for children, now honing her skills by editing Curse of the Djinn, her debut middle-grade novel, www, lizdejag er. co. uk Caitlyn Nicholas An Australian author based in Sydney, she has published two novels, Running Scared and Secret Intentions, since she began her writing career in 2006. www.caitlynnicholas.com

Gina Robinson Writing romantic suspense with spunk, her latest novels feature Fantasy Spy Camps which train her heroines to survive the danger that follows them using everything from their bare hands to submachine guns, www.ginarobinson.com E. C. Sheedy She has written four novellas and fourteen books, the last six being tightly plotted, sexy romantic suspense. Her books so far, and all those to come, owe their worth to Kate Duffy, editor extraordinaire for Kensington Publishing. RIP Kate, www,ecsheedy.com

Jordan Summers Award-winning author of light, contemporary suspense and dark, gritty paranormals, including her popular

Dead World series, www, jordansummers.com

Charlene Teglia Award-winning author who loves penning tales of romance and adventure. Among other accolades, Charlene has been presented with the prestigious Romantic Times Reviewers' Choice Award for "Best Erotic Novel” and nominated for "Best Erotic Romance". www.chavleneteQlia.com

Shiloh Walker Currently writing paranormal and erotic romance for Berkley and Ballantine (look for her new romantic suspense trilogy, due out in 20”), she also publishes with Ellora's Cave and Samhain. Ethan, the hero from Don't Walk Away is first introduced in Always Yours, available from Samhain Publishing. www.sh ilo h wa Iker. com

Debra Webb Though she'd written her first romance at thirteen, it wasn't until she spent three years working for the military behind the Iron Curtain, that she realized her true calling. Then a five-year stint with NASA on the Space Shuttle Program reinforced her love of storytelling, and a collision course between suspense and romance was set. She's been writing bestselling romantic suspense and action-packed romantic thrillers ever since, www.debrawebb.com