Identity Crisis

“Donovan is a skilled storyteller. Reading her work is like watching a good movie.”

—Affaire de Coeur

With a confident smile, “Melissa” hit the phone’s send button.

“This is Ray Ortega. What’s up?”

“Ray, it’s me. I’ve got the disk. Call Jane and tell her to extract me right away.”

“Goddammit, Kristie! You’re just supposed to be planning a backup strategy. What the hell’s going on?”

“I’m perfectly safe. Salinger is my prisoner, bound and completely unconscious.”

“Kristie, where are the bodyguards?” Ray’s voice had grown steady and commanding.

“Outside the door. Salinger gave them instructions not to disturb us. But eventually, they’ll probably check. That’s why I’ve got the gun on him. If they come in, I’ll threaten to shoot their boss. The plan is flawless, but I’m a little anxious to get it over with. So please call Jane.”

“How many guards?”

“Two.”

“Okay. Go to the door. Poke your head outside and give them your biggest, sexiest Melissa Daniels smile. Then shoot them—once each—in the head.”

“What?”

Dear Reader,

We invite you to sit back and enjoy the ride as you experience the powerful suspense, intense action and tingling emotion in Silhouette Bombshell’s November lineup. Strong, sexy, savvy heroines have never been so popular, and we’re putting the best right into your hands. Get ready to meet four extraordinary women who will speak to the Bombshell in you!

Maggie Sanger will need quick wit and fast moves to get out of Egypt alive when her pursuit of a legendary grail puts her on a collision course with a secret society, hostages and her furious ex! Get into Her Kind of Trouble, the latest in author Evelyn Vaughn’s captivating GRAIL KEEPERS miniseries.

Sabotage, scandal and one sexy inspector breathe down the neck of a determined air force captain as she strives to right an old wrong in the latest adventure in the innovative twelve-book ATHENA FORCE continuity series, Pursued by Catherine Mann.

Enter the outrageous underworld of Las Vegas prizefighting as a female boxing trainer goes up against the mob to save her father, her reputation and a child witness in Erica Orloff’s pull-no-punches novel, Knockout.

And though creating identities for undercover agents is her specialty, Kristie Hennessy finds out that work can be deadly when you’ve got everyone fooled and no one to trust but a man you know only by his intriguing voice…. Don’t miss Kate Donovan’s Identity Crisis.

It’s a month of no-holds-barred excitement! Please send your comments to me, c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway Ste. 1001, New York, NY 10279.

Best wishes,

Natashya Wilson

Associate Senior Editor, Silhouette Bombshell

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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KATE DONOVAN

is the author of more than a dozen novels and novellas, ranging from time travel and paranormal to historical romance, suspense and romantic comedy. An attorney, she draws on her criminal law background to create challenges worthy of her heroines, who crack safes, battle wizards and always get their man. As for Kate, she definitely got her man and is living happily ever after with him and their two children in Elk Grove, California. You can e-mail Kate at kate@katedonovan.com.

To my husband, Paul,

for bringing out the Bombshell in me.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Prologue

“Well, Ms. Daniels, that about wraps it up for now.” Ray Ortega, director of the Strategic Profiling and Identification Network, leveled his stare directly into a pair of sparkling green eyes. “You’ve probably figured out from our questions that a position here at SPIN involves more than traditional profiling. We also design false identities for undercover operatives. Do you think you’d enjoy that sort of thing? Creating a three-dimensional person with a history, identification and personality, then inserting that person into an existing community without detection?”

“Actually, sir, I think that’s the part of the job I’d really excel at.”

“I like your confidence,” Ray assured her. “And your credentials are impressive. But—” he began gathering up the papers in front of him “—we have several other applicants, so I’m afraid we won’t be able to give you our decision until early next week.”

“Wait!” Colonel Ulysses S. Payton, a heretofore-silent member of the interview team, motioned for Ray to stay seated at their elongated table across from the interviewee. “I have a question for Miss Daniels.”

The young woman smiled. “Yes, Colonel?”

“You’re not only pretty and well educated, you’re an Olympic-grade athlete! Why this job? What’s the point of earning a black belt in karate, or becoming a sharpshooter, if you’re hiding away all day working at a computer?”

The candidate gave a slight nod, as though acknowledging the aptness of the question. Then she explained, “I’ll be using my skills as a resource, so that I can create believable identities and workable strategies for government agents. My imagination is my universe, Colonel. It’s all I need. And there’s no place on earth I’d rather be than at SPIN headquarters, assisting agents in the field.”

“It’s a danged waste if you ask me,” the soldier muttered.

“With all due respect, sir, you’re focusing on the wrong part of my résumé.” The emerald eyes shone with pride. “I graduated summa cum laude from Yale with a double major in psychology and criminology, then went on to get my Ph.D. from Stanford. Professor James Clark, one of the world’s most highly respected profilers, has dubbed me his most gifted student. I’m published in the field, most recently with an upcoming article for the New England Journal of Psychology.” She turned her attention toward Ray. “Did you have a chance to look at the article I sent you?”

He nodded, remembering the insightful, well-written work. “It was excellent. And as I said, your qualifications are impressive.”

“Everything about her is impressive,” insisted Colonel Payton.

“Looks like we’re all in agreement.” Ray was on his feet before anyone could protest. “Ms. Daniels, it’s been a pleasure. Here’s my card. If you think of anything else, don’t hesitate to call.”

“I look forward to hearing from you.” She stood and shook the hand of each interviewer in turn, then headed for the door and disappeared without a backward glance.

“Amazing girl,” Payton observed. “Built, too. Is there really any doubt in your mind, Ortega? Where are you gonna find someone better? A leggy redhead with a brain and a black belt—if I were twenty years younger, I’d hire her myself!”

Despite his annoyance at the remark, Ray knew better than to object. After all, Colonel Payton was the president’s best friend and adviser. Wasn’t that how the guy had gotten himself on the SPIN interview panel in the first place? It was all politics. But the choice of a new “spinner” was ultimately Ray’s alone, so why sweat it?

He even sent a perfunctory smile in the colonel’s direction. “I agree, sir, she’s an impressive prospect. But something about her bothers me. I just can’t put my finger on it.”

“Let me guess,” interrupted the third interviewer, Ray’s fellow profiler, David Wong. “She’s too sexy? Too smart? Speaks too many languages?”

“Okay, okay.” Ray was laughing in spite of himself. “I’ll admit, she’s perfect. Too perfect. That’s what bothers me. If I had set out to design the ideal candidate for this job—”

A dull but insistent warning bell sounded in his brain, and he pulled out his cell phone, then punched in his secretary’s number. “Beth? Did the original transcripts for Melissa Daniels ever arrive from Yale?”

“We got them a few minutes ago, boss. Want me to bring them over?”

Confused, Ray murmured, “No. Thanks anyway,” and ended the call.

“What is it, Ray?” Wong demanded. “Didn’t she check out? I followed up on her references myself, and everyone—including the dean—sang her praises.”

Ray stopped him with a wave of his hand. “Don’t worry, she’s legit.”

He was about to go further, to admit that they were right, and Daniels was the hands-down best candidate, when a buzz from his cell phone preempted his attention.

Murmuring “Give me a second, will you?” he flipped open the phone and gave his habitual salutation. “This is Ortega. What’s up?”

“Hi, Mr. Ortega. You said to call if I thought of anything else.”

“Ms. Daniels?” Ray arched an eyebrow in the direction of Wong and the colonel. “Sure, go ahead. The others are still here.”

“Good, because there’s one tiny matter I’d really like to bring to your attention.”

“There’s more?” He had to laugh, wondering what further credentials she could possibly have. “Shoot.”

“Well, sir…” The candidate gulped audibly. “Everything on my résumé is a fabrication.”

“Huh?”

“I made it all up. Every bit of it.”

Stunned, Ray tried to think of something to say, finally settling for, “Where are you, Ms. Daniels?”

“Right outside the door. But my name isn’t Daniels. It’s Hennessy. Kristie Hennessy.”

“Hennessy?”

“And I should probably warn you, I’m going to look very different the next time you see me.”

He shook his head, not trusting himself to respond to that.

“Shall I come back in, sir?”

“Yes. Absolutely,” he assured her, turning his full attention to the doorway.

“So? What’s going on?” Wong demanded. “What new information did she give you?”

“Huh?” Ray had almost forgotten his colleagues were in the room, so intent was his focus on Daniels—or rather Hennessy—and the door that would readmit her.

But facts were facts, and the other interviewers had a right to know, so without taking his gaze off the doorway, he announced with a self-mocking smile, “Congratulations, gentlemen. It appears we’ve got ourselves a new spinner.”

Chapter 1

“Say your prayers, blondie, because tonight, I’m gonna flatten you!” Kristie Hennessy aimed a high-flying kick straight at her target’s smiling face and shouted, “Take that!”

The five-foot-high bop bag careened backward, dipping nearly to the floor, then bounced back up, still grinning.

“Curse you, Betty Bop!” Kristie’s fists began to pummel the bag with feigned ferocity, interspersed with high kicks. “Take that! And that!”

Her aim was getting better, and she congratulated herself as she danced around the toy, attacking it from every direction. This was so much more fun than hitting and kicking the twin-bed mattress that was still propped against the wall of her spare bedroom, having served as her target for weeks while she worked through the introductory lessons of a kickboxing videotape.

“No more faceless enemy,” she crowed. “Just two blondes kicking each other senseless. There’s a dumb-blonde joke in there somewhere, Betty, but I can’t think of a good punch line.”

Landing a final kick, she stood back and bowed to her synthetic opponent, which had been painted to resemble a popular computer-game heroine sporting yellow hair, ample—albeit two-dimensional—breasts and a gold leotard.

Turning to catch a glimpse of her own ensemble—cutoff jeans and a gray halter top soaked with sweat—Kristie grimaced. Not exactly a superheroine, but that was okay with her. After all, she didn’t plan on ever putting these skills to use. She just liked understanding what her operatives went through so that she could design more effective cover stories for them.

Because you’re Super-Spinner, she reminded herself playfully, acknowledging that she was indeed living a kind of fantasy, thanks to having been lucky enough to land a job in Washington, D.C., with the Strategic Profiling and Identification Network, otherwise known as SPIN. Where else could she hope to spend hours every day brainstorming by phone with agents from the FBI, DEA and ATF, as well as detectives from sophisticated metropolitan police departments like the NYPD and LAPD?

Although closely associated with the FBI, SPIN had been designed and established as a separate federal entity working on a contract basis with various law-enforcement agencies. Sometimes the task was straightforward, such as profiling a suspect or confirming a profile that had already been developed. Other times, a spinner became immersed in a particular case by designing an undercover identity for an agent and then providing phone support for the duration of the operation. The contracting agency decided the level of support needed, and budgeted the project accordingly. SPIN’s own internal budget was small, focusing on high-tech equipment and a core staff of profilers and strategists.

In her six months with the agency, Kristie had demonstrated an aptitude and commitment that had earned her the respect of her team, the confidence of director Ray Ortega and a portfolio of complex and highly sensitive cases that absorbed her every waking thought.

And at the moment, the most absorbing of those assignments was the assistance she was providing to Special Agent Justin Russo of the FBI, who in turn was assisting police in locating a kidnapped child.

“Justin, why don’t you call?” she entreated her favorite operative aloud as she stripped off her drenched clothes and headed for the shower, taking the cordless phone with her into the bathroom, just in case. “It’s almost nine o’clock. You always call by eight, so what gives?”

Turning up the spray of hot water until it was at full force, she stepped into the shower and allowed her muscles to relax.

He’ll call. He always does. He’s not like McGregor, thank heavens. The world could be coming to an end and he wouldn’t think to pick up the phone.

McGregor, McGregor, McGregor…

Of all the agents she had worked with thus far at SPIN, Will McGregor was the most confounding to Kristie. No matter how many times she came through for him—designing identities, profiling informants, strategizing her heart out—he had never once contacted her for follow-up. And certainly never to say thank-you. The FBI agent was darned independent, and while she knew from his psych evaluation that it was simply his nature, she still resented it.

All the other operatives phoned her routinely during active cases. And her favorite—the intrepid Justin Russo—spoiled her rotten, calling each and every night to report, amuse and flirt. He had even named her “Essie,” insisting that her official contact name, S-3, was too impersonal for such a beautiful and talented girl.

Beautiful and talented…

She sighed as she turned off the water and began to dry herself. In actuality, Justin had no idea what she looked like. None of the operatives did. That was part of Ray Ortega’s system—complete anonymity for the spinners.

In contrast, she knew everything about her operatives—or, at least, everything their files could tell her, plus whatever she could manage to glean over the phone. Which made the phone-free situation with Agent Will McGregor all the more frustrating.

Forget about him, she advised herself. McGregor’s a loner. Always has been, always will be. Just be glad Justin and the others are more sociable.

As if on cue, the phone began to ring, and she dashed for her desk so that her home copy of the kidnapping file would be close at hand. Then she took a deep breath and answered with a crisp, professional, “This is S-3. Please identify yourself.”

“Hey, Essie.”

“Justin! Thank heavens. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. We wrapped this one up tonight. I can only talk for a minute, but I knew you’d want to know.”

“Wrapped it up?” Kristie sank into a chair, completely unnerved. “What does that mean? Did you find Lizzie? Was she…?”

“We didn’t find the body yet,” he murmured. “The local authorities are gonna take it from here. We made the arrest. Got the confession. The rest is just…well, they can handle it from here.”

The body.

Those two words told her all she needed to know.

“At least she didn’t suffer much,” Justin was insisting. “Apparently, she fell and hit her head. Never regained consciousness. And there was no sexual assault. That’s a blessing, right? I’m not saying death is preferable to that, or vice versa, but—”

“Don’t worry, Justin. This is no time for political correctness. If the choice is between death and molestation, there’s no choice at all.”

“Right.”

His mournful tone reminded her that he must have gone through hell the last few hours, so she forced herself to find the bright side for both their sakes. “It really is a relief that she didn’t suffer. We can be grateful for that.”

“Yeah. Real grateful.”

“Try not to think about it anymore tonight. Just be proud that you brought that bastard to justice before he could hurt anyone else.” A million questions invaded the spinner’s brain. “What finally made Horton confess? Did a new witness step forward? And why didn’t he tell you where he hid the—the body? That doesn’t make much sense.”

“Horton?” Justin sounded as confused as Kristie. “You thought it was him? Why?”

Kristie winced. “You’re saying it wasn’t? Sheesh, I was so sure. Who was it then?”

There was a long silence. Then Justin murmured, “I didn’t see anything in the file to indicate he was your top suspect. I mean, he was on your list, but so were seven other people.”

“What difference does it make?” she demanded. “Tell me who did it.”

“Tell me why you thought it was Coach Horton,” he countered.

“I don’t know. Instinct, I guess. But I didn’t have any facts to back it up, which is why I didn’t highlight him in the file. You know Ray’s rule—we can follow any hunch we want in-house, but if there’s nothing in the file to support it, we have to be objective in the analysis we send to the field. And now I see why,” she admitted, half to herself.

She had been so sure Horton was the kidnapper. Had felt it in her bones, so much so that she had spent two long hours in Ray Ortega’s office, trying to force the facts into the traditional abductor profile. All because her gut told her she was right, and until now, her gut had never betrayed her.

But Ray didn’t believe in gut instinct, or hunches, or female intuition. And apparently, in this case at least, he had been right.

So?” She returned to her no-nonsense approach. “Who killed poor Lizzie? The neighbor with the motorcycle?” When the agent didn’t answer right away, she felt a twinge of foreboding. “Justin? Who was it?”

“The kid.”

“Pardon?” It didn’t make any sense for a moment, then she realized he was referring to the victim’s fourteen-year-old brother, Randy, and she gasped the boy’s name in disbelief.

“Yeah. It’s been rough all around,” the operative confirmed. “As if that family didn’t already have enough grief.”

Kristie was shaking her head, still stunned. “When you say he confessed, what exactly do you mean?”

“I mean he did it. He told us he did it. He’s racked with guilt, Essie. They had to sedate him, and even then, he was a mess. It was one of the most painful things I’ve ever had to witness.”

“Oh, Justin. How horrible.”

“It was an accident. The kids had an argument, then Randy pushed her, and she hit her head. When he realized she wasn’t breathing, he panicked and threw her in the river. They’re dragging it again as we speak, so it’s only a matter of time.”

Kristie struggled not to picture how Lizzie Rodriguez’s little body would look after six days in icy water. The poor, sweet angel…

“This is so awful, Justin. Do you know what made Randy decide to confess? It’s been almost a week. Why today?”

“I asked him that. And he said…” The agent’s voice trailed into silence.

“Justin? What’s wrong?”

“Tell me why Coach Horton was your top suspect.”

“Pardon?”

He exhaled audibly. “I spent the whole day at the school, conducting another round of useless interviews. Just when I was leaving, Randy approached me and said he wanted to turn himself in. I was surprised, because I had been watching him in the cafeteria during lunch. He was talking to his friends, and it was the first time I’d seen him look halfway relaxed since—well, since I got here. I remember thinking to myself, the days are probably getting a little easier, but I bet the nights are still a bitch. Missing his baby sister. Hearing his mom cry.”

“Go on.”

“I even mentioned it to the vice principal—that the kid’s mood seemed to be improving. And she said the staff were all trying to be sensitive and supportive. To be aware but not crowd him. Then she said she saw Horton take him aside after lunch—probably to do that very thing. You know, give him moral support. Horton’s a part-time guidance counselor as well as the track coach, you know, so it made sense.”

“Randy talked to the coach this afternoon? And then out of the blue…?” Kristie stopped herself from finishing the sentence, prompting the agent instead. “So? What did he say when you asked him ‘Why today?’”

“He said Coach Horton reminded him that he was just a kid. That he shouldn’t carry his grief inside. That no matter what he said or did, his teachers and parents and community cared and would support him. It made sense, Essie.”

“It still does,” she assured the agent. “That’s just the kind of thing a really good guidance counselor would say. I just didn’t think…”

“You didn’t think Horton was a ‘really good’ one? Why not?”

She took a deep breath, then admitted, “Instinct, pure and simple. I’ll admit he didn’t fit the profile in several key respects. At least, no more than any of the other men the cops questioned. But there were those two years of his life, in his late twenties, when he suddenly didn’t have a real job. I just kept coming back to that.”

“His mother was dying. Emphysema, right? She needed him to come home. And she had enough retirement money so he could afford to help her full-time. That’s what the file said. His relatives and neighbors made it sound like he was a frigging saint,” Justin added, his tone slightly frantic. “But you don’t think so? Is that it? You think…what?”

“I guess I don’t think anyone’s a saint,” Kristie admitted. “And I don’t think twenty-eight-year-old men who’ve been holding themselves out as Mr. Macho for years suddenly quit their jobs and break their engagement to their high-school sweetheart and move home to play nursemaid for two whole years—no matter how sick their mom is—unless there’s something else going on.”

“Geez, Essie, don’t say that.” Justin heaved an exaggerated sigh, then muttered, “Okay, say it. Your gut instinct has been flawless in every case we’ve worked together. Almost eerie. So…?”