Lovers In Hiding

“I want you, Melinda.”

“You’ll get over it.”

Her words might have been flippant, but every muscle in her body tensed as if for war.

“There’s only one way I want to be over you. Naked. In a nice soft bed, with our clothes strewn across the floor.”

“Wish all you want. It’s not going to happen.”

She tossed her hair over her shoulder and looked out the passenger window. Her body language couldn’t be clearer. She was going to ignore him.

But he had no intention of letting her do so, not after he’d glimpsed the simmering heat in her eyes.

“I’m taking you to a houseboat on the St. John’s River. It’ll be private and romantic. The boat is fully stocked with food.”

“I’m not hungry.”

He lowered his voice. “You will be.”

“Don’t you get it? I don’t want you.”

“You will,” he promised. “You will.”

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

Need some great stocking stuffers this holiday season for yourself and your family and friends? Harlequin Intrigue has four dynamite suggestions—starting with three exciting conclusions.

This month, veteran romantic suspense author Rebecca York wraps up her special 43 LIGHT STREET trilogy MINE TO KEEP with Lassiter’s Law, and Susan Kearney finishes her action-packed HIDE AND SEEK miniseries with Lovers in Hiding. Julie Miller, too, closes out the MONTANA CONFIDENTIAL quartet with her book Secret Agent Heiress. You won’t want to miss any of these thrilling titles.

For some Christmastime entertainment, B.J. Daniels takes you west on a trip into madness and mayhem with a beautiful amnesiac and a secret father in her book A Woman with a Mystery.

So make your list and check out Harlequin Intrigue for the best gift around…happily ever after.

Happy holidays from all of us at Harlequin Intrigue.

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Associate Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

Lovers in Hiding

Susan Kearney

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Susan Kearney used to set herself on fire four times a day; now she does something really hot—she writes romantic suspense. While she no longer performs her signature fire dive (she’s taken up figure skating), she never runs out of ideas for characters and plots. A business graduate from the University of Michigan, Susan now writes full-time. She resides in a small town outside Tampa, Florida, with her husband and children and a spoiled Boston terrier.

Books by Susan Kearney

HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

340—TARA’S CHILD

378—A BABY TO LOVE

410—LULLABY DECEPTION

428—SWEET DECEPTION

456—DECEIVING DADDY

478—PRIORITY MALE

552—A NIGHT WITHOUT END

586—CRADLE WILL ROCK*

590—LITTLE BOYS BLUE*

594—LULLABY AND GOODNIGHT*

636—THE HIDDEN YEARS†

640—HIDDEN HEARTS†

644—LOVERS IN HIDING†

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Clay Rogan—Alias: Viper. Code breaker extraordinare, he’s the CIA’s top cryptanalyst. His job is to keep Melinda safe, but can he find the key to unlock her heart?

Melinda Murphy—One day she’s living a normal

life, the next day she’s in extreme danger from a past she can’t remember and a man she’ll never forget.

Jake Cochran—The brother Melinda doesn’t know.

Lionell Tower—The director of the CIA.

Sam Bronson—Is the message he left on Melinda’s answering machine a key to solving the mystery of who is after her?

Herbert Silverberg—A man on a thirty-year mission.

Barry Lee—Nobel Prizewinning reporter. He’s willing to risk his life to see justice done.

Aleksei Polozkova and Jon Khorkina—Agents for the CIA. But whose side are they on?

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

Prologue

Clay Rogan had never before been ordered into the director of operation’s office of the CIA. Although he worked daily at the imposing building in McLean, Virginia, the prospect of meeting the director had him curious and edgy. The legendary director was responsible for all covert operations—far from Clay’s normal turf in cryptanalysis.

After the D.O. had left an urgent message in the Hot Inbox file on Clay’s computer, he’d hoped he wasn’t about to be transferred to another division. Clay loved his work, took enjoyment in eighteen-hour days. He loved solving puzzles and breaking codes and, while his six-foot-six frame made him seem more suited for active pursuits, nothing provided him with as much pleasure as giving his brain a good workout. A ride on his motorcycle came in only a close second. Although Clay had trained at the renowned Farm in Camp Peary with other CIA recruits, he led a relatively normal life. He worked in an office, in front of a computer screen, scrutinizing bursts of satellite transmissions in an attempt to decode messages sent by foreign agents’ transmitters.

As a master in his field, Clay had worked his way up from rookie and whiz kid to head of the cryptanalysis division. Early on, his superiors had recognized his linguistic abilities and intuitive knack for breaking code by spotting patterns where others could not. He’d earned the nickname Viper when he’d broken a Chinese code that had been composed of snakelike curves that had mystified other experts for years.

But to Clay, going into the field was as far-fetched an idea as dogs barking in Morse code. Sure, he’d taken the same basic courses required of all operatives—in detecting explosives, carrying out surveillance and countersurveillance operations, mastering a variety of weapons, and running counterintelligence, counternarcotics and paramilitary operations—but those activities were far outside his primary area of expertise.

So he had no idea why he’d been ordered to the D.O.’s office. Under normal circumstances he’d hesitate to venture onto the super-secret fifteenth floor, but the message in his Hot file this morning had left him no alternative.

He was to report to the D.O. himself. And tell no one.

Highly unusual. Highly irregular. Orders normally came down through channels.

The moment Clay arrived, the D.O.’s secretary ushered him into the opulent office. Although he’d never met the head of one of the most important departments in the government, he’d seen the director on television many times, reporting to Congress and briefing the Senate.

Up close, Lionel Tower’s pit bull face looked even more tenacious than on the little screen. The man leaned aggressively forward, making Clay think his bark could be as bad as his bite. Yet, the moment Clay entered, the director graciously rose and came around his desk to shake hands, his spit-shined shoes squeaking.

“Thank you for coming so promptly.”

Clay saw no reason to respond to the rhetorical comment. Both men knew he hadn’t been given a choice. When the director commanded, his agents obeyed with an extra snap in their step. Obeyed not just because the director was in charge; the man was famous for turning more foreign spies into double agents than any other operative in the agency’s long and convoluted history. He had earned their respect.

The hand that grasped Clay’s had short, ragged nails, bit low on the fingertips. The palm was hard, cool and powerful. The director gestured for Clay to sit and then, surprisingly, pulled up a chair alongside him instead of returning behind his desk—a friendly action that made Clay even more wary.

“I’m sure you’re curious about why you’re here, so I’ll get right to the point.” Tower peered at Clay with a hopeful expression. “I’d like your help in a little matter.”

Little? The D.O. didn’t involve himself in little matters. He left that for underlings. But Clay kept his expression neutral. “Yes, sir?”

“Almost thirty years ago, a married couple worked for the agency. Both of them were operatives. The woman was killed and a short time later, her husband died in a mysterious car accident that we think was a hit. Their three children survived, and the agency hired a lawyer to find homes for the kids. Those children are now adults. I believe they’re in danger.”

“Sir?” Was the D.O. asking Clay to protect them? That was so far from his area of expertise, he had trouble believing that someone who had access to his file would have chosen him for the job.

“The name of the eldest, their only son, is Jake Cochran. Ever heard of him?”

“Should I have, sir?”

“Jake grew up in foster homes. When he graduated from high school, he tracked down the attorney we hired decades ago and tried to find his sisters.”

“The kids were split up? I thought Family Services tries to keep them together.”

“Together they would have been easier to track. Since we feared for their safety, it was decided the kids would be separated.” Tower paused, no doubt regrouping his thoughts. “The parents were damn fine operatives, the best, so it’s not surprising that Jake Cochran established one of the premier detective agencies in Florida. All the while, he kept searching for his sisters.”

“Did he find them, sir?”

“He only just located them.”

Clay frowned. “I don’t understand, sir.”

He didn’t like the idea of children being separated. Families should stick together, and he sincerely hoped the D.O. didn’t want him to have anything to do with keeping the siblings apart.

“Jake found adoption records with his sisters’ new names and addresses. He mailed them each a letter with old photographs and copies of his mother’s papers. He also hired bodyguards to protect both his sisters.”

Clay put the pieces together quickly. “The siblings are in danger because of the mother’s documents?”

“You catch on fast. Jake and one sister have already gone underground. I want you to befriend the third sister, get her to trust you.”

“Am I permitted to know why?”

Tower chuckled. “Absolutely. I need you to decode the documents.”

Clay finally understood why he’d been chosen for this mission. He currently worked with the newest state-of-the-art codes, but his hobby was deciphering old codes like the one the special agent might have used almost thirty years ago. Information on his hobby was most assuredly right in his file along with his favorite flavor of chewing gum, cherry; his preferences in women, model-thin blondes with small, high breasts and cool intelligence; and his favorite leather jacket size—extra large.

Still he was reluctant to take on the full assignment. Although he itched to try his luck with the old codes, protection wasn’t his specialty and he didn’t want to get someone killed. “Sir, surely there are people much more qualified than me to protect the sister—”

“Melinda Murphy.”

“To protect Ms. Murphy—”

“You’re the best qualified cryptanalyst for the job.” The D.O. gave him a significant look. Clay didn’t have to know the man well to understand that he was expected to keep his mouth shut and commit the instructions for this assignment to memory. But why hadn’t the D.O. assigned another, more qualified agent to protect the woman and allowed Clay to do what he did best—decode? Was he missing something? Or was Clay just annoyed because he didn’t yet have all the puzzle’s pieces to analyze? After a taut silence, the D.O. finally added, “We don’t want to alert anyone else to the situation.”

We? So now it was a team effort. But it would be Clay’s ass on the line, and the girl’s too if he screwed up. “May I ask why we are keeping this operation to just us, sir?”

His expertise wouldn’t come into play until later, after he’d gained the woman’s trust, and Clay hoped he wouldn’t be asked to betray her to bring the code to the agency. Despite his credentials as a fully trained covert operative, he didn’t like lies.

“Because I suspect someone inside the CIA is running his own secret operation against these siblings.”

Clay swallowed hard, suddenly understanding the covert nature of this extremely dangerous assignment. No wonder the D.O. wanted him to work alone—less chance of a leak. And a leak could be critical since his job was to ferret out a traitor within the CIA.

“Do I—”

“No backup. No partners. Just you with a direct phone line to me.”

“And my current assignments?”

“I’ll handle those. Viper, you take care of the woman. Melinda Murphy lives in Daytona Beach, Florida.” The director handed him a file. “Just find her, decode the papers and bring the results back to me. Only to me.”

Chapter One

Time to play.

Melinda Murphy loaded her long board and new Aerotech sail and mast onto her car’s rack and headed for Ponce Inlet, a peninsula just south of Daytona Beach that permitted cars on the beach. Once she parked on Florida’s fabulous white sand, she wouldn’t have far to carry her gear to the surf.

She sniffed the tangy salt air and appreciated the May sunshine as the wind whipped her hair through her open car window. She might just sail in her shorty, a wet suit that left her arms and legs bare to the water, since the air was warm enough to keep her comfortable. Although she knew the water temperatures would still be cool this time of year, she longed for the wetness against her skin. Besides, she’d warm up quickly as she beat into the wind, sailing through the large rolling waves that swelled, then gathered force as they crested and crashed onto the beach.

Even allowing time to drive back for a shower and a change of clothes, Melinda figured she had several good hours of sailing time. She had four hours until her next appointment, with a demanding lady, but one who’d recommended her to some very influential potential clients. Clients who could afford to pay a hundred bucks for a two-hour massage. Clients who had stressful jobs. Clients who would be happy to shell out more cash for additional pampering when Melinda opened her full-service salon, which would include facials and manicures, in the fall.

Melinda almost had enough money saved. The financing had been arranged to allow her to make a down payment and renovate the cute little house with a prime commercial location that she wanted to buy. Soon, all she’d worked and planned for would become reality, and she’d have the stability of her own business.

But for the next few hours, Melinda intended to put work out of her mind and enjoy the sunshine kissing her skin, the breeze dancing in her hair, the hot sand slipping between her toes. The beach wouldn’t be crowded on a Thursday afternoon. She wouldn’t have to watch out for the surfers catching their next wave or kids swimming or body surfing or tossing Frisbees.

She expected only dolphins, sand crabs and seagulls for company. Sure enough, as she turned onto the beach, it was relatively empty. A lone fisherman cast his line at the end of the pier. Several boats headed into the harbor around the point, and a sea-plane flew northward up the coast.

Melinda sighed happily in expectation, turning her face up to the sun shining through her windshield, looking forward to a strenuous afternoon. A cottony cumulus cloud scudded over the sun, casting long shadows across the beach, and the shimmering waters darkened to a menacing gray. For a moment, Melinda shivered, memories of the disturbing package she’d received yesterday morning swimming through her thoughts like a shark circling prey.

She’d always known she had been adopted. But she’d been too busy struggling to survive to give her past much thought. After her adopted parents’ divorce, there’d been barely enough money to put food on the table, never mind send her to college. So she’d earned her massage therapy license at age eighteen and had been responsible for her own bills ever since. Now, at twenty-five, she rarely thought of the past, and focused only on her future and the business she would soon open.

But the package she’d received yesterday from her biological brother had changed her world and her place in it. Melinda had a brother and a sister. Two siblings. She didn’t find the facts particularly comforting. Large families meant more mouths to feed. More fights. More responsibilities.

As she turned her attention back to the present, she noticed a shiny blue sedan with two men in business suits following her vehicle down the beach. Wanting her privacy, she kept going, hoping they’d park far enough away that she wouldn’t have to hear their conversation. She’d come to relax.

But the old letters, diaries and pictures that once belonged to her biological mother kept worming their way into her mind. Would her brother, Jake Cochran, come calling soon? What did he want from her?

And what about the sister, older by two years, that she’d never met? Would they look alike? Would her sister have Melinda’s olive skin, tawny eyes and black hair? Her brother’s letter had told her almost nothing about himself, but after she’d read his note, she’d picked up the phone and called him.

Jake hadn’t answered, and she hadn’t left a message on his voice mail, although she wasn’t sure why. She’d told herself that with her hectic schedule, he wouldn’t be likely to catch her in. And if he’d called back during an appointment with a client, she couldn’t speak for long on her cell phone. It would simply be more convenient for her to call him back again later.

A glance in her rearview mirror revealed that the two men in the blue sedan hadn’t yet parked, but were still trailing her down the beach. While the traffic was often bumper to bumper, there was lots of room now, and she felt a minor edge of alarm when their car followed hers so closely.

They had the entire beach to themselves. Why tail-gate?

When they honked at her, she kept driving along the beach, obeying the ten-mile-per-hour speed limit, and ignored the men, hoping they just wanted to pick up a beach babe and would go away if she paid them no attention. Before, she’d welcomed the isolation. Now, she wished for the weekend crowd. But besides the fisherman who stood on the pier with his back to her, the only other person on the beach appeared to be a man on a motorcycle, maybe a half mile back, his silhouette black and razor sharp against the blowing sand.

At least she hadn’t stopped and turned off her engine. She could simply keep driving, circle to the main road and report the creeps to the cops. She might lose a half hour of sailing time, but she knew trouble when she saw it.

However, when she tried to head back toward the road, the sedan blocked her. Quickly, more annoyed than frightened, she whipped the steering wheel the other way and made a skidding U-turn, her wheels sinking into wet sand and lapping waves. She easily made the turn and glanced over her shoulder, figuring she’d lost the men in suits.

Then she again spied the blue sedan on her tail, speeding toward her. It looked ready to ram her, smash her to a bloody pulp. She slammed her foot on the gas pedal.

Her car skidded like oil on a hot skillet. Failed to accelerate quickly enough.

The sedan rocketed into her car’s trunk. Her car veered into the ocean and water rolled up to her tires, up to her bumper, onto the floorboards.

Soon it would be up to her neck, making her keep her head above water to avoid drowning. A huge wave lumbered over the hood like a runaway mule, kicked into her windows, tossed the car up and smashed it into another taller wall of dark water. She banged her head and fireworks shot off in a sea of darkness. Her airbag inflated.

And then her world turned black.

CLAY GUNNED HIS Harley down the beach, blasting a spray of sand behind him, skidding to a stop short of where Melinda Murphy’s car had just been forced into the water by the blue sedan. At the first sign of trouble, he’d kicked his bike into gear, wishing he’d had more power. She wasn’t going to die on his watch.

Running toward her, he flung his jacket behind him, stopping for only a few seconds to kick off his boots. His heart was hammering so hard he barely heard the roar of the waves pounding the rocks by the pier like a hammer. Barely noticed the cold water that numbed his extremities. Barely noticed how suddenly the sunshine was disappearing as thunder-clouds thronged dark and dangerous overhead.

He refused to lose her. Not after he’d stayed awake, driving all night to reach her.

Yesterday, after learning he couldn’t catch a commercial flight to Daytona’s tiny airport, he’d chosen to ride his bike from Virginia to Florida. Maybe he should have chartered a special flight. Or flown into Orlando or Jacksonville. Or hired protection for her until he’d arrived to take over himself.

Wishing he could sprout fins, his frantic dash into the water slowed as he was forced to wade through the waist-high waves. He forged right by the blue sedan that had been caught by a wave and spun upside down, trapping its occupants inside.

Clay’s clothes absorbed water, slowing his progress, but he lunged forward, straining every iota of energy out of his powerful thighs, breathing hard, balancing on each crest of water, praying he could make it to Melinda before she drowned.

His first assignment. He wouldn’t blow it before it began. He wouldn’t have a woman’s life weighing on his conscience, wouldn’t live with failure.

Fifteen minutes ago, at noon, when he’d reached Melinda’s rented house, he hadn’t been too alarmed that she wasn’t there, especially after a neighbor told him that she’d driven off with her windsailer strapped to her car’s rack. Clay had followed the helpful neighbor’s directions to the beach, and he’d obeyed the speed limit. Now he wished he hadn’t.

The tide was kidnapping her, holding her hostage in its fierce grip, the car bobbing and spinning and rolling like a sinking boat. The blue sedan fared no better. When the sand dropped from beneath his feet and the water reached his chest, he started swimming, his arms windmilling, his legs kicking.

Water was filling the inside of her car, each incoming wave pouring in with fierce surges. Fear of watching her sink before his eyes made his tired limbs fight through the water. If she disappeared completely before he reached her, he might not even find the vehicle. Right now he could only see her sailboard strapped to the roof, about to be washed under the surging water.

The blue sedan stayed afloat better than Melinda Murphy’s car, and its occupants were trying to climb out onto the roof of their vehicle.

Clay cursed the powerful waves and the fate that had led him here. Doing too little. Too late.

His body wasn’t made for swimming. He didn’t have the lean lines of a swimmer. Built like a wrestler with too many heavy muscles that didn’t want to float, he struggled, took in a mouthful of water. He choked, but kept going.

He had to reach her. Minutes counted. Seconds counted.

Finally he stroked alongside her car. Stretching his hand through the open window, he yanked open the door, reached inside and grabbed her. She wouldn’t come free.

Damn it.