Face Of Deception

“Hitting on you!” She must have turned six shades of red. “We both agreed to keep it strictly business between us.”

“Yeah, that was our agreement,” Mike said. “But I’ll warn you now, lady, when this business is cleared up, I’ll be coming after you.”

She stopped and turned around. “What do you mean?”

“We’ve got a lot of lost pleasure to make up.”

“Do you actually think I’m stupid enough to get involved with a guy who lives on the edge like you do?”

“I think it’s out of both our hands. Right now I want to pick you up and carry you to bed. Are you really going to deny you don’t want me to? No, sweetheart, it won’t fly. Those violet eyes tell me all I have to know. And I figure it’s going to be worth the wait.”

Dear Reader,

Welcome to another month of excitingly romantic reading from Silhouette Intimate Moments. Ruth Langan starts things off with a bang in Vendetta, the third of her four DEVIL’S COVE titles. Blair Colby came back to town looking for a quiet summer. Instead he found danger, mystery—and love.

Fans of Sara Orwig’s STALLION PASS miniseries will be glad to see it continued in Bring On The Night, part of STALLION PASS: TEXAS KNIGHTS, also a fixture in Silhouette Desire. Mix one tough agent, the ex-wife he’s never forgotten and the son he never knew existed, and you have a recipe for high emotion. Whether you experienced our FAMILY SECRETS continuity or are new to it now, you won’t want to miss our six FAMILY SECRETS: THE NEXT GENERATION titles, starting with Jenna Mills’ A Cry In The Dark. Ana Leigh’s Face of Deception is the first of her BISHOP’S HEROES stories, and your heart will beat faster with every step of Mike Bishop’s mission to rescue Ann Hamilton and her adopted son from danger. Are you a fan of the paranormal? Don’t miss One Eye Open, popular author Karen Whiddon’s first book for the line, which features a shape-shifting heroine and a hero who’s all man. Finally, go To The Limit with new author Virginia Kelly, who really knows how to write heart-pounding romantic adventure.

And come back next month, for more of the best and most exciting romance reading around, right here in Silhouette Intimate Moments.

Yours,

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Editor

Face of Deception

Ana Leigh

ANA LEIGH

Ana Leigh is a Wisconsin native with three children and five grandchildren. From the time of the publication of her first novel in 1981, Ana successfully juggled her time between her chosen career and her hobby of writing, until she officially retired in September 1994 to devote more time to her “hobby.” In the past she has been a theater cashier (who married the boss), the head of an accounting department, a corporate officer and the only female on the board of directors of an engineering firm.

This bestselling author received a Romantic Times Career Achievement Award nomination for Storyteller of the Year in 1991, the BOOKRAK 1995-1996 Best Selling Author Award, the Romantic Times 1995-1996 Career Achievement Award and the Romantic Times 1996–1997 Career Achievement Award for Historical Storyteller of the Year. Her novels have been distributed worldwide, including Africa, China and Russia.

To Dave,

The best “Ready Reference” a mother or author could hope for.

Contents

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

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 1

French Guiana

The SUV sped along the crude road sending a trail of dust into the air—a trail that could easily be observed by anyone in pursuit.

Ann Hamilton shoved back the strands of long hair that had fallen across her eyes and nervously glanced up into the rearview mirror. Thank God! I’m not being followed.

She cast a quick look at the curled-up figure asleep on the seat next to her, then returned her attention to the road ahead.

Her heart was aching, and a steady stream of tears made seeing difficult: before driving beyond broadcasting range she’d heard an announcement on the car radio that Clayton Burroughs, British-born official with the European Space Consortium, had been killed by an unknown assassin in Kourou.

Clayton knew he was in danger. That’s why he sent us away.

She swiped at her tears and returned her attention to the road.

A dozen questions flashed through her mind in rapid succession. Why did Clayton insist she and Brandon come all the way up to his retreat near the coast to wait for help? If he knew he was in danger, why didn’t he come with them? Why hadn’t he sought help from the British or American Embassies?

She couldn’t believe the man she’d loved as a father was dead. Who would want to kill her beloved Clayton? Could the news report have been mistaken? Now, out of broadcasting range, she had no idea of the latest developments.

Dust and tears painted mucky streaks on her face. Ann brushed them aside just as the car hit a pothole and flew above the ground for several seconds before the wheels bounced back on the road.

Brandon awoke and rubbed his eyes with a balled fist. Raising his towhead, he looked around. “Are we almost there, Ann?”

“Almost, honey. Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you when we arrive.”

His young forehead creased in a frown and he sat up in the seat. “Are you crying?” When she didn’t answer, he asked, “You’re crying because Grandfather didn’t come with us, aren’t you?”

Ann bit down on her lip to force back her sobs. The attempt failed; her tears continued to flow.

At the sight of her misery, Brandon’s eyes welled with his own unshed tears. “Please don’t cry, Ann.”

The youngster’s parents had been killed in an airplane crash two years earlier. Now she would have to tell him the devastating news of his grandfather’s death. “We’ve got to try to be very brave, honey,” she managed to murmur.

As they sped over the precipitous road, Ann was gripped by panic for their safety, and despair at the thought of Clayton being dead. One question leaped continually to her mind: Why was he killed?

The bordering jungle soon engulfed the road. With only the beams of the car to cut a dim swath of light through the inky blackness, Ann eased up on the accelerator and cut her speed to almost a crawl. Nearing midnight, she halted in front of a small villa.

She jumped out of the car and yanked on a bell that hung at the gate of the tall wall surrounding the courtyard of the secluded house. As Ann waited impatiently, she cast a glance back to Brandon. He looked so small and forlorn, his round, blue eyes were wide with apprehension as they followed her every move.

Tugging impatiently at the bell cord, Ann was relieved to see a light materialize in the house. The caretakers, a local couple named Guillaume and Marie Sellier appeared at the door. The man peered through the darkness to identify whomever had awakened them at such a late hour. Recognizing Ann, he hurried to open the gate as Ann lifted Brandon out of the SUV.

After a perfunctory greeting, Guillaume looked about expectantly. “The monsieur did not accompany you, Mademoiselle Hamilton?”

Since the remote area was devoid of telephones and radio, Ann knew the couple would not have heard of Clayton’s death.

“Mister Burroughs will not be coming,” she said, fighting back her tears. Dear God! How can I explain this to them when I don’t understand any of it myself?

“Marie, will you make Brandon a sandwich and a glass of milk? He hasn’t eaten anything since morning.”

“And you, mademoiselle?”

“Nothing for me. I’m not hungry.”

When the woman departed with Brandon in tow, Ann sank down on the couch and buried her head in her hands. Her long blond hair draped in a silky curtain about her face—a symbol of the isolated despair she was feeling.

What should I do? Clayton told me to wait here for help. Should I try to get a message to the American Embassy?

She leaned back and closed her eyes. If only it would end by just waking.

“Mademoiselle.” Ann felt a gentle nudge on her shoulder and opened her eyes. “I have your tea, mademoiselle.”

As if in a trance, Ann thanked the woman and accepted the offering. “Is Brandon in bed?”

“Oui, mademoiselle. The young one waits for you to come to say the good night.”

After a few sips of the hot tea, Ann rose wearily to her feet. Until this moment she hadn’t realized how exhausted she was. She patted Marie’s shoulder. “Merci, Marie. I’m sorry to have disturbed you and Guillaume at this late hour. Go to bed now. We won’t need anything else tonight.” The woman nodded and immediately disappeared.

Pausing outside of Brandon’s bedroom, Ann drew a deep breath and grasped the doorknob. Brandon sat in bed playing with a silver coin.

She’d fallen in love with the youngster from the first day the orphaned child had come to live with his grandfather. Brandon felt the same way about her, and followed her around as though she were the mother he had lost.

“So, what have you got there, sport?” she asked, gathering him into her arms.

“Grandfather gave this to me before we left. He said I should keep this coin to remember him by.” Intensity registered on his young face. “Why did he say that, Ann?”

Hugging the boy tighter, Ann forced back her tears. She couldn’t lie to him. “Honey, I have something very sad to tell you. Your grandfather…died this morning.”

The words sounded so final, as if by voicing the truth the appalling act became a reality.

Brandon remained silent. Ann was uncertain he had understood her until the youngster asked sadly, “Is Grandfather in Heaven now with Mommy and Daddy?”

“Yes, he is, sweetheart.” No why or how—just acceptance. She wished he would cry instead of sitting there looking so vulnerable. Her chest knotted with pain at the pathetic sight of the six-year-old child already conditioned to death.

Brushing back the light hair from his forehead, she pressed a kiss to his brow. “Would you like me to stay with you tonight?”

“No. I can stay alone, Ann. I’m a big boy. Grandfather said so.”

The brave but tragic announcement wrenched at her heart. She felt tears welling in her eyes. Rising to her feet, she tucked the sheet around him and then leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Go to sleep now, honey. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

“You go to sleep, too. And don’t cry, Ann. Grandfather’s happy now. He always told me how much he missed my daddy.”

As she was about to close the door, Ann saw Brandon open his fist and stare at the coin clutched in his hand. Tears trickled down his cheeks.

“I’ll remember you, Grandfather. I promise,” he declared fervently. Then he tucked the coin into his pajama pocket.

No longer able to contain her sadness Ann hurried down the hallway to the privacy of her bedroom.

By rote, she went through the motions of preparing herself for bed and was about to retire when the door flung open with such force that it slammed against the wall. A scream burst past her lips at the sight of a man in the doorway waving a weapon at her.

“Out. Out,” he ordered sharply, gesturing wildly with the rifle.

“Ann! Ann! Help me,” Brandon cried out from the other room.

“Oh, dear God! Brandon!” In her hurry to reach the frightened child, Ann ignored the armed man and rushed past him. Another abductor was pulling the protesting child by the arm out of his bedroom into the living room.

“Take your hands off him,” she cried, rushing to Brandon’s defense. His captor shoved her away and she fell back onto the couch.

“Don’t you hurt her.” Brandon’s lower lip jutted out pugnaciously as he pounded the chest of his captor. He was sent sprawling next to Ann. She clutched him tightly as they huddled, terrified, while the two servants were herded into the room by more armed men. After a quick exchange, the abductors bound and gagged the servants and took them back to their room.

Several others went into her bedroom, and Ann could hear them ransacking it.

“Up. Up,” her captor ordered when they returned. His knowledge of English may have been limited, but his body language and the menacing gestures spoke an international language that was not difficult to interpret as he herded Ann and Brandon into her bedroom.

As frightened as she was, Ann refused to cower under their intimidating glares. “What is the meaning of this? What do you want from us?”

“No talk. You no talk,” he barked, and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

She couldn’t believe the devastation their captors had created in such a short time. The room had been thoroughly sacked in their search for weapons and valuables. Bureau drawers had been pulled out and the contents strewn everywhere. Chairs were upended and pictures yanked off the walls.

After Brandon helped Ann put the mattress back on the bed and restore the bedding to a proper order she insisted he go to bed.

“I’m scared, Ann. I don’t want to go to sleep. When are these mean men going away?”

“Soon, honey. Soon,” she soothed. “Try to sleep. Maybe they’ll be gone in the morning.”

When he finally settled down, Ann went to the door and tried to hear what the men were saying. From the few fragments of sentences she was able to overhear, she grasped that they were waiting for further instructions before moving Brandon and her to a different location.

Good Lord! Who were these men? Were they responsible for Clayton’s death? Were they going to kill her and Brandon, too?

Her breathing came in quick, shallow gasps as her panic mounted. She felt she was choking. Rushing to the window, she raised it and drew several deep breaths. An armed guard outside waved his weapon to indicate she move back inside the room. Irritated, she slammed down the window.

Her nerves were raw, and she could feel herself coming apart. Her fright, Clayton’s death and not knowing the reason behind it all had driven her to the brink of losing her control. Brandon’s need for her was the only thing keeping her from breaking down.

To occupy herself Ann tidied the room. The task helped to take her mind off her misery until she picked up a framed photograph that had been knocked to the floor. Her eyes misted as she gazed at the cherished face of the distinguished-looking man in his sixties. She had snapped the photograph of Clayton Burroughs the day they met.

“Oh, Clayton.” Sobbing, she sank in despair to the floor.

Chapter 2

Mike Bishop awoke with a start when Cassidy nudged him with his foot. “I think I just saw the signal.”

Saturated with perspiration, he sat up and looked around hastily at the men stretched out on the deck. All were sleeping except for Dave Cassidy at the helm.

Mike pulled out his binoculars and trained the glasses on the shore. The infrared lenses distinguished a ragged coastline capped by a dense jungle. As the boat drew nearer, a light blinked three times from the shore, the prearranged signal from the local guide. They were on course.

Frowning, he lowered the glasses, removed a black wool cap and then wiped his brow on the sleeve of his sweater. He ran his fingers through the clipped hair matted to his head and rose to his feet to stretch his cramped muscles. He was hot and sweaty and would have liked to pull off the black sweater that clung to him in wet patches, shuck the pants and boots and dive into the inviting water.

Despite the undulating movement of the small craft, his step was firm, his back ramrod straight as he crossed the deck.

“We made good time.”

Cassidy nodded. “You think the woman and kid are still alive?”

“I’m not psychic! Your guess is as good as mine.”

“What’s chewing on your ass?” Cassidy asked. “You’ve been uptight since the briefing.”

“Nothing. Nothing’s bugging me,” Mike growled. He returned to his former seat, picked up a round tin and began smearing black greasepaint on his face. When he was through, only the whites of his eyes could be discerned in the darkness. Passing the tin to Cassidy, he settled back and began to reflect on the mission ahead.

From the quick briefing they’d received from Prince Charming, a British national had been murdered in French Guiana. A contact informed them that the man’s six-year-old grandson and American assistant, Ann Hamilton, whom the Agency assigned the code names of Boy Blue and Snow White, had reached a prearranged rescue site, but were now being held prisoners, presumably by those responsible for the Brit’s murder. And since his squad was on a training exercise in neighboring Guyana, they were immediately dispatched to go in fast and get the woman and kid. And not make it an international incident. That meant not to take out any of the abductors. What the hell was with the Agency? Did Baker and Waterman think they could just walk through the door and the bastards would hand them the prisoners?

For the dozenth time Bishop reached into his pocket and pulled out the faxed photograph given to him at the briefing. He stared at the woman’s face in the picture. Deep-violet eyes veiled with thick dark lashes stared out at him from the photograph. Shoulder-length golden hair feathered in soft curls around a flawless face blessed with a small straight nose and high cheekbones.

Man, she was hot!

He ran his finger absently across her wide, generous mouth. What in hell had been with this Burroughs? The guy had to have known the risks. Only a damn fool would bring a woman along on an assignment.

On second thought, he’d cut the guy some slack. Maybe the poor fool didn’t know. Baker had said that Burroughs wasn’t actually an agent. That Waterman had asked Burroughs for his help.

Why had Queen Mother asked this Burroughs for help? Espionage was no job for amateurs. So now the poor bastard’s dead for his effort.

Mike felt a tightening in his chest. And by this time, the woman and kid are probably dead, too.

When Cassidy began to rouse the men, Mike refolded the paper and returned it to his pocket. He was proud of this team. Known as the Dwarf Squad in the Agency, he, Cassidy, Bolen and Fraser were former Navy SEALs; Williams and Bledsoe had been with the British SAS. Each man was a specialist in a particular field. They had served together as a team for the past three years, and he trusted all of them. Would stake his life on the performance of any one of them. Mike smiled wryly—he’d often had to.

There was nothing to distinguish one of them from the other. They wore no identification. Dressed alike. On this mission, each of them carried an Israeli-made Uzi submachine gun. In addition they all carried a Silver Trident knife, a garrote, grenades and six extra clips of ammo strapped to their waists.

The team never carried survival rations. They survived on whatever the land offered.

The craft touched shore, and they slipped into the water and beached the boat. At the sound of a crackling leaf all six weapons swung toward the man who stepped out of the brush. He identified himself as the contact they were expecting.

“Burroughs’s house three kilomètre,” the man explained, holding up three fingers as he struggled with English. He pointed to a spot on the map that Bishop had extracted from a waterproof packet. “I see nine, maybe ten go into house.”

“Did they all have weapons?”

“Oui.”

“Automatic weapons?” Mike pursued.

“I not know, monsieur.”

“What about servants?”

“Only Guillaume Sellier and his wife.”

“Are they friendly?”

“I think yes.”

Seeing there was no more information to be gleaned, Mike nodded abruptly. “Williams, Bledsoe, you two have Boy Blue. Bolen and Fraser, the servants. Cassidy and I will take Snow White. Conceal the boat and we’ll move out.”

Armed with only a machete, their guide slipped silently into the jungle. “Williams, Bledsoe, take the point.” The two men followed the man into the forest.

Cassidy came over to him. “Well, we made it this far. Wonder if we’ve been spotted.”

“We’ll soon find out,” Mike said. He shifted his gaze to the dense foliage surrounding them. Not a leaf stirred. “It’s damn quiet.”

Cassidy’s smile flashed whitely against the greasepaint on his face. “We’ll get them out, Mike. I’ve got good vibes about this mission.”

Mike’s face slashed into a grim line. “You said that about Beirut, too.”

Mike’s heart pounded like a jackhammer. The closer they got to the house, the faster it beat. His hand holding the rifle was clammy and sweaty. He knew he had to get a hold on himself, but he could only think of what they might find when they entered the house. What if the prisoners were dead? He couldn’t forget those violet eyes staring at him from that photograph. The time had come to get out of the business; he was losing his objectivity.

Suddenly they were there, no more time for what-ifs. The men halted, awaiting orders. He sent the guide back to his village to protect the man’s identity in the event the mission fell apart.

Stay focused, Bishop. Don’t lose your objectivity or you’ll endanger the squad as well as the woman and kid. He mustn’t let his emotions muddy the water. So why in hell was he fighting the urge to run up to the house and burst through the front door?

Mike shook his head to clear his muddled mind and concentrated on the mission. A brick wall surrounded the house. A damn brick wall! Bad enough he was battling mental obstacles, now he was confronted by a physical one—a damn brick wall! They could be picked off like sitting ducks as they tried to scale it.

The squad remained concealed as Williams and Bledsoe checked an SUV parked on the outside of the gate. Before moving on, Bledsoe shook his head and indicated with a hand signal that the keys weren’t in the ignition.

As Mike passed the car, he glanced inside. A white flowered scarf shimmered like a silky pool on the front seat. He picked it up and brought the material to his nose. The sensuous fragrance hit like a punch to his gut. The damn scarf smells like Violet Eyes looked in the picture—sensuous and sexy.

Round blotches began to dot the flimsy material. Mike glanced up to discover that it was raining. That was a good sign. Rain would muffle the sound of footsteps. Maybe they were getting a little bit of outside help. He stuffed the scarf under his sweater. The piece of silk adhered seductively to his heated skin.

Bledsoe and Williams returned to report that only one man guarded the front door. In addition, the first stumbling block had been eliminated—the gate had been left ajar; they wouldn’t have to scale a wall. One by one the men slipped through the gate until all six members of the squad were inside.

A light glowed from a front window of the house. As the squad huddled in the shrubbery, the front door opened and two men stepped outside carrying automatic weapons. One relieved the guard on duty while the other crossed the patio, passing right by the concealed team. Mike motioned to Bolen and Fraser, and the two men followed the gunman.