Undercover Nightingale

“Rosnau’s debut single title is a wild roller-coaster ride. This romantic adventure has it all—psychotic madmen, a heart-stopping hero and endless surprises. A definite keeper…”

—on A Thousand Kisses Deep

“Wendy Rosnau’s feisty characters and their nonstop snappy banter provide enjoyable entertainment as an enticing mystery unfolds.”

—on Beneath the Silk

“Demonstrating a flair for romantic adventure and sizzling romance, Wendy Rosnau shines.”

—on The Right Side of the Law

“Ms. Rosnau proves herself a skilled interpreter of the romance genre.”

—on The Long Hot Summer

Undercover Nightingale

Wendy Rosnau

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

WENDY ROSNAU

resides on sixty secluded acres in Minnesota with her husband and their two children. She divides her time between her family-owned bookstore and writing romantic suspense.

Her first book, The Long Hot Summer, was a Romantic Times BOOKclub nominee for Best First Series Romance of 2000. Her third book, The Right Side of the Law, was a Romantic Times BOOKclub Top Pick. She received the Midwest Fiction Writers 2001 Rising Star Award.

Wendy loves to hear from her readers. Visit her Web site at www.wendyrosnau.com.

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

Epilogue

Prologue

Barinski was humming to himself, his black-rimmed glasses perched high on his protruding forehead when the Chameleon entered the soundproof cubicle in the bowels of the mosque.

Some people should never reproduce. That’s what had come to mind the first day he had met Nigel Barinski. The peculiar-looking scientist was a mutation of bad genetics—arms that hung at his sides like an ape, and a pair of short legs to cement the concept. He had a receding chin, oversized ears, too much curly red hair, and a pair of unnatural glass-bowl goldfish eyes.

But appearance had nothing to do with intellect. In Barinski’s case, the price for his gift of genius was his misshapen body and Frankenstein face.

The Chameleon dismissed Barinski for a moment and focused on the woman on the other side of the two-way mirror strapped into Barinski’s two-million-dollar chair, in what he called the regeneration chamber. Her eyes were closed, and she was calm, as if she was in a dream-like state. A much different story than when she’d first been brought to him.

“How is she progressing?”

“On schedule.”

“No surprises?”

“None.”

The Chameleon stepped closer to the window. He’d first seen her in Munich. She’d been scaling a fifty-foot wall, her curvy body suspended from a guide wire as if it was a part of her instead of her lifeline.

He’d never seen a woman with so much courage packaged so beautifully. He had found her bravery as arousing as her curves, and in that moment he knew he had to have her. Knew she would be the perfect guinea pig for Barinski’s latest genius.

Barinski flipped a switch. “Kalimera, Nightingale.”

She opened her eyes as if Barinski’s voice had turned on a lightbulb inside her head. “Good morning.”

“Did you sleep well?”

“Yes. I dreamt about Bonnie.”

The Chameleon turned the switch off. “Who’s Bonnie?”

“Her mother. A slut, from the information I’ve gathered.”

“I don’t care about her childhood, or her mother.”

“You should. The scientific data on a child’s adaptability into society parallels what they have been taught. It’s one of the reasons you’re so taken with Nightingale. She’s a product of suffering, and sacrifice. She knows how to survive.”

“Because she hates her mother?”

“No, because she loves her. All children love their parents. Even when they hate them.”

The Chameleon would have accepted Barinski’s theory if he didn’t have proof that on this particular point he was as crazy as he looked. His own daughter hated him, and it would take a miracle to change Melita’s mind.

“Enough about children loving their parents even if they hate them,” he said, then flipped the switch and spoke into the vibration grid that would distort his voice. “Do you remember Munich?”

She hesitated a moment. “I’ve never been to Munich.”

“Brussels, how did you like it there?”

“I’ve never visited Brussels.”

The Chameleon glanced at Barinski. “She really can’t remember?”

“I’ve left her childhood recall intact, but the past six years are gone.”

“Very good, Barinski.”

Like a puppy whose head had just been patted, Barinski turned warm and fuzzy, his goofy grin making him look even more ridiculous.

“By the end of the week I’ll start entering your data. If you want her to remember Munich, or a portion of what she’s lost, she will. If not, she won’t.”

The Chameleon turned back to the two-way mirror and searched her eyes for the fire he remembered. It wasn’t there. She was a blank canvas, and he was suddenly disappointed in that.

“You’re sure once the procedure is complete that she’ll function as before?” He turned to Barinski. “I don’t want her ending up a damn freak.”

There was a moment of silence. Obviously Dr. Frankenstein was touchy around the word “freak.”

Barinski cleared his throat, and it sounded as if he was flushing a toilet. “She’ll have the same advanced skills as before. I’ve been keeping her physical workouts short but intense, and she’s on a special diet. A month to integrate her skills with your data and she’ll be as dangerous as when she was captured. Only she’ll be working for you.”

The Chameleon left Barinski to his work and climbed the stone steps to the tower. It was perhaps the most invisible place on earth—this abandoned mosque tucked into a craggy hillside on Despotiko. The Greeks called it “The Goat Island,” a barren islet surrounded by a jagged coastline with a goat population that outnumbered the islanders.

Although he owned a number of hideouts, lately the Chameleon had been spending a lot of time at Minare—the name he’d given the mosque because of its tall slender tower that jutted high above the abandoned ruins.

When he walked out into the warm island air, he was surprised to see that Melita was already there. Usually she made him wait when he sent for her.

She was gazing out over the water, her long black hair glistening in the sunlight. Like her mother, she had an angel’s face and soft vulnerable eyes.

Fiora. He hadn’t thought about Melita’s mother in years.

“Thinking about jumping to your death?”

She turned, and the pain in her eyes told him she still suffered. That after a year she still hated him for his part in her torment.

“I used to think about it every day when I was first brought here. But no longer. Hello, Father.”

“You’re looking well. Barinski tells me you’ve been helping him in the lab. That you have a quick mind and have become useful to him.”

“At least I’m useful to someone.”

“You could choose to be useful to me. If you agreed to a few simple requests, you could also be free to come and go without—”

“Guards on my heels?”

“They’re here to protect you.”

“From what, a handful of islanders and their goats?”

As if the goats had been summoned the Chameleon heard their annoying bleating, and he walked to the railing to see a half-dozen shaggy beasts picking the scrubby vegetation along a rocky path that led into the island’s treeless interior.

“I grow tired of your constant rebellion, Melita. This misplaced saccharine soul of yours is boring.”

“How could Lucifer give birth to anything but evil?”

“You’ve misinterpreted my motives.”

“Then murder and mayhem isn’t your passion?”

He faced her. “I prefer to call it revenge.”

“Your enemies are not mine.”

“They should be. We are more alike than you know. My blood is your blood.”

“I’m nothing like you. It’s one of the few comforts in my life. How is Simon?”

“Your brother is…resting comfortably.”

“Send him my love.”

“Of course. Choices, Melita. We all make choices, and must live with the consequences. Simon made his, and you made yours. You may think your punishment has been too harsh, but I demand loyalty and honesty. A year ago you failed at both.”

“A price must be paid for our sins. We are in agreement on that, Father. It’s what keeps me in constant prayer these days.”

“You pray for forgiveness?”

“I pray for justice. That’s why I have no intentions of slitting my wrists again, or jumping to my death.”

“And this justice you seek… What do you pray for exactly?”

“You killed the only man I will ever love.”

“You killed him, Melita. Your betrayal to me killed him.”

“The sin you committed that day damned you, as my choice to love Nemo destroyed him and has imprisoned me. What I pray for, Father, is your Armageddon. That it will be swift and final.”

Her words should have angered him, but there was fire in her eyes just now, and conviction in her voice. It was the first time he’d heard such determination, and it pleased him beyond words.

Perhaps she was more like him than she knew.

Justice was just another word for revenge. And on that score he understood her passion. The good news was, she no longer wanted to curl up and die.

He would use her craving for justice to bring her back to him. And if that didn’t work, then perhaps Barinski would have another guinea pig for his regeneration machine, and he would gain her loyalty without her ever knowing it had been lost.

“I think you deserve a holiday. I’m going home for a few days. I know Callia would love to see you. If you promise to follow the rules, I’ll let you come.”

“Leave the island?”

“For a few days. Follow the rules and enjoy a taste of freedom.”

She hesitated, knowing what that required. He waited, looked past the goats to the coastline while she contemplated the price.

“All right. I’ll follow the rules.”

The Chameleon refocused on his little Joan of Arc. “Of course you will, Melita, or another poor fool will end up dead, damning your sweet soul to eternal hell. I doubt that you could live through that a second time.”

Chapter 1

Six months later

The yacht that had lulled her to sleep hours ago now jerked Allegra Nightingale awake. She sat up just as the yacht’s powerful twin engines shut down.

They were stopping.

Why?

She climbed out of bed and looked out the stateroom window. It was early morning and the sun was on the horizon. In the distance she saw a jet boat speeding toward the Stella di Mare.

Filip was about to get company.

Yesterday they had cruised through the Strait of Messina and headed up the coast of Italy. Filip hadn’t told her where they were going, and she hadn’t asked. He’d been in an unpredictable mood since their exodus from Nescosto.

The attack on the villa had been well-executed, the incursion swift. Nescosto was now a pile of rubble along the Amalfi Coast, and buried beneath it was Filip’s brother Yurii.

From the moment Filip had dragged her onto the yacht, she’d known no one else had survived. He’d ordered her below deck, and there she had remained while the Stella quickly sped away into the night.

For three days she had danced around him, trying to stay out of his way—feeling as insignificant as a barnacle stealing a ride on the yacht’s hull. But now a boat was arriving, and so she pulled on the black sweatpants and gray T-shirt Filip had issued her like a prison uniform on a slave ship.

She left the stateroom, headed through the companionway, and scaled the stairs to the deck. She heard voices and stopped to listen.

“I came as soon as you called.”

“You made good time, Lazlo. Is Matyash with you?”

“I’m here, Filip.”

Allegra appeared in the morning sunlight just as the man, Matyash, leapt onto the deck from the jet boat christened the Sera Vedette. He was a thin man who wore his dark hair long like Filip. His face, however, wasn’t nearly as handsome—a long scar cut deep into his cheek and curved into the side of his mouth.

He spied her and sent his eyes on a slow, very deliberate appraisal of her body. The smile that followed puckered his scar and made his appearance grotesque.

“You read my mind, Filip. A little entertainment to pass the days at sea will lighten our moods.”

Filip turned.

When his soulless eyes locked with hers, Allegra kept her face as expressionless as his. She had no idea what he would say or do.

Her training had taught her to never show weakness. But today Filip was in control. He had been since they’d fled Nescosto as it crumbled into the sea.

He could let these men take her, and they would use her as unconscionably as they used their guns. And if he chose to pass her from one to another, no amount of protesting would stop them.

If she was entertaining enough perhaps she would survive. If not, she could be tossed overboard.

Chin high, her backbone straight, Allegra waited for the ugly one to make his move, promising herself she would endure whatever ill plan he had for her.

“Leave her be. The woman is mine.”

Filip’s words were spoken with the same authority that made him such a dangerous adversary to his enemies, and a feeling of relief washed over Allegra.

He held out his hand to her. “Come, Allegra.”

He hadn’t touched her in three days, but now he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her into the protection of his muscular body.

He was a head taller than her five-seven height—an Adonis with wild black hair, high cheekbones and a pair of dark eyes that were as unpredictable as his moods.

Lazlo pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket. Allegra saw that it was a newspaper clipping. Filip dropped his arm from around her and took the paper.

“A little something to fuel the fire inside you,” Lazlo said.

Filip scanned the information, and as he did, Allegra craned her neck. It was from an Italian newspaper confirming the death of Yurii and the fall of Nescosto.

The photo was horrifying, the devastation catastrophic. More important the article revealed who had been responsible. The NSA was claiming victory for the insurgence.

Filip crumpled the paper in his hand and tossed it overboard. Allegra moved away from him and went to stand at the railing. Behind her she heard him exchange words with his comrades, and in a matter of minutes the two men returned to the jet boat.

Lazlo spoke to the captain, then followed his friend below. They were back within minutes with duffel bags slung over their shoulders, they boarded the Stella di Mare once more.

This time, the man named Lazlo headed into the wheelhouse. The powerful twin engines began to sing, then the luxury yacht quickly moved out.

Allegra remained at the railing, the warm tropical breeze lifting her dark hair around her shoulders as the yacht picked up speed. Yurii was dead, and he’d taken the details of their secret assignment to his grave. She questioned whether Filip was privy to the mission’s details. If he was, how long would it be before he shared them with her?

She had no phone. She’d left everything behind when she had fled Nescosto. But if Filip hadn’t assured her that they were on the same page by the time they reached land, then she would find a way to contact Cyrus.

She was deep in thought when an explosion rocked the yacht, pitching her into the railing. When she regained her balance and turned around, orange flames and billowing smoke were rising up out of the sea. Filip was holding a detonating device in his hand, and the Sera Vedette was gone, as well as its captain.

The death of Yurii Petrov made newspaper headlines across the country. The Washington Post must have been lacking news on Wednesday, as they dedicated the entire front page to the incident, and bored the public with a lengthy profile on an international criminal no one was aware existed—no one outside the criminal elite and government intelligence.

The article listed Yurii’s many atrocities beginning with money laundering, and ending with his affiliation with the Red Mafia. A color photo of Nescosto, Yurii’s headquarters, ate up half the page. If not for the caption, the once sprawling four-story villa built into a sheer rock face along the Amalfi Coast would have been unrecognizable.

The NSA claimed credit for the takedown. They were vague on the details, but that was standard when the special operations group, code-named Onyxx, was involved—they were the invisible spooks no one talked about.

The news story ended with a brief statement from France’s Department of Foreign Information and Counterespionage. The SDECE reported that two of their agents had died in the siege.

It was the first Onyxx Agent Ashland Kelly had heard that another intelligence agency was undercover inside Yurii Petrov’s citadel at the time he’d planted the explosives, sending Nescosto into the sea. There had been a window of opportunity to escape before detonation—a small window. Had he known about the French agents, their lives could have been spared.

Too bad the left hand hadn’t informed the right hand what the hell they were doing. But it was rare to find two agencies willing to share information, let alone work together. The only two who came to mind at the moment were Onyxx and EURO-Quest.

Ash tossed the paper on the couch in his Washington apartment and headed for the shower. When he climbed out, he saw that his boss had left a message on his cell phone. Dripping wet, he tucked the towel around his hips, reached for his phone on the sink, and hit voice mail.

“Did you see the morning paper? Burgess Stillman from the SDECE is on his way to Washington. Before he gets here, we need to talk. My office. As soon as you get this.”

Ash headed into his bedroom, dropping the towel in the doorway. He dressed quickly, then left the bedroom wearing jeans, a black V-neck sweater, and his lucky cowboy boots.

On the way to the kitchen, he glanced out the window. It was snowing this morning—big, wet winter flakes that made the November day as gray as his socks. He liked hot weather—desert hot—and he’d never gotten used to the inconvenience of winter, or the dampness that accompanied it.

He made his morning pot of tea, poured a cup to take with him, and grimaced over the fact that there was no time to quell the hunger in his belly.

Thinking about how good a fried egg sandwich would taste, Ash went out the door with his tea, pulling on his brown leather jacket, his shaggy, sandy blonde hair still wet, his jaw unshaven.

The snow wouldn’t stay, that was the good news. But it would make the morning commute to headquarters slow. The traffic was already backed up as he pulled his green Jeep out of the underground parking lot, the cars resembling an ant march to a picnic.

He joined the march. As much as he detested crowds and smog, he drove through morning rush hour like a cultured city boy instead of a man used to the hot wind in his face on a dirt road in Mexico.

Ash entered the front doors at Onyxx headquarters forty minutes later. He stepped inside the elevator just as the doors were about to close, and came face-to-face with Burgess Stillman.

He’d never met the SDECE commander, but he’d seen pictures, and heard the rumors about the forty-year-old Frenchman. Six-six, two-sixty, with a silver crewcut, Stillman looked like the kind of guy who ate roadkill for breakfast and asked for seconds.

“Ashland Kelly.” Stillman looked him up, then down. “You’re thinner than your profile stats, mon ami. Merrick must be working your ass off these days.”

“Excuse me.”

“I don’t accept excuses, Kelly. You’ll learn that before this is over. I have two dead agents, no bodies to console the families, a superior climbing up my ass, and no way to amputate the hemorrhoid. Not yet.”

Ash opened his mouth to defend the mission that had cost the SDECE two agents, then closed it. It had been a straightforward assignment. Get in, get out, and leave nothing standing once Petrov’s data had been hijacked, and they’d rescued the female Quest agent, Casmir Balasi.

“You got blood on your hands, mon ami. But that’s your specialty, isn’t it? What is it they call you?” Stillman paused. “Oui, I remember. They call you the Ashtray. An appropriate name for a man who likes to play with matches, no?”

Stillman retrieved two pictures from his coat pocket and stuck them in Ash’s face. “That’s Felton Chanler with his wife, three kids and their dog. This one, Jazmin Grant, was the best damn agent I’ve had in years. Twenty-eight is too damn young to die.”

That was for damn sure, Ash thought staring at the beautiful blonde. “I’m sorry about your agents.”

Stillman slid the pictures back in his pocket. “I don’t want your condolences, Kelly. I want your hide. But since I won’t get away with skinning you alive, I’ll settle for my second choice.”

“And that would be?”

“You’ll know soon enough.”

Stillman hit the button on the elevator and it took off. Within minutes they were walking down the corridor side-by-side, headed for Merrick’s office.

The SDECE commander knocked, then swung the door open as if he owned the agency and every man in it. He stepped inside the room just as Merrick hung up the phone.

Adolf Merrick arched his gray eyebrows over his chilly blue eyes. “You’re early. I didn’t expect you until this afternoon.”

“I met your firecracker, Merrick. He wouldn’t be hard to pick out in a line-up. He fits your MO.”

“My MO?”

“Oui. Your recruits are a bunch of marauders. Criminals, every last one of them.”

“My agents don’t have a particular MO, except one, Stillman. They know how to survive. That’s what it takes to be successful in this business. Maybe if your agents were made out of similar stuff, they’d still be alive.”

“That’s a helluva thing for you to say to me.”

“Sit down, Ash. Stillman, if you’d like to take a seat down the hall in the waiting room, I’ll have a cup of coffee brought to you.”

Stillman pulled out the chair in front of Merrick’s desk and sat. “I’ve never taken a number in my life, Merrick, and I don’t plan to start now. Your errand boy can wait outside, or stay since he’s the reason I’m here.”

Ash waited to be dismissed.

Merrick said, “Kelly, take a seat.”

Ash made himself comfortable on the couch along the wall. He’d keep his mouth shut. Speak if he was engaged. If not, he’d just take up a little space and oxygen, and enjoy the showdown between Stillman and Merrick. It was going to be entertaining. The temperature in the room was as chilly as the weather outside.