From Mission To Marriage

Clay’s mouth was so close to hers she could feel the warmth of his breath on her lips.

“Yes…fire,” she agreed. She had felt embers glowing in her midsection even before he’d mentioned the fire. She met his lips and took them with a hunger she had never known.

He suddenly broke the kiss. “I am not making love to you here.”

“Talking to me or yourself?” Vanessa whispered, smiling her wickedest smile.

“Both. I just want to hold you.”

“Liar.”

He pulled the blanket up around them swiftly as they lay side by side. “If I ever make love to you, I want it to be perfect, soft light—”

“The fire’s pretty low,” she interrupted, snuggling closer.

“Sweet music…”

“Crickets will do.”

“Satin sheets…”

“Two out of three…I want you, Clay. More than anything I’ve ever wanted in my life. Right here. Right now.”

From Mission to Marriage

Lyn Stone

LYN STONE

loves creating pictures with words. She paints, too. Her love affair with writing and art began in the third grade when she won a school-wide contest for her colorful poster for Book Week. She spent the prize money on books, one of which was Little Women.

She rewrote the ending so that Jo marries her childhood sweetheart. That’s because Lyn had a childhood sweetheart herself and wanted to marry him when she grew up. She did. And now she is living her “happily ever after” in north Alabama with same guy. She and Allen have traveled the world, had two children, four grandchildren and have experienced some wild adventures along the way.

Whether writing romantic historicals or contemporary fiction, Lyn insists on including elements of humor, mystery and danger. Perhaps because that other book she purchased all those years ago was a Nancy Drew.

This book is dedicated to my grandfather,

John David Perkins,

a man of few words, wry humor and a good heart.

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

Prologue

“T his one’s mighty little. Maybe we’d better throw her back.”

Clay Senate wondered if his new colleague was serious. He glanced again at the photos and dossier of Vanessa Walker. The pictures were just in, a news photo of a smiling Walker receiving her badge and a mug shot, with height lines for a background, showing she measured sixty-three inches. She looked pretty. Young. Perky. Obviously Native American. “You know what they say, Cate. Good things often come in small packages.”

“I’m not touching that comment,” Cate teased, laughing as she looked at Danielle Sweet, who was barely five-five. “But okay, I say give her a shot.”

Clay nodded at the vote offered by the first hire for the new COMPASS team, an adjunct of Sextant, the Civilian Special Operations team now being organized by Homeland Security to investigate and neutralize threats at home and abroad.

Cate Olin stood six feet tall and had the strong-shouldered, small-breasted, slim-hipped body of a long-distance swimmer. He watched as she raked a lock of straight white-blond hair back behind one ear. Cate had a degree in criminal justice, was fluent in several languages and had put in six years with the National Security Agency.

Jack Mercier, the agent who would act as director for both teams, had handpicked her. Mercier had the contacts necessary to identify and appropriate personnel. He also had an infallible knack for choosing personalities that would mesh into a cohesive unit.

“What do you think, Dani?” Jack asked Danielle Sweet, the latest hire, a former army brat who could kick some serious butt on the mats at the gym. She was a deceptively dainty brunette with a master’s in international relations from Georgetown. Though people generally underestimated Dani because of her looks, Sweet’s IQ was off the charts, her powers of reasoning were outstanding and she could charm her way into or out of anything.

She graced Mercier with a benign smile. “Excellent credentials. She’s awfully gung ho, isn’t she? Who grins like that for a mug shot?” Then she grinned herself. “But we like gung ho, don’t we?”

“Absolutely.” Jack turned then, silent for a moment as he regarded Clay. “Fine, we agree Walker’s a possible. She’s on a case, Clay, so if you go and give her a hand, you can see how she handles herself. You’ll be pulling double duty here. Recruiting and investigating. I only found out about Walker’s current case because I called to see when she might be available to meet with you. When I identified myself, her Agent-in-Charge assumed I was following up on the report submitted to his superior and promptly filled me in on what’s going on.”

“What kind of case?” Clay asked.

“A bomb detonated at one of the casinos on the Qualla Boundary.”

“That’s the Cherokee reservation in North Carolina?” Cate asked.

“Yes, and technically under federal jurisdiction, at least for a case such as this. Agent Walker was at the scene when it happened. Someone had called her and told her a friend of hers was in trouble at the casino and being held there by the manager. A ruse to get her there, of course. It’s all in the report.

“I got the okay for you to partner with Agent Walker on it while you check her out, Clay. We’ll go with your final recommendation about bringing her on here.”

Clay nodded as he scooped up the folder of information and scanned it briefly for more details.

There wasn’t much. Vanessa Walker had taken a phone call that had come in to the Asheville bureau. James Hightower, a former fishing guide and resident of Cherokee, had been convicted for manslaughter and had served four years. After his release, he’d returned to a small community just outside the boundary and had taken rooms with a woman called Lisa Yellowhorse.

Yellowhorse had made the call to Vanessa Walker, saying she suspected that her tenant was responsible for the bombing and might be planning something worse.

It shouldn’t take long to round up this guy and find some proof, or at least some answers to the allegation. Clay just hoped he was there long enough to get some indication as to how their prospective hire performed.

“Mind telling me what Ms. Walker’s claim to fame might be?” Even though he’d read her folder, he wanted to know her peculiar gift, the one that had prompted Mercier to suggest her above a number of others with equally impressive credentials. No doubt she would have some extra tricks that weren’t in that file. They all did, ranging from excellent instincts to outright telepathy.

Jack inclined his head. “She’s ingenious. Very inventive and thinks fast in a crunch. Her main talent seems to be staying alive against impossible odds. Vanessa Walker keeps cheating the grim reaper on a regular basis. Seems she has more lives than the proverbial cat.”

“No reference to that in her file,” Clay remarked, thumbing through it idly.

“I know,” Jack said, not volunteering how he had discovered the information. He stood, signaling the meeting was over. “You’ll need to determine whether her miraculous escapes are due to luck, skill or premonitions.”

Clay understood what Jack meant. Luck could run out at any time. But if her skills or a talent for premonitions were what kept Walker landing on her feet, COMPASS had found the third teammate.

Chapter 1

Asheville, North Carolina—September 25th

C lay’s ears ached, his head hurt and, after the flight, he was in no mood for a cheerful greeting. He could see he was about to get one, though. The candidate was waiting for him, wearing that same wide smile she wore in her photos. No one had told her yet that she was being considered for COMPASS. As far as she knew, he was only there as a rep from Homeland Security, come to assist her in the investigation.

She held up a hand-lettered sign with his name on it and looked straight at him. He nodded and strode over to her, his most intimidating glare daring her to be chipper.

She stuck out her hand. “Agent Senate? Thanks for coming, sir. I’m Vanessa Walker.”

Cate had been right—this one was small, probably pounds, and she looked about eighteen years old. He knew better, though. She was twenty-seven.

“Agent Walker,” he acknowledged, shaking her hand. Hers felt delicate, but her grip was strong. Not surprising. She had graduated second in her class at the FBI Academy and weaklings didn’t get through there.

She laughed self-consciously and broke the connection, tossed the sign into a nearby trash receptacle and tried to take his carry-on away from him. It weighed a ton, so he held on. She let go with a shrug. “Okay. Off to baggage claim. You have a nice flight?”

He grimaced ahead of them at the young mother dragging the five-year-old with the whine and the twitchy feet, who’d performed a horizontal River Dance on the back of his seat. “Not really.”

“Turbulance?” she persisted, following his line of sight to the kid. She didn’t bother suppressing a chuckle.

“You might say that.”

“Sorry. Would you like a drink?”

He stared at her as if she had lost her mind.

“Can you? Drink, that is?” Perky. Too perky.

“Of course I can drink.”

“Do you?”

“Not much. Why?”

She shrugged. “Some people have a problem with alcohol. I like to identify the ones who do and avoid them in working situations. Got shot once when I didn’t. Friendly fire, too.”

Clay mumbled a curse.

“Don’t get touchy. It’s a fact. Do you smoke?”

“An occasional cigar, never around loaded weapons.”

She laughed, a low sensual sound that did something salacious to his insides. “Ah, a sense of humor. Here we are!” As if reaching the baggage ramp were a feat to celebrate.

They stood silently as they waited for the baggage to begin making its slow circle. But silence seemed more than she could stand for long. She took a deep breath and released it. “So, where are you from?”

“Why?”

Her lips tightened with exasperation. “I’m making polite conversation. Is it a secret?”

He focused on the empty baggage ramp. “McLean, Virginia.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Conoy, Manahoac or Delaware?”

“Do you really need the family history?” God, he sounded grumpy, even to himself. He tried to temper the question with a smile. It wasn’t her fault he was exhausted.

“Nope.” Again she shrugged. “Just wondered. My mother was Italian, by the way. Daddy met and married her when he was in service. Most of us aren’t full-bloods. And with those eyes of yours, it’s pretty obvious—”

Clay couldn’t believe her lack of tact. “Why would you care?”

“No reason. I just think it’s good they sent an Indian. You’ll understand what I mean when I say I’ve got a feeling something’s gonna pop.”

“Oh, right,” he said cynically. “That mystical thing we have going. How could I forget all those movies I watched?”

“You like to scoff, don’t you? But you know it’s so. My boss thinks my informant’s just a woman taking potshots, trying to get this guy locked up because she found out he was an ex-con and he scares her. Me? I take it seriously when somebody discovers a possible threat and bothers to call it in.”

She took a breath, something he was beginning to wonder whether she ever needed. “I believe her. Bad vibes on this one.”

“Vibes. Lovely,” Clay muttered.

Her smile had disappeared. “I know Hightower. He’s capable of this.”

“You know him personally? Should be a piece of cake then.”

“Don’t bet on that, but we’ll get him sooner or later. Just hope it’s sooner.”

Clay closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose, trying to relieve his headache. With a resigned sigh, he opened them and saw he had missed his bag and would have to either run after it or wait for it to come around again. “Damn.”

“Was that one yours?” She chased it down before he could answer. All that energy of hers was making him tired.

Watching her struggle with the heavy suitcase suddenly struck Clay as funny. Since he’d just returned from an assignment in Seattle, maybe he was spazzed out from lack of sleep. By the time she had thumped it down on the terminal floor, he had sobered. He walked over and picked it up. “That’s it. Let’s go.”

“You won’t need a rental car, by the way,” she told him. “We have an unmarked you can use, or I’ll cart you around since we’ll be working together. I like to drive.”

Yeah, she looked young enough to have just taken her first driving test. Her tailored red pantsuit fit a body any sixteen-year-old would envy, breasts high and firm, waist tiny and hips slender. She wore her ink-black hair slicked back into a braided knot. No jewelry besides the small silver studs in her earlobes. Her nails were bare, short and beautifully shaped. She wore no makeup that he could discern except for a touch of lip gloss.

Either she was a natural beauty or very skillful with the war paint. He suspected the former and approved her apparent lack of vanity. Oddly, that made him wish he could compliment her, but he didn’t. It would be highly un-PC to say anything that might be considered a come-on to a prospective hire or a fellow agent.

His dark mood had improved by the time they reached her vehicle. It was a tan Ford Explorer with only a couple of years on it. Comfy and cool. He stretched his legs, leaned his head back, closed his eyes. To his surprise, she remained quiet for a good half hour. A really good one, during which he grabbed a few z’s. He wasn’t interested in scenery and sleeping kept him from staring at her.

When he woke up and checked his watch, he realized he felt a little better. At least his headache was gone and his ears had popped so he could hear normally again.

“Had you rather go straight to your home away from home or the office?” she asked, sounding a bit tired herself now. She was no longer smiling, no longer perky.

“Office. Might as well get the show on the road. Will I be able to interview your caller today?” It was already midafternoon.

“No problem. She lives in Cool Spring on the way to where you’ll be staying.”

Clay noted the change in his new temporary partner grow even more marked as they approached her place of work. So marked that he felt compelled to ask “Is something wrong?”

“Agent Roan sent me to pick you up but he’ll offer you one of the guys to work with instead of me. Count on it.”

“Because you’re female? That’s ridiculous,” Clay said vehemently. Vehement only because he had already entertained some reservations about her himself since meeting her. Her size, her flagrant optimism, her lack of broader experience in law enforcement. But she was a well-trained agent, and according to her record, beyond simply capable. He hated any kind of discrimination and would not be a party to it. Walker was getting her chance.

He had to work with her. How else would he determine whether she would fit in COMPASS? Even if she wasn’t quite ready, she would have months of extra training to prepare her for that job if he did recruit her. As for her boss trying to edge her out of this investigation, Clay set her mind at rest. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

She shot him a wry glance. “It’s not the boy-girl thing if that’s what you’re thinking,” she admitted. “See, I sort of overstepped my bounds by conferring with the chief out at Qualla about the case. It was hard not to since we’re related. The boss is still ticked off that I discussed it. We butt heads pretty regularly.”

Clay smiled at her moxie. “Nothing scares you, I guess.”

She treated him to a blinding white smile that showed dimples. “Not much, no, but I have to admit, you’re a little scary. I’m glad you’re on my side. You got a wife?”

Damn, she kept throwing him curveballs. “No,” he said. “No wife.”

“Not surprised,” she commented just as they parked. She popped her seat belt and hopped out of the car, energy crackling around her like static electricity. “You’re the best-looking man I’ve seen in a long time, but that scowl of yours would terrify the bejesus out of most women.”

But not her, obviously. Clay could only shake his head in wonder. The girl was outrageous, without a smidgen of diplomacy, and sort of exhausting to be around. He imagined the local Bureau would be delighted, or at least a little relieved, if he did steal her away from them.

“Agent Walker?” he called as she started up the steps, intending to advise her to let him do the talking when they went inside.

She stopped to wait for him at the top. “Might as well call me Van,” she said, pausing with her hand on the door. “Everyone else here does. I think they like to pretend I’m a guy.” She wrinkled her nose.

“Then they must have excellent imaginations,” Clay said, without thinking that the comment sounded sexist until it was already out there.

“Thanks. May I call you Clay? Not in there, of course,” she assured him, gesturing at the door with a quick lift of her chin.

“No problem.” What else could he say without sounding unfriendly, even pretentious?

A glance at his watch told him it was nearly four o’clock. “Let’s get this out of the way and then get busy. If that informant of yours is not jerking us all around, we don’t need to lose any time on useless networking.”

Her smile flashed again. “Hey, my kind of man.” She swept open the door and indicated he should precede her.

A quarter hour later, Van cradled her coffee cup and sat with one hip hitched up on her desk, trying to hear what was going on in the boss’s office. The walls were thin, but not thin enough to catch the words, only to hear that the argument to replace her was subtle, noncombative, but intense.

Two of her fellow agents, Buddy Dean and Joe Middle-brooks, listened with her unabashedly, watching for her reactions.

In defense of her boss, Vanessa knew half his reasons for disliking her were probably valid. He would be telling Agent Senate how she was too outspoken, too ambitious and that she tried entirely too hard. How those things caused resentment.

Dammit, she had to be an overachiever. How else could she prove herself? Everybody in the world knew that a woman had to work twice as hard to prove herself in a male-dominated field. In a same-case scenario, a man was applauded for his initiative while a woman was labeled overly aggressive and presumptuous.

Not that they meant to be chauvinistic around here. The men she worked with were good people, dedicated and conscientious. They worked hard and made a difference. All she wanted was to keep up with them and gain their respect.

She tried to keep a low profile. Not that she was all that modest and certainly not lacking in ambition, but Van was afraid the boss would think she was trying to beef up her participation into something that might get her promoted. This time she was going all out, begging for the lead on the case, even if it meant working with another agency on it. This threat was very real.

Hightower wasn’t finished. But even with that considered, it had been a homemade bomb, not even a large one. Even she knew it was a local problem, technically not warranting FBI intervention. She wouldn’t be in on it if Lisa hadn’t called her directly and gotten her involved. So Van had to wonder why the powers-that-be had sent Agent Senate down here to assist. Scary as it was, this was not a national threat.

The door opened and Clay came out wearing that scary frown she hoped to have a chance to get used to. Vanessa stood and put down her coffee cup, ready to bow out gracefully if Roan had changed Senate’s mind. Buddy and Joe stood, too, fully expecting to be called to duty in her place.

“We’re burning daylight, Agent Walker. Let’s go,” Senate said, looking straight at her. She caught the almost undetectable hint of a smile in his eyes.

Van gave herself a mental high five and barely contained a whoop. Instead, she calmly picked up her purse and slung it over her shoulder. “Yes, sir.”

The urge to wink at Buddy and Joe almost overwhelmed her, but she refrained. Decorum had suddenly become important, at least until she was outside the building.

On the way to the car, she gave him a pat on the arm and thanked him. He cut those steely gray eyes at her and Van got the distinct feeling she had overstepped again. Maybe he didn’t like to be touched.

On the sixty-mile drive to Cool Spring, she kept her mouth shut except to thank him again, briefly and more circumspectly, for going to bat for her. He muttered that she was welcome and then concentrated on studying the written report of her interview with Lisa Yellowhorse that the chief had provided. Man, could this guy focus.

He had great hair, wore it long and tied back neatly. Though he looked better than presentable in a business suit, she could easily imagine him on horseback, flying like the wind, dressed in feathers, loincloth, leggings and moccasins. She’d seen way too many movies. This guy could definitely play a Hollywood Indian.

His features looked less Iroquois than Plains—sharp angles, square jaw, high cheekbones and a very slight hook to the nose. As large as he was, at least six-two and heavily muscled, he might even have Viking blood for all she knew. His size, height and those cool, gray eyes of his didn’t come out of the Indian gene pool. Neither did the five o’clock shadow he was wearing.

She realized all of a sudden that she was physically attracted to him. Okay, more like bowled over. No point revealing that to him, however. He didn’t like her much and she was definitely not interested in mixing it up with a superior who probably could burn her career if she made a wrong move.

Oh well, he was great to look at and she could enjoy that without feeling bad about it. She kept stealing glances while he was busy reading the report.

He thumped the page with the back of his fingers. “Very detailed. Good work.”

“Thanks.” Van enjoyed the unaccustomed thrill that came with praise, not something she had basked in very often since her college days. “Any questions?”

“Your AIC isn’t convinced Hightower’s behind this. Are you certain Ms. Yellowhorse is being straight? Maybe she’s a disgruntled lover or just scared to have him living with her.”

“Gut feeling,” she replied with a succinct nod. “And it all fits. Circumstantial at the moment, I know, but you’ll see I’m right.”

He turned to look at her fully, remaining silent for a minute. “Tell me about your escapes.”

She laughed. “My what?”

“Roan told me you’ve pulled yourself out of the fire so many times, he feels the urge to bury you under a mountain of paperwork so you’ll survive to see thirty. Details, please. Start with the robbery you interrupted six months ago.”

“He’s exaggerating,” she said with a scoff. “I dodged a few bullets, that’s all. The perps were lousy shots.”

“But you’re obviously not,” he remarked with the ghost of a smile.

Van shrugged. “I have a good eye. It’s probably inherited, but I’ve practiced a lot, too. My grandfather was a sniper in ’Nam. Taught me a few tricks.”

“Enough to qualify for the Olympic team, apparently. What about the fire after that bomb went off in the casino? They thought you were trapped.”

“It was jump off the roof or burn and it was only two stories, not necessarily a fatal leap. What would you have done?” Van hated talking about that. Fire was her worst nightmare and had nearly finished her off. She rubbed the back of her neck with one hand and flexed her left leg. “No serious injuries, thank goodness.”