Rafe Sinclair's Revenge

And judging by the open decanter, she knew who. Maybe she had changed everything else, but Elizabeth still kept the best whiskey in the Waterford.

“What the hell are you doing here, Rafe?” she asked, not raising her voice. Wherever he was, he would have been watching her since she’d entered the kitchen.

“You’ve cut your hair.”

He always noticed things like that. Maybe too much. Still, the fact that he had noticed caused an unwanted thickness in her throat.

From force of habit, her hand rose to rake the chin-length hair that had once been long enough to tangle around his bare, sweating shoulders as they made love.

At the memory, a jolt of sexual heat seared along nerve pathways that had seemed atrophied. They weren’t. Painfully, unexpectedly, she knew that now.

Steeling herself, she walked into the living room. After five years, she was in the same room with Rafe Sinclair. Something she had thought would never happen again.

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

We’ve got what you need to start the holiday season with a bang. Starting things off is RITA® Award-winning author Gayle Wilson. Gayle returns to Harlequin Intrigue with a spin-off of her hugely popular MEN OF MYSTERY series. Same sexy heroes, same drama and danger…but with a new name! Look for Rafe Sinclair’s Revenge under the PHOENIX BROTHERHOOD banner.

You can return to the royal kingdom of Vashmira in Royal Ransom by Susan Kearney, which is the second book in her trilogy THE CROWN AFFAIR. This time an American goes undercover to protect the princess. But will his heart be exposed in the process?

B.J. Daniels takes you to Montana to encounter one very tough lady who’s about to meet her match in a mate. Only thing…can he avoid the deadly fate of her previous beaux? Find out in Premeditated Marriage.

Winding up the complete package, we have a dramatic story about a widow and her child who become targets of a killer, and only the top cop can keep them out of harm’s way. Linda O. Johnston pens an emotionally charged story of crime and compassion in Tommy’s Mom.

Make sure you pick up all four, and please let us know what you think of our brand of breathtaking romantic suspense.

Enjoy!

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Associate Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

Rafe Sinclair’s Revenge

Gayle Wilson

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Five-time RITA® finalist and RITA® Award winner Gayle Wilson has written twenty-seven novels and two novellas for Harlequin/Silhouette. A former high school English and world history teacher of gifted students, she has won more than forty awards and nominations for her work. Recent recognitions include a 2002 Daphne du Maurier Award for Romantic Suspense.

Gayle still lives in Alabama, where she was born, with her husband of thirty-three years and an ever-growing menagerie of beloved pets. She has one son, who is also a teacher of gifted students. Gayle loves to hear from readers. Write to her at P.O. Box 3277, Hueytown, AL 35023. Visit Gayle online at http://suspense.net/gayle-wilson.

FOR YOUR EYES ONLY

CIA

AGENT PROFILE

SPECIAL SKILLS: Trained in counterterrorism and in interrogation methods; hand-to-hand combat expert; top-notch marksman; speaks fluent Arabic

AGENT EVALUATION: Recipient of the agency's highest citation for valor above and beyond the call of duty.

FOR YOUR EYES ONLY

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Rafe Sinclair—Five years ago this ex-CIA operative hunted down and executed a terrorist responsible for the deaths of hundreds of innocent people. Now the agency is telling Rafe that Gunther Jorgensen not only isn’t dead, he’s bent on revenge. The problem is Rafe may not be his target.

Elizabeth Richards—Once a member of Griff Cabot’s elite antiterrorism team, Elizabeth has a new identity and an ordinary life, one that is about to be disrupted by a couple of ghosts from her past. One of them is hunting her. The other, former partner and lover Rafe Sinclair, is determined to become her protector.

Gunther Jorgensen—Is the terrorist mastermind alive or dead? And if it’s not Jorgensen who is stalking Elizabeth, then who is it?

Griff Cabot—What secret knowledge does Griff possess that makes him agree to let Rafe set out alone on a suicide mission?

John Edmonds—Was Edmonds really sent by Cabot or does The Phoenix operative have his own agenda?

Lucas Hawkins—The legendary assassin of the External Security Team may hold the answer to questions about Rafe that Elizabeth has puzzled over for more than six years.

To BJ

who makes me incredibly envious of her talent.

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

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Author Note

Prologue

The man Griff Cabot had come to find was carefully turning a piece of wood on a spindle sander. Dark, long-fingered hands handled the object with a skill that was nearly graceful, despite the strength and masculinity that was apparent in their every movement.

The workshop where he was working had been attached to the back of a small log cabin, which sat in a clearing on the side of Sinclair Mountain. When no one had answered his repeated knocks on the front door, Cabot had been drawn around to the back by a sound he hadn’t then been able to identify. Now he could.

When he lifted his gaze from the workman’s hands, he realized with a sense of shock that the passage of six years had had as little effect on the face of the man he was watching as on those hands. The striking blue eyes were hidden, intent on whatever he was shaping, but the austere, almost forbidding features were exactly as he had remembered them.

“You should never sneak up on a man who’s holding a gun,” Rafe Sinclair said without glancing up. “I would think you, of all people, would know that.”

“Out of practice, I guess,” Griff acknowledged, his mouth relaxing into a smile. “Besides, I didn’t realize that was a gun.”

“This is only the butt. But when it’s finished…”

With a tilt of his head, Sinclair indicated the rosewood box that lay open at the end of his workbench. He still hadn’t made eye contact with his visitor.

Cabot understood that was deliberate. As deliberate as had been his unannounced arrival. If he had told Rafe Sinclair he was coming, he would have found the North Carolina mountainside deserted.

Griff stepped into the shop, crossing over to the rosewood case to which he’d been directed. The inside was lined with black velvet, still rich if faded with age. Nested against that darkness was a single dueling pistol, incredibly beautiful and yet also obviously, almost obscenely, deadly.

Despite the indention in the lining where a matching pistol should rest, there was only the one. Cabot raised his eyes, examining with renewed interest the object Sinclair was now holding up to the light.

“You’re repairing the mate to this?” Griff asked.

“I’m recreating the mate.”

Cabot looked down again on the weapon in the box. The curved wood of its handle was the same glowing rosewood as the case. Its sides were covered with intricately chased silver, the soft gleam of that precious metal outshining the baser metal of the long barrel.

“You can do that?” he asked. “Duplicate this one?”

“Of course,” Sinclair said, looking directly at him for the first time.

The crystalline-blue eyes hadn’t changed either, Griff realized. And for some strange reason he found that comforting.

“The only difference between them,” Rafe went on, “is that this one will be accurate. If you’d ever fired the one you’re looking at, you’d wonder why they bothered with duels. If you needed to be sure of killing your opponent, you’d have been better off beating him to death with it.”

Griff laughed, his own knowledge of the notorious inaccuracy of early nineteenth-century firearms affirming the truth of what Sinclair had said. Just as his knowledge of the man who was in the process of reproducing a two-hundred-year-old pistol confirmed that he would do exactly what he had claimed.

Rafe Sinclair would build a weapon that would be perfect in every detail, identical to its mate, except for its increased accuracy. That demanding perfectionism, inherent in every task he undertook, had always been this man’s gift. Ultimately, it had also been his curse.

“Where did you get them?” Griff asked, in no hurry to broach the subject that had brought him here.

“They belonged to an ancestor of mine. Sebastian Sinclair, who supposedly dropped the missing pistol of that pair into the Thames while he was rescuing his Spanish-born wife.”

Griff wondered if that might be where his friend had acquired his Christian name. The source of that “Rafael,” always spoken with a true Iberian accent, had always seemed as enigmatic as the man himself.

“Bloody careless of him, if you ask me,” Sinclair said, his deep voice lightened with a sudden amusement, “but I don’t suppose they were nearly as valuable then as they would be now.”

“English,” Griff guessed, bending closer to the remaining pistol to examine the workmanship.

“And very fine for the period.”

“Just not…fine enough for you?” A smile hovered at the corners of Cabot’s mouth as he posed the question.

“It isn’t enough to be merely beautiful.”

Beautiful and deadly. He had thought exactly that before, Griff realized, looking down on the lone dueling pistol.

And the word “deadly” would just as well describe the man before him. At one time Sinclair had been an extremely valuable weapon in the war Griff’s division of the CIA had waged against international terrorism. Although the External Security Team had eventually been disbanded by the agency, Sinclair’s own departure from the EST had occurred long before that decision had been made.

“What are you doing here, Griff? I thought we had an understanding.”

The question brought Cabot’s eyes up to focus on the man he had come to see. The inquiry was inevitable, of course, considering who and what they were.

“I’m not here about the Phoenix, although the offer to join us is still open.”

The Phoenix Brotherhood was a private organization that had been formed by Cabot and a few of his ex-operatives. No longer under government direction, they set their own agenda, bringing the skills they once had used in the defense of their country to bear on all manner of private problems. As much as he’d like Sinclair to be a part of what they were doing, however, that hadn’t been his purpose in seeking him out.

“You were never much inclined to social visits, so…” Rafe walked over to the rosewood box to compare the curve of the handle he’d just created with the original.

“There’s something I thought you should see.”

Cabot reached into the breast pocket of his blazer and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. He didn’t bother to open it before he held it out to Sinclair.

There was a hesitation, long enough that Cabot had time to wonder what he would do if Rafe refused to read the information contained in the security alert. After all, Sinclair had been adamant about leaving the agency, so much so that eventually Griff had been forced to stop arguing against it or risk their friendship.

Finally the blue eyes lifted from the unopened paper. They studied Griff’s face for a few seconds before Rafe’s lips compressed. Then the same long, scarred fingers that had delicately shaped that piece of rosewood reached out to take the alert.

Sinclair unfolded it with a flick of his wrist, holding the document out between them. His eyes rose again—briefly—as soon as he saw the heading.

Griff could read the question in them, but he didn’t bother to respond. There would soon be other questions that would have to be answered.

After a moment Rafe’s gaze returned to the alert that had been clandestinely, and illegally, passed on from one of Griff’s contacts within the CIA. Carl Steiner had thought this was something he ought to know. As soon as Griff read it, he had called to reserve a seat on the first flight out of Washington.

“Why are you showing this to me?” Rafe asked.

“You’re the expert on Jorgensen. I thought if you could shed any light—”

“He’s dead,” Sinclair said flatly.

There was no overt emotion in the phrase, but his hatred for the man the pronoun referred to permeated each syllable. The force of it held Griff silent for a moment.

“The signature of those last two bombings has been the same. It’s distinctive enough that the agency’s experts—”

“Screw the agency and their experts. I’m telling you Jorgensen is dead.”

“There’s always the possibility—”

“I watched the bastard die. Whoever this is, it isn’t Jorgensen.”

Without denying what Rafe had said, Griff let the silence stretch again. The tension it produced grew as the slow seconds ticked off, their eyes locked.

Finally, Griff asked, “And you’re willing to stake her life on your certainty of that?”

The blue eyes changed, darkening as they always did when Sinclair was angry. Of course, that wasn’t all he was seeing in them now, Griff acknowledged. He had known this man too long and too well to be mistaken about what was there.

“You bastard,” Rafe Sinclair said, the words so soft they were almost a whisper. “You conniving bastard. You haven’t changed at all, have you? You’re still doing their dirty work. They sent you here—”

“Nobody sent me,” Cabot interrupted, his own anger flaring unexpectedly. “Least of all the agency. I assure you they no longer have the power to send me anywhere.” Rafe should know better than that. He should know him better.

“You’re here strictly out of friendship.” The tone this time was mocking. Sardonic.

“I’m here because I thought you should know about that,” Griff said, gesturing with an upward tilt of his chin toward the CIA document. “What you do with the information is up to you. Good luck with the pistol,” he added before he turned, striding across the workshop to the outside door.

He had almost reached it when Rafe’s voice stopped him.

“If I’m wrong about your motives, I apologize. I’m not wrong about the other. Jorgensen is dead. You can tell Steiner that I guarantee it. Tell him that whoever this is was probably a protégé. An admirer perhaps. Imitation is still the sincerest form of flattery.”

“There have been a couple of sightings,” Griff said without turning. “One in Bern. Another in Prague.”

“There are always sightings. How many times has someone reported that they’ve seen Mengele?”

It was an apt analogy, given the death and destruction Gunther Jorgensen had been responsible for.

“I thought you should know,” Griff said again. “For what it’s worth.”

He took another step, the next to the last that would carry him out from under the artificial light of the workshop and into the daylight. Automatically, the force of habit too deeply ingrained to deny, his eyes surveyed the panorama spread out before him. Somewhere in the distance a thrush sang. There were no other sounds.

“You ever get the urge to say ‘I told you so’?” the man behind him asked.

“Occasionally. I try to resist.”

“I’m not sure I’d be able to,” Rafe said. And then he added, the mockery wiped from his tone, “Thanks for coming.”

There was another long beat of silence.

“Do you know where she is?” Griff asked, and then wished he hadn’t.

“Of course,” Sinclair said simply.

Unconsciously, Cabot nodded, the movement subtle enough that the man behind him was probably unaware of it. He took a deep breath and stepped through the doorway and out into the slant of late-afternoon sunshine.

He walked to the car he had rented at the Charlotte airport and climbed in without looking back. He was aware almost subliminally as he turned the wheel to pull onto the unpaved drive that Sinclair was standing in the doorway of the workshop, watching him.

And he knew, because they had once been as close as brothers, that the far-seeing gaze of those blue eyes would follow his car until it had disappeared into the twilight haze that gathered over these ancient mountains.

Some things never change.

Chapter One

The woman known as Beth Anderson lifted her hand from the key she’d just inserted into the ignition to adjust the rearview mirror of the SUV, pretending to check her makeup. As an added bit of play-acting, she touched her index finger to the small indention in the center of her top lip as if wiping away a smudge of lipstick.

Not that she could see her lip, since the mirror was focused on the line of cars behind her in the grocery store parking lot. And there was nothing suspicious about any of them. No one suspicious.

With the late-afternoon heat, there was almost no one in the parking lot at all, which made her feel more than a little foolish. It was a feeling she was becoming accustomed to.

She reached up and readjusted the mirror, putting it back into driving position. Old habits die hard, she thought. In this case, it was more like a resurrected habit. Resurrected from a life that was long dead.

She couldn’t remember making such a conscious effort to be aware of her surroundings in years. All week long, however, she’d had the sensation that someone was watching her. Maybe even following her.

In the quiet, summer sombulance of Magnolia Grove, Mississippi, that was patently ridiculous. And that was exactly what she’d been telling herself since the first flutter of that “eyes on the back of her neck” feeling had drifted along her spine.

She’d been out of the game too long for anyone to be interested in her. Her current position as the junior partner in a two-person law firm had once or twice evoked an angry response from someone she’d gone after in court. No one, including Elizabeth herself, could believe that any of her current cases might generate enough heat to cause someone to trail her around.

The whole thing was ridiculous. There wasn’t a single, solitary reason under the sun for anyone to be remotely interested in her daily routine.

Routine. The word reverberated in her consciousness, producing a nagging sense of guilt.

That was one of the first things you were taught. Never establish a routine. Vary your route to and from work. Vary the times you travel it. Vary everything in your existence so that no one can know where you’ll be or what you’ll be doing at any given moment of the day or night.

She was a little amused at the clarity of her memory. The problem with following those instructions, even if there had been any legitimate reason for doing so, was that there was only one route from her office to the bungalow she’d bought here three years ago. And she didn’t exactly set her own hours. She could vary the time she headed home, as she had today, but she was the one who opened the office every morning, promptly at nine o’clock.

She didn’t live her life by a routine, she thought, as she released the mirror to turn the key. She had slipped past routine and straight into rut. Small-town rut.

And there’s nothing wrong with that, she told herself determinedly, backing quickly out of the parking place. She had had enough excitement to last her a lifetime. All she wanted now was peace and quiet.

Not exactly all, she admitted with a touch of bitterness as she guided the car out onto the two-lane. Because after all, peace and quiet Magnolia Grove offered in abundance. As for the other…

What was it that Paul Newman had said? Why settle for hamburger when you have steak waiting at home? The analogy didn’t quite fit her situation, but she hadn’t met anyone in Magnolia Grove remotely interesting enough to compete with her memories.

And that’s a hell of a note, she acknowledged.

Maybe that’s why she’d been imagining someone following her. Loneliness. Routine. Rut. Boredom.

All of which were why she was here, she reminded herself. This place ranked at the top in the all-time boredom ratings. That’s exactly why she had chosen it. Just because she was now having some kind of midlife crisis—

Midlife? Her eyes left the road, lifting to the mirror. Although she had to shift her position in order to accomplish it, this time they examined the reflection of her face, which was reassuringly the same.

Slightly crooked nose, hazel eyes, faint chicken pox scar on her left cheekbone. And, she assessed critically, only a few more lines around her eyes than had ever been there before.

Thirty-four was hardly “midlife.” Even if this peculiar sensation of being watched was the product of some sort of dissatisfaction with her present existence, she couldn’t legitimately put it down to middle-age angst, thank God.

Her gaze returned to the blacktop stretching before her. Heat waves rose from the asphalt to shimmer and distort the horizon. There wasn’t another car in sight. A quick glance in the rearview mirror revealed there was no traffic behind her either.

Nobody was following her. Nobody was the least bit interested in anything she was doing. The idea that someone might be was probably just wishful thinking.

And that’s pretty pathetic.

Her mother used to say, “Be careful what you wish for because you might get it.” She had wanted peace and quiet and security. And now that she had it…

Pretty damn pathetic, she thought again, pressing her foot down on the gas pedal to take advantage of the long, deserted straightaway that stretched in front of her.

SOMETHING WAS SUBTLY different about the house. She had known it as soon as she opened the back door. Certainly by the time she’d set the groceries she’d picked up on the way home down on the counter.

Her eyes sought the light on the answering machine first, but there were no messages. Even if there had been, that wouldn’t have triggered whatever she was feeling.

She was sensitive to atmosphere, as most women were, but she certainly didn’t claim to be clairvoyant. Whatever change she sensed here was physical. Something had been moved, perhaps, so that its being out of place made the room feel strange. Or maybe it was a smell. Something that was different from the normal aromas of her home, so familiar that usually they would go unnoticed.

Her gaze traveled slowly around the room. She had opened the kitchen curtains before she’d left for work this morning. Late-afternoon sunlight spilled through the windows over the sink, slanting across the checkerboard pattern of the black-and-white tile floor. Its brightness seemed to belie her uneasiness, which despite any tangible cause was increasing by the second.

She glanced through the doorway that led into the dining room. It was darker in there, at least beyond the reach of the sunlight pouring into the kitchen. Its reflection made the worn hardwood floor just beyond the open doorway gleam.