How they came to be

Buried deep beneath an abandoned military base, in reinforced bunkers long ago forgotten by the outside world, a group of supersoldiers was born, a black ops team not only trained in combat, but also imbued with extraordinary skills that allow them to defy dimension, reality and time itself.

When a top secret mission goes terribly awry, three special heroes are forced to accept their own mortality. Abandoned and betrayed by ruthless superiors, they must struggle to put the pieces of their lives—and their memories—back together. But in resurrecting those memories, secrets will be uncovered. Lives will be lost. And a dark and deadly conspiracy will finally be exposed.

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

Take a very well-deserved break from Thanksgiving preparations and rejuvenate yourself with Harlequin Intrigue’s tempting offerings this month!

To start off the festivities, Harper Allen brings you Covert Cowboy—the next riveting installment of COLORADO CONFIDENTIAL. Watch the sparks fly when a Native American secret agent teams up with the headstrong mother of his unborn child to catch a slippery criminal. Looking to live on the edge? Then enter the dark and somber HEARTSKEEP estate—with caution!—when Dani Sinclair brings you The Second Sister—the next book in her gothic trilogy.

The thrills don’t stop there! His Mysterious Ways pairs a ruthless mercenary with a secretive seductress as they ward off evil forces. Don’t miss this new series in Amanda Stevens’s extraordinary QUANTUM MEN books. Join Mallory Kane for an action-packed story about a heroine who must turn to a tough-hearted FBI operative when she’s targeted by a stalker in Bodyguard/Husband.

A homecoming unveils a deadly conspiracy in Unmarked Man by Darlene Scalera—the latest offering in our new theme promotion BACHELORS AT LARGE. And finally this month, ’tis the season for some spine-tingling suspense in The Christmas Target by Charlotte Douglas when a sexy cowboy cop must ride to the rescue as a twisted Santa sets his sights on a beautiful businesswoman.

So gather your loved ones all around and warm up by the fire with some steamy romantic suspense!

Enjoy,

Denise O’Sullivan

Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

His Mysterious Ways
Amanda Stevens

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Amanda Stevens is the bestselling author of over thirty novels of romantic suspense. In addition to being a Romance Writers of America RITA® Award finalist, she is also the recipient of awards in Career Achievement in Romantic/Mystery and Career Achievement in Romantic/Suspense from Romantic Times magazine. She currently resides in Texas. To find out more about past, present and future projects, please visit her Web site at www.amandastevens.com.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Melanie Stark—She’s come to the tiny Central American country of Cartéga to find the one man who can unlock the secrets of her past.

Jon Lassiter—A ruthless mercenary known as el guerrero del demonio—the demon warrior.

Richard Stark—Once a quantum physicist for a top secret operation known as the Montauk Projects, he’s been on the run for years.

Dr. Wilder—An American doctor involved in a very dangerous business.

Hoyt Kruger—He’s hired el guerrero del demonio to protect his oil wells in Cartéga. But does he have an ulterior motive?

Martin Grace—Kruger’s partner is a man of few words…and fewer scruples.

Angus Bond—An Australian expatriate with a fondness for the bottle and a penchant for trouble.

Blanca del Torrio—Is she really in love with Dr. Wilder, or does the older man have something she wants?

Contents

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 One

They called her Angel because they didn’t know her real name and because the tiny hand-shaped birth-mark on the left side of her face made it seem as though she’d been touched by God.

Even so, she was a very sick child, the latest victim of a deadly epidemic that had swept through remote villages along the banks of the Salamá River in the tiny Central American country of Cartéga.

Melanie Stark had found the little girl on the steps of the clinic in Santa Elena when she’d gone there to volunteer. Huddled beneath a dirty, ragged blanket, the child had been suffering from high fever, chills, chest congestion, persistent cough and a florid maculopapular rash over her face, arms and trunk that was similar to, but not entirely consistent with typhus.

Where she had come from or who had left her, no one knew. For the first forty-eight hours, her condition had been touch-and-go. Finally, on the third day, her temperature had dropped and her breathing became less labored, but she still had a long way to go for a full recovery.

Melanie had barely left the little girl’s bedside since she’d frantically carried her into the clinic three days ago. She’d sat with her morning and night, reading to her, talking to her softly, sometimes praying. Now she reached out to touch a tiny hand beneath the oxygen tent, but the child didn’t stir.

Dr. Wilder, who ran the clinic, squeezed Melanie’s shoulder, then nodded toward the door. Reluctantly, she got up and followed him out. His solemn expression alarmed her.

Melanie turned to him anxiously once they were outside the closed door. “She’s better today, right? Her fever is down, her color is improving…”

“Yes, that’s the good news.” Dr. Wilder stripped off his surgical gloves and dropped them in a nearby waste receptacle. He wasn’t a particularly tall man, standing only a couple of inches above Melanie’s five foot seven, but he was trim and toned and the close-cropped beard and mustache gave him a distinguished, intellectual appearance. He was American, but Melanie couldn’t place his accent.

When she’d first met him, she’d judged him to be around fifty-five, but after having spent the past few days in his company, she’d come to the conclusion that he was one of those men whose age could be anywhere from late forties to late sixties.

He was refined, gentle, a very good doctor from what she’d observed, although, admittedly, a premed dropout such as she was perhaps not the best judge. Still, she’d been impressed with his care and treatment of Angel. Melanie was convinced the child wouldn’t have made it through that first day without Dr. Wilder’s expertise.

Why someone with his obvious skill and talent had ended up in a place like Santa Elena, she couldn’t imagine. Nor did she ask. She’d learned a long time ago that curiosity courted curiosity. Her own reasons for coming to Cartéga were private and complicated—perhaps even dangerous—and she had no intention of discussing them with anyone, much less dragging an innocent bystander into her murky quest.

Dr. Wilder’s worried gaze met hers. “Angel is responding to the treatment, but unfortunately, the epidemic has depleted our supply of antibiotics. I’ve made repeated calls to the Ministry of Health in San Cristóbal, but the government either can’t or won’t help us. I haven’t even been able to get the results of Angel’s blood tests, and without them, I can’t even be sure what we’re dealing with…”

He trailed off, shaking his head in disgust. “The minister claims that airlifted medical supplies from the U.S. are being stolen by the rebels, but I’m just as inclined to believe they’re being confiscated by the army to sell on the black market.”

If Melanie had learned anything in the brief time she’d spent in Cartéga it was that in the bloody civil war that had raged for nearly five years, there were no good guys. Only victims like Angel.

She drew a long breath. “What happens to Angel if we run out?”

Dr. Wilder glanced at the door behind which the tiny, dark-eyed girl valiantly fought for her life. “She’s very weak. Without the antibiotics, her immune system may not be able to fight the infection. Complications could set in. Pneumonia, acute renal failure…” He gave a helpless shrug. “Without the drugs, she could die.”

“We can’t let that happen. I won’t let that happen,” Melanie said stubbornly.

He gave her a weary, defeated smile. “We may not have a choice. Some things are out of our hands. If the shipments can’t get through…”

“We’ll just have to find the drugs somewhere else.”

He frowned. “Where?”

Melanie thought for a moment. “An American oil company has a drilling site thirty miles north of here at the base of the mountains. They have an infirmary on the premises, as well as an airstrip, and supplies are flown in twice a month.”

Dr. Wilder’s gaze narrowed. “How do you know that?”

“I talk to people in the village. I hear things,” she replied evasively.

“Did you also hear that the drilling site is like a fortress?” Dr. Wilder demanded. “Kruger Petroleum has hired a small army to guard the perimeter of the compound. No one can get in or out without proper authorization. You won’t get within a hundred yards before you’ll be turned away.”

She shrugged. “We’ll see about that.”

“Melanie…”

“Look, I’m not going to let that little girl die, Dr. Wilder, no matter what I have to do. But things could get a little dicey,” she admitted. “The less you know the better off you’ll be.”

“Deniability, you mean.”

“Exactly. But please don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”

“I hope you do. Because I hear things, too.” Dr. Wilder’s expression turned grim, cautious. “The mercenaries Kruger has hired to guard his wells are a pack of ruthless savages, the kind who shoot first and ask questions later. They’re led by a man the locals call el guerrero del demonio.”

Demon warrior.

An icy dread tingled down Melanie’s backbone.

“They say he has…unnatural powers.”

Melanie forced a smile to her suddenly frozen lips. “You’re a man of science, Doctor. Surely you don’t believe in superstitions.”

“Where science is corrupted, evil often flourishes,” he muttered obliquely. “Tread carefully, Melanie.”

The hair at the back of her neck lifted at his strange warning, and she watched him curiously until he’d disappeared down the hallway. Then she turned and slipped through the door to Angel’s room.

Resuming her position beside the child’s bed, she settled in to await the coming darkness.

THUNDER MINGLED with gunfire in the mountains as nightfall swooped like a vampire’s cloak over the jungle. Jon Lassiter scanned the area in the deepening twilight as a knot of tension formed in the pit of his stomach. It was a familiar sensation. A mixture of elation, dread and adrenaline that he always experienced before a battle.

Neither the storm nor the rebel skirmishes with the Cartégan army had moved any closer in the past twenty-four hours, but he wasn’t about to let down his guard. He’d learned a long time ago that disaster usually struck when and where you least expected it.

And in Cartéga, disaster was never far away.

The tiny Central American country had once been little more than a blip on the international radar screen, a lush, primitive paradise that time and progress had forgotten. But the discovery of oil, along with one of the most significant archaeological finds in decades, had propelled Cartéga onto the world stage.

Representatives from all the major oil companies had stampeded into the sleepy capital of San Cristóbal, throwing enough money around to corrupt an already corrupt government. Lassiter had no idea how Kruger Petroleum, his current employer, had managed to outsmart the international conglomerates, but knowing Hoyt Kruger, it had probably been a combination of charm, chicanery and a pact with the devil.

Lassiter could appreciate that.

A chain-link fence topped by razor wire enclosed the compound, and sentries were posted at the entrance and at intervals around the perimeter. Lassiter nodded to the dozen or so guards he encountered as he made his nightly rounds. He didn’t know half their names, nor did he want to. He didn’t trust any of them. Money could buy a lot of things in this part of the world, but seldom loyalty.

Lassiter could appreciate that, too. He was a member of a dark and sinister society whose allegiance was sworn only to the highest bidder, and he labored under no delusions about his men’s fealty. He commanded this operation for one reason only. The money came through him. In another time, another country, in another hellhole of a jungle, he was just as likely to be following the orders of one of his comrades. Or to be fighting against them. It all depended on the price, and every man had one.

As he walked back inside the camp, Lassiter breathed in the familiar fragrance of rotting vegetation, cigarette smoke, sweat and diesel fuel. And fainter, the acrid smell of gunpowder that clung to the twilight like the remnant of some mostly forgotten nightmare.

The past three years of his life were all wrapped up in that smell, Lassiter thought with a keen sense of inevitability. The location changed—Nicaragua, Guatemala, El Salvador—but that scent stayed the same. He sometimes thought he could smell it on his skin. Like the stench of a rotting corpse, it had gotten into his pores, his hair shafts, his sinuses. He could no more scrub that odor away than he could banish the screams from inside his head.

Screams from another life, one he only vaguely recalled, although at times the memories would come back with startling clarity, usually after one of the dreams. Then he’d lie awake, staring at the sky and forcing himself to recall everything he could about his previous life—the farm where he’d grown up deep in the Mississippi Delta, his frail mother, a girl named Sarah who’d wanted to marry him.

He had no idea what had happened to that girl. He didn’t even know if his mother was still alive. Home was a lifetime away.

Stopping for a moment to light up one of the thin, black cigarettes he ordered from a cigar shop in Tegucigalpa, he listened to the raucous laughter and cursing coming from the crew as they continued to work in the illumination from the floodlights that had been set up around the third well site. They worked in twelve-hour shifts, just as Lassiter’s men did.

When Kruger had first moved in the heavy equipment six months ago, preparing for what promised to be a long and profitable arrangement with the Cartégan government, he’d been assured of round-the-clock protection. But then the rebel incursions had intensified around the capital, and the beleaguered and poorly equipped army had been called into service to snuff out the guerrilla encampments in the mountains.

His operation soon the target of saboteurs and snipers, Hoyt Kruger had decided to put together his own army, not just as protection against the rebels, but as a safeguard in the event one of the local drug lords decided to move in and try to take control of the wells.

When word had reached Lassiter in Caracas that Kruger wanted to meet with him, he’d been a little surprised by the request. The reputation he’d acquired in Central America hadn’t exactly served him in good stead in recent months. Clients had become few and far between, which was why he’d drifted south. But he’d had a feeling from the moment he shook Kruger’s hand, sealing the deal, that the rumors keeping others at bay had been the reason the enigmatic Texas oilman had sought him out in the first place.

Lassiter ground the half-smoked cigarillo beneath his heel, then continued on his rounds. The camp consisted of five tin barracks crowded with bunks—four housing the drilling crew and one for Lassiter’s men—an office packed with computers connected to Kruger’s headquarters in Houston via satellite, a mess tent, a medical clinic and a rec hall of sorts where the off-duty crew could watch videos, play cards or shoot the bull. Not exactly the most effective activities for warding off tension and boredom, but on rotating weekends, there was the always unpredictable nightlife in Santa Elena, a thirty-minute jeep ride away.

The door to the office was open, and Lassiter could see the gleam of Kruger’s bald head in the glow of a CRT screen as he and his partner, Martin Grace, pored over the paper scrolling out of the printer like cardiologists reading an EKG.

Kruger was tall and powerfully built, not handsome except for his piercing blue eyes. He was in his late fifties, a good twenty-five years older than Lassiter, but still with a quick mind, a quick temper and an uncanny knack for making money.

Sensing Lassiter’s scrutiny, the two men looked up with tense expressions, then Kruger relaxed when he saw who it was. But Grace’s features tightened. He didn’t like Lassiter and made no bones about it.

He wasn’t a small man, probably just shy of six feet, but Kruger seemed to dwarf him, in both stature and personality.

“Don’t you know how to knock?” he barked irritably.

Lassiter shrugged. “Door was open.”

The offhand remark seemed to irritate the man even more, and Kruger laughed. “You’ll have to excuse Marty, Lassiter. He’s been jumpy ever since he got here. But he’ll soon get used to the gunfire, right?”

Lassiter shrugged. “I hardly even notice it.”

Martin Grace’s eyes narrowed. “Forgive me for pointing out the obvious, but isn’t it your job to notice the gunfire? And what about the snipers?”

“What about them?”

“The men were fired on again yesterday. Luckily, there weren’t any injuries, but that’s no thanks to you. We hired you to protect the crew and our interests down here, but I’m starting to wonder if that’s what you’re doing.”

Lassiter’s name crackled over the radio fastened to his belt, and he gave Martin Grace a pointed look. “We’ll have to take this up later. I’ll come look you up as soon as I take care of this matter.”

Grace glanced down at the paper in his hand as if suddenly alarmed by the notion of a one-on-one meeting with Lassiter. “I’ve said my piece,” he mumbled.

Lassiter nodded to Kruger, then stepped outside to answer the radio. Lifting the unit to his ear, he said his name into the transmitter.

“It’s Tag,” the man on the other end responded. “I’ve picked up something on one of the monitors you need to take a look at.”

“What is it?”

Taglio hesitated. “I think you’d better see it for yourself.”

Uneasiness tripped along Lassiter’s nerve endings. There was something in Taglio’s voice—

“Anything wrong?” Kruger stood in the doorway, one hand propped against the frame as he regarded Lassiter anxiously.

Lassiter shrugged as his gaze met the older man’s in the semidarkness. “Whatever it is, I’ll take care of it.”

“See that you do. The men are getting skittish with all that damn gunfire. And I heard today a kid was brought into the clinic in Santa Elena with the fever. When the crew gets wind of that…” He didn’t bother to finish the sentence, but Lassiter knew what he was thinking. The disease, along with the fighting, was getting closer.

Shouldering his rifle, Lassiter strode across the camp to the sheet-metal building that served as operation headquarters. As he neared the structure, the smell of diesel fuel from the generator grew stronger.

Part of the bargain Kruger had struck with the Cartégan government had been the routing of electrical lines through the jungle to the camp. But even in the capital, service was unpredictable at best, and Lassiter hadn’t wanted to take a chance on a complete power blackout.

The generator was a safeguard and had been one of a long list of items he’d presented to Kruger before he’d signed on to the operation. To the oilman’s credit, he hadn’t batted an eye at the price tag. And with good reason, Lassiter figured. His fee for services and equipment was substantial, but the wells that had already been drilled were producing thousands of barrels a day. If they continued at that rate for several months, let alone years, Kruger Petroleum stood to make millions.

Along with the generator, Lassiter had also requested portable thermal-imaging cameras which he and his men had camouflaged and mounted around the perimeter of the camp. The monitors were watched around the clock in the event the guerrillas or one of the drug cartels—or even the Cartégan army—decided to launch an assault.

The door to the building was open to allow in the night air, and when Lassiter stepped inside, Taglio glanced up with a frown. He was several years younger than Lassiter, well educated, well traveled and with a grace and style that often caused people to underestimate his toughness. Sometimes even Lassiter wondered what had brought a man with Danny Taglio’s looks and privileged background to a place like Cartéga, but he never asked. No one ever asked.

“You better take a look at this,” the younger man said.

Lassiter crossed to the monitor and watched as Taglio played back one of the surveillance tapes. Noting the time and date in the right-hand corner of the screen, Lassiter automatically glanced at his watch. Less than five minutes had elapsed since the image he was now watching had been captured on tape.

“Which camera?” he asked.

“Sector Seven.” The camp was divided into a grid similar to a tic-tac-toe board. Sector Seven was the lower left corner, the area closest to the mountains and to the heaviest guerrilla fighting.

Lassiter studied the screen. The resolution from the thermal-imaging cameras was a vast improvement over the night-vision equipment they’d once had to work with, but a thick mist had drifted down from the cloud forest, obliterating almost everything on the screen. Lassiter could make out the vague shape of trees, but that was about it. The camera spanned down, and the fence around the compound came into focus.

“I can’t see a damn thing,” he said. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“Just keep watching. It should be coming up—” Taglio glanced at his own watch “—right about…now.”

Lassiter caught his breath. The image was there, then gone in a single heartbeat. He couldn’t even be sure of what he’d seen.

“Roll it back.”

Taglio did as he was instructed, and Lassiter watched the monitor, not daring to blink. “Freeze it!”

It took Taglio a couple of tries before he was able to freeze the frame Lassiter wanted, but when he had it, Lassiter leaned forward, a chill going through his body. “What the hell?”

“It’s a woman,” Taglio said. “Right outside the fence.”

She wore a scarf over her head, but Lassiter didn’t think she was one of the local peasants. “Where’d she come from?” he muttered. They were miles from any kind of civilization.

“The better question would be, how is she there one second and gone the next?” Taglio asked tensely.

“Press play.”

The moment the tape started, the woman vanished. In the blink of an eye. The fence was still there. The trees were still there. But the woman was gone.

It was as if she’d stepped off the face of the earth.

Impossible.

But then, Lassiter knew better than anyone that nothing was impossible.

“It must be the mist,” Taglio said. “Somehow it created an optical illusion.”

“Were any of the alarms tripped?”

He shook his head. “There’s no way she could get through the lasers without all hell breaking loose.” He glanced up at Lassiter. “You want me to put the camp on alert?”

“No, not yet.” Lassiter was still watching the video, which now showed nothing more than mist swirling around the fence. “Let me have a look around first. I’ll let you know if I find anything. In the meantime, don’t mention that tape to anyone else.”

Taglio shot him a look, but whatever was on his mind he kept to himself. “You’re the boss. But just for the record, you never answered my question. How can a person just disappear like that?”

Lassiter shrugged. “I think you answered it yourself. It must have been some kind of optical illusion.”

“Yeah, that must have been it.” But Taglio didn’t sound convinced, and his expression was anxious as his gaze moved past Lassiter to the open doorway and the gathering darkness beyond. “Or else…”

“Or else what?”

Taglio’s gaze lifted and something that might have been fear flickered in his eyes, giving Lassiter a glimpse of vulnerability in the younger man that he suspected few people had ever witnessed. Taglio seemed almost embarrassed by what he had to say. “Maybe she isn’t human.”

Lassiter frowned. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“A ghost, Lassiter. I’m talking about a damned ghost.”

LASSITER TRIED to laugh off Taglio’s supernatural explanation, but he found himself shivering even though the night was warm and humid.

But Tag had it all wrong, Lassiter thought grimly as he climbed into his jeep and headed over to Sector Seven. The woman on the video wasn’t the ghost. Lassiter was. He’d died a long time ago and he had some pretty damning proof that he should have stayed dead. Dead and buried in a watery tomb that now rested on the ocean floor hundreds of feet below the surface.

For a moment, the claustrophobic memories threatened to engulf him, and he could hear the cacophony of clanking metal and human screams slowly making their way to the surface. He shoved them away, buried them deep and kept driving.

He checked the fence along Sector Seven, but the metal hadn’t been cut and the alarms were still set. The woman couldn’t have gotten inside the camp. But just to be on the safe side, Lassiter drove the perimeter of the compound, making sure the guards were at their posts, and then he checked all the buildings.

The mess tent and rec hall were deserted, but he could see Kruger and Martin Grace still at work in the office, heads bent low, their expressions gloomy. They appeared to be arguing, but what compelling business kept them at it for so long, Lassiter had no idea. He didn’t interrupt them this time. He had other things on his mind.

Parking the jeep, he crossed the interior of the compound on foot and checked the infirmary. The place was run by a man named Angus Bond, an Australian expatriate Kruger had dug up from somewhere who claimed to be a doctor. Bond had padlocked the door to keep the more potent drugs from falling into the wrong hands. Or so he said. But it had been Lassiter’s suspicion for quite some time that old Angus wasn’t above a little self-medicating. The padlock was probably more self-serving than precautionary.

Lassiter started to walk away when the sound of breaking glass stopped him short. He turned and put an ear to the door.

Someone was inside.

His first thought was that Angus had returned early from his day off, but Lassiter had seen the Aussie head off to Santa Elena just before lunch, and the good doctor never came back early or sober from a furlough.

Besides, how would Angus get through a door that was padlocked from the outside?

How would anyone get through that door?

A ghost, Lassiter. I’m talking about a damn ghost.

CURSING SOFTLY, Melanie whipped the scarf from her head and quickly wound it around the cut on her wrist.

Damn! She was getting blood everywhere.

And everything had been going so well until that point. She’d made it inside the compound without being detected. Located the infirmary and gotten inside without any problem. The locked medicine cabinet had presented the first real challenge, but she’d solved that by simply smashing out the glass front. No problem, except when she’d reached inside, she’d cut her wrist on a shard.

But even worse, the sound of shattering glass had been like a gunshot in the quiet. Someone might have heard the noise and would soon come to investigate. Melanie knew she had to hurry.

Fighting off a wave of dizziness from the sight of her own blood, she directed her penlight into the cabinet, playing the beam over the vials and bottles of medicine.

Whoa, some heavy-duty stuff there. OxyCotin, Percocet, Demerol. And some good old-fashioned morphine.

Tempting, but not why she’d come there.

Skipping the drugstore heroine, she went straight for the antibiotics, scanning the labels until she found what she needed. Quickly she stuffed the packets of tetracycline into the leather bag she wore draped over her shoulder.

A slight noise, nothing more than a swish of air, sent a chill up her spine, and slowly she turned toward the door.

A man stood just inside, almost hidden by shadows. Even so, Melanie could tell that he was tall, broad-shouldered, muscular. His features were indistinguishable, but she knew his gaze was on her. A cold, sharp, penetrating stare that cut her right to the bone.

He was dressed like a soldier. Camouflage jacket and pants. Rugged boots. A rifle barrel jutting over his shoulder, and he carried a handgun that was pointed at her.

She knew at once who he was, and her whole body went slack with fear.

El guerrero del demonio…

“¿HABLA USTED Inglés? Do you speak English?”

The woman didn’t answer, just stood staring at him, unblinking, as if frozen. But Lassiter knew she understood him. Now that he’d gotten a better look at her, he could tell she was American by the way she carried herself, by the clothes she wore, the cut of her blond hair.

“How the hell did you get in here?” he demanded.

Still she didn’t answer.

Slowly, she held up her hands as she began to back away from him.

“Stay where you are,” he warned. “Don’t move.”

She continued to back toward the window, and Lassiter guessed her intent. “Stop!”

He rushed her, but she turned quickly, took a step toward the window and…disappeared.

Vanished into thin air.

Without thinking, Lassiter opened fire.

Chapter Two

“Let me see that wrist,” Dr. Wilder commanded as he reached for Melanie’s hand.

She put it behind her. “It’s fine. Just a scratch.”

His gaze turned reproachful. “Then why have you been hiding it from me all day?”

“I haven’t. We’ve both been busy, that’s all.” Which was true. They’d had a steady stream of patients coming into the clinic for hours with ailments ranging from dementia to dysentery, and Melanie, who had come to the clinic four days ago to volunteer, had been kept so busy she’d barely had a moment to spend with Angel.

But the child’s condition had been steadily improving. Her fever was down, the cough had subsided, and her breathing was finally normal. Both the oxygen and the IV had been removed, and with continued antibiotic therapy, Dr. Wilder was cautiously optimistic for a full recovery.

What would happen to the child once she was well enough to leave the clinic, Melanie didn’t want to contemplate. She’d watched enough cable news back home to know the miserable plight of war orphans in countries like Cartéga.

“Melanie?”

She glanced up to find Dr. Wilder waiting patiently. “Your arm, please.”

With a heavy sigh, she held out her hand, palm up, and Dr. Wilder carefully unwrapped the bandage she’d put around her wrist earlier that morning. The cotton was dotted with blood.

He looked up, his usually placid gray eyes now stern and ominous. “This is a very serious cut.”

“It looks worse than it is.” She tried to snatch her hand away, but Dr. Wilder held on firmly.

“It should have been sutured immediately. Why didn’t you come to me?”

“I already told you, the less you know of my whereabouts last evening, the better off you’ll be.”

“This happened last night? At Kruger’s compound?”

“No comment.”

His features tightened. “How did it happen? Who did this to you?”

The angry, possessive note in his voice startled Melanie. They’d only known each other a few days, but they’d bonded through their mutual concern for Angel. Their friendship had developed rapidly during the crisis, which was unusual for Melanie. She didn’t make friends easily or quickly, although her reckless behavior in high school had made her quite popular for a time, she thought dryly.

“No one did it to me. It was an accident. Let’s just forget it.”

“Easy to say until you develop a nasty infection,” Dr. Wilder scolded. “Now hold still.”

The door opened and Blanca, Dr. Wilder’s nurse, stuck her head around the corner. Tossing back her long black hair, she eyed them curiously for a moment before she spoke. She was a young woman, Melanie’s age perhaps, with delicate features and a curvaceous figure reminiscent of old Hollywood. The word lush always came to mind when Melanie saw her.

But Blanca’s eyes were her most striking feature. Dark, wide and soulful, they glinted with suspicion every time she turned her gaze on Melanie.

The woman’s instant and overt animosity was something Melanie still didn’t understand.

“There is a man here to see you, Doctor,” Blanca said in Spanish.

“English, please, Blanca.” Dr. Wilder barely glanced up. “What does he want?”

He still held Melanie’s hand, and Blanca’s curiosity turned into a scowl of disapproval as she continued to observe them from across the room. “He said it was official business. A matter of extreme importance,” she said in heavily accented English.

“He’ll have to come back.” Dr. Wilder released Melanie and began gathering supplies to suture her wrist.

“Wait a minute,” Melanie said. “He could be with the Ministry of Health. Maybe you should see him.”

Dr. Wilder gave a scornful laugh. “The minister won’t even return my phone calls. I highly doubt he’d send an emissary in person to meet with me.”

“What should I tell him?” Blanca asked.

“Just what I said,” Dr. Wilder replied curtly. “I’m with a patient. He’ll have to come back later. In an hour.”

Blanca’s mouth tightened, but she left the room without a word and closed the door more soundly than necessary behind her.

“She seemed upset,” Melanie said. “Maybe you should go see who this man is.”

Dr. Wilder shrugged. “Blanca is quite capable of taking care of the matter.”

“She does seem efficient,” Melanie said carefully. “How long has she worked for you?”

“A few months. Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I just get the impression she’s very protective of you.”

He turned away quickly, but not before Melanie saw a look of embarrassment flicker over his features. “I’m going to give you a local, but it may still sting a bit.”

He was hiding something, she decided. Obviously, he didn’t want to discuss his relationship with Blanca, but why? Was there something going on between them that Melanie had somehow missed?

If so, that would go a long way in explaining Blanca’s attitude, particularly if she regarded Melanie as a potential rival for Dr. Wilder’s affection.

But if she only knew, Melanie thought with a grimace. Romance was the last thing she needed. And besides, what man in his right mind would ever understand, let alone accept, this…thing she could do?

Melanie didn’t even understand it herself, but she knew instinctively that no good would come of it.

Where science is corrupted, evil often flourishes.

Dr. Wilder’s warning suddenly came back to her, and her hand jerked reflexively.

He looked up. “I’m sorry. Am I hurting you?”

“Not much.”

“I’ll try to be quick.”

He was as gentle as he could be, but thirteen stitches later, Melanie was fervently wishing for a hit of the Percocet she’d seen in the infirmary last night.

“I’M DR. WILDER. My nurse said you wanted to see me?”

“Jon Lassiter.”

Neither man offered the other his hand. Instead, Dr. Wilder walked around his desk and motioned to a chair across from him.

“Thanks, but I prefer to stand,” Lassiter said.

“As you wish.” Dr. Wilder took a seat and folded his hands on the desk. “What can I do for you?” His voice was surprisingly calm, considering how tense he’d seemed when Lassiter had been ushered into his office.

“I work for Kruger Petroleum. We had an intruder in our compound last night.”

Wilder lifted his brows. “I’m sorry to hear that, but what does it have to do with me?”

“The only thing missing were antibiotics. An odd choice, considering there were several opiates within easy reach, including morphine. Not a big demand on the black market for tetracycline.”

Wilder grimaced. “You obviously aren’t aware of the latest epidemic.”

“I know about the fever,” Lassiter said. “I also know that you have a patient here at the clinic, a girl about five years of age, who has typhuslike symptoms. Correct me if I’m wrong, Doctor, but the treatment for an infection caused by rickettsia bacterium is heavy antibiotic therapy, preferably tetracycline or chloramphenicol.”

Something flickered in Wilder’s eyes, but his expression never changed. “Are you accusing me of stealing your antibiotics, young man?”

“You don’t match the description of the thief.”

“Then I ask you again, what does any of this have to do with me?” Impatience had crept into Wilder’s voice, but something else was there, too. Lassiter had the distinct impression Wilder was protecting someone.

“The thief was wounded in the robbery,” he said. “I need to know if you treated anyone late last night or sometime this morning with a fairly deep cut, probably on one of her hands?”

“Her?”

“The intruder was a woman.”

Dr. Wilder shook his head. “I’ve seen no one, male or female, with such an injury.”

“What about a gunshot wound?”

Alarm flashed across his face. “A gunshot wound?”

“The intruder came under heavy fire,” Lassiter explained. “She might have been wounded.”

Wilder’s mouth tightened. He suddenly looked very angry. “I’ve seen no gunshots wounds, either.”

“You’re sure about that?”

“Positive.”

Lassiter knew the man was lying. The infinitesimal tick at the corner of his left eye gave him away. “I understand you have a young woman working at this clinic who does match the description of the intruder. Blond. About five foot seven.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Dr. Wilder said coolly.

Lassiter placed his hands on the desk and leaned forward. He could see something dark in the doctor’s eyes. Fear? Contempt? A little of both? “Let me give you a warning, Doctor. I don’t like playing games any more than I like being made a fool of in front of my employers.”

Wilder said scornfully, “You would place a higher premium on your pride than on a child’s life?”

Lassiter straightened. “Then you admit the drugs were brought to this clinic.”

“I admit no such thing.” Dr. Wilder pushed himself back from his desk and rose. “But if they had been, any rational man, any moral man, would see that the end justifies the means when an innocent child’s life is at stake. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m very busy. I trust you can show yourself out.”

Lassiter strode across the room, then paused at the door to glance back. “If you did have such a woman in your employ, I’d ask that you give her two messages, the first being that in future, if she needs drugs, she might try asking for them. And second, there are some places in the world where a thief would be made an example of by having her hands chopped off in the public square.”

“If that’s a threat…”

Lassiter smiled. “Just another friendly warning. So long, Doctor.”

He pulled the door closed between them and headed down the dim, narrow hallway toward the exit. Wilder’s nurse, who was lurking in the corridor, jumped back to allow him room to pass. He suspected that only moments earlier, she’d had her ear pressed to the door, listening to every word being said in Wilder’s office.

But as their gazes met briefly, she looked at Lassiter with neither guilt nor fear, but with a cool, deadly calculation that was more than a little disturbing.

FROM HER HIDING PLACE across the street, Melanie watched the man come out of the clinic and pause on the steps as his gaze went up and down the street. She shrank back into the alley, certain that el guerrero del demonio would have the ability to zero in on her even in the shadows, or in the middle of a crowd, or a hundred miles away.

They say he has…special powers.

Melanie shivered as she glanced around the corner of the building. He was minus the rifle and the camouflage gear she’d seen last night. Today he wore jeans and a snug black T-shirt that seemed at once nondescript and sexy. He might have been a good-looking tourist out for a bit of sightseeing—except for the rigid way he carried himself and that cold gleam she knew would be in his eyes.

Even from across the street, she could see the bulge of his biceps beneath his short sleeves, the depth of his chest through the cotton shirt. He was lean and muscular, a fighting man in the prime of his life. A mercenary who killed people for money, and Melanie had the impression he was very good at what he did.

Her stomach tightened as she watched him. He was looking for her, she knew that. He must have followed the trail of blood, so to speak. The clinic was the logical place to start his search.

How long before he gave up?

Or would he give up?

With one last glance down the street, he climbed into the jeep and made a U-turn in the street, heading north, toward the mountains. But Melanie knew he’d be back.

Her heart pounding uncomfortably, she waited until his vehicle was out of sight before she left her hiding place and headed in the opposite direction, toward downtown.

The population of Santa Elena was less than five thousand permanent residents whose meager livelihood depended on the tourists who came there to visit the cloud forest and the nearby Mayan ruins. The main thoroughfare ran through the heart of downtown, where a bustling open-air market catered to the foreigners and dilapidated buses dodged potholes, chickens and children playing soccer in the street.

Melanie’s hotel was in the center of the village, a three-story terra-cotta building with wrought-iron balconies and potted hibiscus. A lush courtyard, hidden behind stone walls heavily draped with bougainvillea, provided a cool, shadowy oasis for guests needing a respite from the hot midday sun.

As she entered the Hotel del Paraíso, Melanie was struck again by the Old World charm of the lobby. A huge fountain, surrounded by tree ferns, bubbled in the middle of the stone floor while palm-leaf fans twirled lazily overhead.

She nodded to the clerk behind the desk as she made her way to the elevator and shoved home the wrought-iron gate. The elevator clanged its way to the third floor, where her room was located at the end of a long, dim corridor.

The room was large and airy, with a private bath and a view of the street that Melanie had requested. She was quite comfortable with the accommodations, but she knew if she planned to stay in Santa Elena for much longer, she’d have to find a cheaper place.

When her mother had died a few months ago, she’d left Melanie the bulk of her estate, but taxes had depleted a substantial portion of the inheritance. And Melanie’s most recent job as a cocktail waitress hadn’t allowed her to contribute much to the nest egg. Still, it would last her for a while if she was careful. Luckily, she was not a person given to consumer excesses. The basics were really all she needed—food to eat, a roof over her head, clothes on her back.

Stripping, she took a quick shower—a difficult task with one hand that had to be kept dry—then dressed in fresh jeans and a white cotton blouse she’d picked up at a thrift store in Houston before she’d caught a plane to Cartéga. Grabbing her bag, she left the hotel again, intent on finding a quiet place to have a drink and watch the sunset.

This time of day, the hotel terrace would be full of tourists, mostly Americans and Asians, who would have just gotten back from their trek to the cloud forest or the ruins. Their excited chatter could be entertaining at times, but today Melanie’s nerves were on edge. She needed peace and quiet, a chance to think.

Heading down the street to a tiny café she’d discovered her first day in Santa Elena, she found a table on the patio, ordered a pineapple juice and then, settling in, let her mind wander.

“You must be new here.”

The Australian accent startled Melanie so thoroughly she realized she must have drifted off to sleep. Alarmed by the lapse, her gaze shot to the man who stood over her table.

He was older, mid-fifties at least, with a haggard face and thin, white hair that brushed the shoulders of his lightweight suit.

Melanie knew she had never seen him before, yet there was something oddly familiar about him. “I beg your pardon?”

“I asked if you were new here. I come in often, and I don’t believe I’ve seen you in here before.” He put out a hand. “Bond. Angus Bond.”

She couldn’t help but smile at the way he introduced himself. She shook his hand. “Melanie Stark.”

He held up a frosted glass garnished with a wedge of lime. “May I buy you a drink, Melanie?”

She nodded to her juice. “I already have one, thanks.” She’d meant it as a polite brushoff, but something about him, that familiarity, made her say impulsively, “But you’re welcome to join me if you like.” What the heck? He looked harmless, save for a nasty scratch down the left side of his face, and there was something irresistible about a man with an Australian accent, no matter his age.

“I’d like that very much.” He drew out a chair and sat down, then took a long, thirsty pull from his gin and tonic.

“Nectar of the gods,” he said with a sigh.

“I thought that was wine.”

“Not in my paradise.” He grinned and took another swallow. “So what brings you to Santa Elena, Melanie? The cloud forest or the ruins?”

“I intend to see both. How about you?”

He shrugged. “I’ve lived off and on in Cartéga for quite some time now. Santa Elena has always been a favorite haunt of mine. I like the quaintness.”

Melanie lifted a brow in surprise. “You live here? Judging by your accent, I would have guessed you’d just left Melbourne a few days ago.”

“Queensland, actually. I’m a banana bender, as they say.” He grinned and saluted her with his drink. “As for the accent, old habits die hard.”

“I know what you mean,” Melanie murmured. She realized then why he looked so familiar to her. The evidence was there in his face. The excesses and the abuses. But it was his eyes that were the true giveaway. They were flat, emotionless, empty. She’d seen those same dead eyes years ago, in rehab. And in the mirror.

“So what do you do here?” she asked him.

He toyed with his glass. “Right now I’m working for an American oil company that has a drilling site about thirty miles north of town. Kruger Petroleum. Ever heard of it?”

Melanie almost choked on her drink. “I don’t think so.”

“They’re a small, independent outfit, but they appear to be flush with cash. The owner, Hoyt Kruger, is a hands-on kind of guy. He supervises every aspect of the operation.”

“What kind of work do you do for him?” Melanie tried to ask casually.

“I run the infirmary. I’m a doctor.”

It was all she could do not to spew juice from her nose. He ran the infirmary? Then he had to know about the break-in last night. Was that why he’d sought her out? Because he knew she was responsible? What was this? Some kind of fishing expedition? A trap?

“Santa Elena is a small place to have two doctors,” she said carefully.

He glanced down at the bandage on her wrist. “I take it you’ve made the acquaintance of our illustrious Dr. Wilder. Nothing serious, I trust?”

“No. Just a careless accident.”

“I sympathize.” His smile was rueful as he ran a finger down the scratch on the side of his face. “What happened? If I’m not being too forward by asking.”

Melanie hesitated. “I…broke a mirror in my hotel room. Luckily, I’m not the superstitious type.”

“Then you obviously haven’t been in Cartéga long enough.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a very superstitious country. The Cartégans love their legends. Haven’t you heard about la Encantadora who lives in the cloud forest and uses the mist to lure men to their death? Or the ghosts of the Mayan priests who wander the ruins—” He broke off as his gaze went past Melanie’s shoulder to the street. “Speak of the devil…”

Melanie turned to see what had drawn his attention. Her breath caught when she saw the man from the clinic climbing out of his jeep.

She whipped back around, trying not to show her distress. “Do you know that man?”

Bond’s mouth tightened. “He works for Kruger. Euphemistically speaking, he’s in charge of security, but…” His voice trailed off and he glanced away.

Melanie, sensing something in his tone, leaned toward him slightly. “But? What were you about to say?”

Bond looked suddenly uneasy. “Let me put it this way. He may be in charge of security for Kruger, but if I had a daughter, Jon Lassiter would be the last man on earth I’d want her to be alone with.”

Melanie nervously glanced over her shoulder. Lassiter was making his way down the street toward the café. She didn’t know whether he’d spotted them or not, but she wasn’t about to wait around and find out.

She rose from the table. “I’m sorry, but I really have to go.”

Bond gazed up at her in surprise. “So soon?”

“Yes. I…just remembered an appointment. It was a pleasure meeting you, though.”

“Oh, believe me, the pleasure was all mine, Melanie.”

When she reached into her bag for money, he held up his hand. “No, please. Allow me. I insist.”

Melanie hesitated. “In that case, thank you very much. Maybe I’ll see you here again. The drinks will be on me next time.”

“I’ll hold you to that.”

She could feel his gaze on her as she walked away, but it wasn’t the leer of an older man admiring a younger woman. It was more innocent than that. For all his obvious vices and hard living, there was something guileless about Angus Bond. Something a bit sad.

But Melanie didn’t have time to dwell long on the Australian, because as she left the patio and headed down the street, she turned and saw that Jon Lassiter had entered the café. He glanced up suddenly, and when he saw her, he said something to Angus, then started toward her.

Melanie spun around and headed in the opposite direction. Halfway down the street, she spied him again. He was even closer now, gaining on her steadily, although they were both trying not to draw attention.

Up ahead, a group of tourists had disembarked from a decrepit bus. Melanie hurried to infiltrate them, hoping to disappear among the chattering, excited vacationers.

Turning a corner with the crowd, she grabbed a peasant blouse from an outdoor rack in the market and hurried inside the dim shop.

“¿Me puedo probar esto, por favor?”

The ancient shopkeeper lazily waved a palmetto leaf fan in front of her face as she pointed to a dressing area in the back—a ragged blanket strung across one corner.

“Gracias.” Melanie dashed to the back and scurried behind the blanket. She fervently hoped that Lassiter would follow the tourists down the street, at least for a block or two. By the time he discovered she was no longer with them, he’d have no idea where she’d gone—

“Perdón.”

Melanie’s legs trembled at the sound of his voice. She shrank back in the corner, hoping the shopkeeper wouldn’t give her away.

“I’m looking for an American,” he said in Spanish. “A young, blond woman. Very attractive. Have you seen her?”

“I saw the Americanos go by here,” the shopkeeper replied. “They talk and laugh very loudly, but they don’t spend their money in here.” Her voice held a heavy note of regret. “Something for you perhaps?” she asked hopefully. “A gift for su esposa? Su amiga?”

“Nothing today,” he said curtly. “Gracias.”

When their voices fell silent, Melanie assumed he’d left the shop, but she didn’t want to press her luck. She remained behind the curtain for several minutes longer, then glancing around to make sure he’d gone, she carried the blouse to the shopkeeper and pulled some bills from her bag.

The old lady gave her a toothless smile of gratitude.

“Thank you for not giving me away,” Melanie said. She glanced around. “Could I ask another favor of you, por favor?”

“Sí.”

“Is there a back door I can use?”

“Sí, por aquí.” She got up and Melanie followed her to the back of the shop and down a grim little corridor that opened into a foul-smelling alley.

Stepping outside, Melanie glanced back at the woman who hovered in the doorway. “Muchas gracias.”

The woman nodded, her black eyes gleaming with an emotion Melanie couldn’t define. “That man, he is a bad one. A devil,” she said in halting English, then, crossing herself, lapsed back into Spanish. “Vaya con Dios.”

Melanie had no trouble making the translation. Go with God.

Chapter Three

A few minutes later, Melanie hurried into her room, bolted the door, then stood leaning against the frame as she closed her eyes and tried to catch her breath.

That had been close. Way too close.

But how long before Lassiter found her here?

And he would find her. In a place the size of Santa Elena, it would be easy to check all the hotels. Even if he didn’t yet know her name, he had a description of her. He might even be knocking on her door within the hour.

Question was, would he come alone or would he bring the police?

In hindsight perhaps the better option would have been to face him back at the clinic or at the café where witnesses were present. After all, what had she done that was so terrible? She’d stolen drugs to save a young girl’s life. Even if Jon Lassiter couldn’t appreciate the distinction between that and petty thievery, surely the authorities would.

But what if Lassiter, or even Kruger himself, wouldn’t let it go? What if they pressured the police to arrest her? Make an example of her? Spending the next twenty years in a Cartégan jail wasn’t Melanie’s idea of growing old gracefully, but then, there were ways out of almost any prison, as she well knew.

She could have used those ways to get away from Lassiter earlier, but she hadn’t wanted anyone on the street or the old lady in the shop to witness her vanishing act. Melanie had come to Santa Elena looking for answers, which meant she had to ask questions, and the last thing she needed was for the locals to become suspicious of her, let alone afraid of her.

She crossed the room and dragged her suitcase from the closet, but not to pack. Instead, she removed the stack of letters from inside, then lay down on the bed and propped herself against the headboard.

Plucking the top envelope from the packet, she stared at the handwriting. Her father’s handwriting, she now knew. The letter had been sent from Cartéga six months ago.

She didn’t open it because she didn’t have to. She knew the contents by heart.

…I want to see Melanie on her birthday. Tell her I’ll be waiting for her in the clouds…

Melanie didn’t recall much about her father—what he’d looked like or even the sound of his voice—and yet the meaning of his words had come to her instantly. And with it, a memory of the last time they’d been together.

Melanie had been five years old, small for her age, but adventurous even then. And impulsive. Already looking for that next thrill.

“Push me higher, Daddy!” They were in the backyard of their home on Long Island, testing out the new swing set she’d gotten for her birthday. “Higher!”

“You’re going high enough, Melly Belly,” her father had laughed. “If your mother could see you now, she’d have my head.”

Funny how Melanie could remember the conversation so vividly and yet she still couldn’t picture her father’s face. Couldn’t conjure up the sound of his voice no matter how hard she tried. Only his words came back to her.

“Higher!” she’d screamed. “I want to touch the clouds with my toes!”

“I know a place where you really can touch the clouds,” he’d told her.

“Take me there!”

“Someday I will.”

“Not someday. Tomorrow!”

“It’s a long way from here, in a little country called Cartéga. I’ve been reading about it. You have to go way up into the mountains to touch the clouds. We can’t go tomorrow, but we will soon. You and me and Mommy. We’ll all touch the clouds together.”

“Then push me higher,” Melanie demanded, “so I can touch that cloud right now!”

Presently, her father stopped pushing her, and Melanie leaned back so far to look at him that she almost tumbled from the swing. “Why did you stop?” she pouted.

“Careful, you’ll fall out,” he warned.

“No, I won’t.”

“Hard head,” he said affectionately. But there was a look in his eyes that made Melanie sad for some reason. “You think you’re invincible, don’t you.”

“I don’t know. I think I want you to push me some more.”

“I can’t. I have to go inside and…take care of some things.”

“What kind of things?”

“Work kind of things.” He knelt and placed his hands on her shoulders. “This trip we talked about. Let’s keep it a secret for now, okay? Don’t mention it to anyone.”

“Not even Mommy?”

A shadow flickered across his features. “No, not even Mommy. We’ll let it be a surprise. Right now, I have to go in and get some work done.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No. You stay outside and play. I won’t get anything done with you around.”

“But it’s no fun out here without you,” she protested.

“Sure it is. You just keep swinging. Pump your legs the way I taught you. That’s it.”

Melanie continued to swing after her father had gone inside, but her heart really wasn’t in it. She didn’t like being alone. She let the swing come to a stop, then lazily rocked herself back and forth with her toes.

After a bit, she began to have a strange feeling that she wasn’t alone. She looked up, hoping her father had come back outside, but instead, she saw that a man had entered through the back gate.

Even though the day was warm, he wore a long, dark coat and a hat pulled low over his eyes. Melanie had the impression he’d been watching her for several minutes, and her heart started to pound in fear. She didn’t like him watching her. He scared her. She wanted to get off the swing and run inside the house as fast as she could, but even if she could make her legs work, he blocked her path to the back door. So she sat on the swing, watching him watch her.

“Hello, Melanie,” he finally said.

His voice made creepy crawlies go up her spine. She clutched the chains of the swing.

“You need to come with me now,” he said, and Melanie shook her head. She wanted to scream for her father, but she couldn’t make her throat work, either. It was like having a bad dream with a monster coming for you and you couldn’t move.

The man walked slowly toward her. Her voice broke free then, and she screamed for her father. She screamed and screamed. “Daddy! Daddy!”

He didn’t come out of the house, though, and as the man moved even closer to her, Melanie suddenly realized that someone else had come up behind her. The second man grabbed her, and before she had time to struggle, he pressed a cloth over her mouth and nose.

And that was Melanie’s last memory until four years later.

She was sitting in that same swing, rocking herself to and fro and marveling at how easily she could touch the ground now. The back door opened, and Melanie looked up, hoping to see her father, but instead, her mother was the one who came out. At least, she thought it was her mother. She couldn’t actually remember what her mother looked like, but this woman…seemed like her mother.

The woman carried a trash bag over to one of the metal garbage cans and tossed it inside. As she turned back toward the house, she must have caught a glimpse of Melanie out of the corner of her eye. She did a double take. Stared for a moment. And then her hand flew to her heart.

“Melanie? Oh, my God…oh, my God…” She started running toward Melanie, but her legs gave out and she sank to her knees. She was screaming, crying, holding out her arms.

Melanie hesitated for just a split second, then she got off the swing and raced across the yard. Her mother grabbed her and squeezed her until she could hardly breathe.

“Oh, my baby,” her mother kept whispering over and over. “My baby, my baby!”

After a few moments, she held Melanie away from her so that she could look at her. She reached up to touch Melanie’s face, her hair. “You’re so tall! But it is you, isn’t it? Of course, it’s you.” Her gaze darkened as she glanced past Melanie. “But…how did you get here? Where have you been?”

Melanie didn’t know where she’d been or how she’d gotten back home. She didn’t know anything except that she wasn’t supposed to ask questions.

When she didn’t answer, her mother pulled her back into her arms and held on tightly. “It’s okay, baby. It doesn’t matter how you got here. Don’t even think about it. You’re home now and that’s all that matters.”

She led Melanie into the house, leaving her side only long enough to make a phone call and, a little while later, to answer the doorbell. A strange man came into the kitchen where Melanie sat eating a sandwich.

“Do you remember Dr. Collier, honey?” her mother asked anxiously. “He’s going to have a look at you, make sure you’re okay.”

The last thing Melanie wanted was to have a stranger poking and prodding her. But Dr. Collier was gentle and he didn’t do anything to upset her. Not too much, at least.

After he was finished, he motioned for Melanie’s mother to follow him out into the hallway. Melanie got up from the table and tiptoed across the room to listen at the door.

“Physically, she seems fine, but we need to take her to the hospital where she can have a thorough examination.”

“But you said she’s fine,” her mother protested.

“I said she seems to be fine. Janet, that child has been missing for four years. God only knows what she’s been through.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” her mother said softly. “Whoever had her has obviously taken good care of her. Her clothes are clean, and she looks healthy. I think someone saw her that day, a couple who couldn’t have a child of their own, perhaps, and they decided to take her. She was such a beautiful little girl, and always so beguiling. Remember how she was? Maybe their guilt finally got the better of them and they decided to bring her back to me.”

“If that’s the case, why can’t she remember them? Why can’t she answer even the simplest questions about her abductors?”

But it was as if her mother hadn’t heard him. “I’m sure they loved her very much.”

Dr. Collier didn’t say anything for a long moment, then in a low voice, “You have to call the police, you know.”

“The police—”

“Melanie was abducted. They’ll have to question her, find out what she knows about her kidnapper.”

“I don’t want to talk to the police.” Her mother started to cry again. “She’s come back to me. That’s all I care about.”

But the police did come later that day, and they talked to Melanie for a very long time. She couldn’t answer any of their questions. She couldn’t describe the men in the backyard that day. She didn’t know where they’d taken her, or what, if anything, they’d done to her. She didn’t know where she’d been for the past four years or how she’d finally gotten back home. She didn’t remember anything, not even her own face.

All she knew was that she wasn’t supposed to ask questions. Questions were forbidden.

It was late by the time the police finally left. Melanie’s mother led her back to her room and tucked her in bed. She sat on the edge, fussing with the covers as if she had to get them just right or Melanie wouldn’t be able to sleep.

“Mommy?”

Her mother put a hand to her mouth, as if overcome with emotion. Tears streamed down her face.

Melanie said contritely, “I’m sorry.”

“Oh, baby, you have nothing to be sorry about.”

“I’m sorry I made you cry.”

“These are happy tears. When you called me Mommy…it’s just been so long…I thought…” Her mother dried her eyes with the back of her hand. “It doesn’t matter what I thought. We’re together now, and that’s all that counts.”

She gathered Melanie into her arms and hugged her as if she would never let her go. When she finally did pull away, Melanie said softly, “Mommy, where’s Daddy?”

“Your daddy had to go away, honey.”

“Why?”

She bit her lip. “Because it made him too sad to stay here after you were gone.”

“Is he dead?” Melanie asked worriedly.

“No, he’s not dead. He just went somewhere far away from here.”

“Where?”

“Houston, I think. Do you know where that is?”

“Texas?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Her mother looked surprised that Melanie knew the answer.

“Why didn’t you go with him?” Melanie asked.

Her mother hesitated. “Because someone had to be here when you came back.”

Melanie thought about that. “Can he come home now?”

Her mother looked as if she was about to cry again. Melanie was suddenly sorry she’d asked about her father. “No, honey, he can’t come home. He’s…I don’t even know if he’s still in Houston. But wherever he is, I’m sure he’s fine.” She leaned down and kissed Melanie’s cheek. “Everything’s going to be okay, Melanie, I promise. I’ll take such good care of you from now on. When you wake up in the morning, I’ll fix you blueberry pancakes. That was always your favorite breakfast. Maybe later we’ll go to the zoo. Just the two of us.” Her voice broke as she smoothed her hand down Melanie’s hair. “Sleep now, my precious little girl, and when you wake up, it’ll be as if you never left.”

And her mother had tried very hard to make it so even when the police detective in charge of the case had implored her to seek professional help for Melanie. His advice had fallen on deaf ears.

“She’s not talking to a shrink,” her mother insisted. “I won’t put her through that.”

“Mrs. Stark, Melanie has been through a very traumatic experience. She’s blocked all memory of the time she was missing.”

“You seem to think that’s a bad thing,” her mother said. “I happen to think it’s a blessing. I’m glad she can’t remember what happened to her. I hope she never does.”

“But what if those memories come back to her someday? She won’t be prepared to cope—”

“I appreciate your concern, but I know what’s best for my daughter.”

And that had been the end of it. The last time Melanie had talked to the police about her abduction. She and her mother never spoke of it again, either. Her mother seemed convinced that if they pretended hard enough, those four years would just go away.

And for a while, that missing time did seem like nothing more than a bad dream. They sold the house on Long Island and moved to a little town in upstate New York. Melanie started back to school as if she’d never been absent a day, let alone four years. Wherever she’d been, she’d obviously been schooled. If anything, she was far ahead of her peers. She made new friends, played on a softball team, did all the things that normal nine-year-old girls do. On some level, she might even have been happy.

But at night, when she lay alone in her room or when she dreamed, that’s when the screams would come back to haunt her.

Melanie soon learned that putting her hands over her ears wouldn’t block the torment. Nothing would. But that didn’t stop her from trying. As she grew older, she experimented with new and increasingly destructive means to shut out the screams. There was a time during her teenage years when she’d been completely out of control.

But her mother still wouldn’t seek counselling for Melanie. She insisted that all Melanie needed was unconditional love, which she gave to her daughter in abundance. Through the truancy and all the wild parties and even rehab, her mother never judged, never scolded, never punished. If anything, she seemed to love Melanie even more.

Finally, after high school, things started to improve. In spite of her self-destructive behavior, Melanie had always excelled in her studies, and when she was accepted into a premed program at a local university, it seemed as if she’d finally gotten her life back on track. She even fell in love.

She and Andrew were inseparable all through college, but then, just weeks before graduation, he’d come to her and told her their relationship wasn’t working for him.

Melanie had been devastated. “Why?”

He gazed at her sadly. “Because what I see when I look into your eyes scares the hell out of me, Mel.”

Wounded, Melanie bit back her tears. “What do you see?”

He gave a helpless shrug. “Nothing. All I see in your eyes is emptiness.”

He’d walked out of her life that day, and just two weeks before getting her degree, Melanie had dropped out of school. For the next few years, she drifted from place to place, from job to job, from relationship to relationship.

And then six months ago, when her mother had died unexpectedly, Melanie had returned home to try to put their affairs in order. She’d come across the stack of letters while cleaning out her mother’s closet. They’d been stored in an old shoe box shoved to the farthest corner of the top shelf.

The first one had been sent from Houston more than twenty years ago. Melanie hadn’t recognized the handwriting on the envelope, and she’d hesitated to read through her mother’s personal correspondence. But then curiosity had gotten the better of her, and she’d opened the letters one by one, stunned to learn that they were all from her father. All these years, when Melanie hadn’t heard a word from him, he and her mother had kept in touch.

The early letters, written while she’d still been missing, had been outpourings of grief and guilt. Then later, after Melanie had returned, his letters took on a disturbing paranoia.

I’m sure the police are pressuring you to allow her to see a psychiatrist, but you have to remain strong. If Melanie remembers what happened to her, they’ll take her away again. And this time, they won’t let her come back.

She mustn’t remember, Janet. Melanie must never, ever remember….

As she’d read through those strange letters, Melanie had been bombarded with questions. Who were “they”? And why was her father’s fear so great that he wouldn’t even come to see her?

Nine years after Melanie’s return, the letters had stopped, leaving a ten-year gap in the correspondence. The final one had been posted from San Cristóbal, Cartéga just weeks before her mother’s death, but something seemed to be missing in the exchange, leaving Melanie to wonder if perhaps her parents had had some other form of communication in the years between the letters.

Her father now seemed to be pleading for a chance to see Melanie.

I know you don’t agree, Janet, you’ve made your position perfectly clear. But I think it’s time Melanie and I meet. She’s had such an unhappy, troubled life. I think I can help her.

Our daughter will be twenty-eight in August. A grown woman. Old enough, surely, to make her own decision about this.

If you decide to let her come—and I pray that you will—I should probably have you warn her that she won’t recognize me. Neither would you. I had my appearance altered a long time ago, but even more than the surgery, the years away from you and Melanie have taken a toll.

I can’t tell you what it would mean to me to see her again, to have one last chance to tell her how much I love her, how much I’ve always loved her. And how very sorry I am for my part in what happened to her. My guilt is a hell I live with every day of my life. Please give me this one last chance for redemption.

I want to see her, Janet. I want to see Melanie on her birthday. Tell her I’ll be waiting for her in the clouds.

Melanie rose from the bed and put the letters back in the suitcase. Shutting and locking the lid, she shoved the case back into the closet, then walked over to the window to stare out at the twilight.

It was stuffy inside the room. She opened the door for a moment, letting in a fragrant breeze, but she didn’t step out on the balcony. She was careful to remain in the shadows as she gazed down at the street.

Gooseflesh prickled along her arms, although the evening was mild. Perhaps it was the tears drying on her face that made her cold. Or the loneliness that suddenly engulfed her.

I can’t tell you what it would mean to me to see her again, to have one last chance to tell her how much I love her, how much I’ve always loved her. And how very sorry I am for my part in what happened to her.

His part in what had happened to her. His part.

What had he meant by that? Did his guilt stem from a father’s inability to protect his daughter? From the fact that if he’d stayed outside with her as she’d begged, she wouldn’t have been taken?

Or was his remorse the result of something far more sinister?

Had he been a party to her abduction? Did he know who had taken her and why? Had he known for those four years where she was and what was happening to her?

Did he know what they’d done to her?

Melanie had no idea of the answer to any of those questions, but she knew she had to find her father and confront him. She had to ask him point-blank why he felt so guilty. She had to make him look her in the eye when he told her the truth.

Then she would know.

And all those years of running and hiding and trying to block out the screams would finally be over.

Chapter Four

She wasn’t a natural blonde.

That little detail was oddly telling to Lassiter, because it was yet one more piece of evidence that Melanie Stark had secrets. Dark ones. And her real hair color was the least of them.

He stood at the foot of the bed gazing down at her. Light streaming in through the balcony window glimmered off the gold streaks in her hair and made her skin look soft and pale.

And he could see a great deal of skin. She’d kicked off the covers in her sleep, and she lay on the sheet in nothing but a light-blue tank top and white silk panties.

Even in her sleep, she looked like trouble.

There was an air of recklessness about her. A hint of hedonism.

Lassiter had nothing against hedonism, particularly in a woman who looked like Melanie Stark. Not that she was especially beautiful. Her features were too imperfect—even apart from the telltale dark roots—for that. Eyes that were a little too widely set, a nose that was slightly off center.

But her lips, easily her best feature, were lush and tempting, and her body…

He drew a sharp breath as his gaze moved over her. The body, he had to admit, came pretty damn close to perfection. Either she had great genes or she’d been giving her gym membership one hell of a workout. She looked entirely capable of handling herself both in bed and out. Not exactly the type of girl you took home to Mother, but Lassiter’s plans for Melanie Stark didn’t include a trip back home to Mississippi, anyway.

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