A large, dark figure slipped into the cabin

Kate forced back the surge of panic and gripped her makeshift club tighter. His movements, silent and deliberate as he maneuvered through the room, reminded her of a stalking panther. She searched the silhouette for a weapon, but he had none. A flicker of déjà vu swept through her. Only one person moved like that. And he was the last person she wanted to see.

Let me be wrong. Let it be a hit man on my back.

“Roman?” Kate gasped. Her mind refused to believe what her heart now recognized. Roman leaned close, putting his face inches from hers. His sharp, stony features were barely visible in the darkness. But it didn’t matter.

At one time, Kate had cherished every angle, every plane….

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

As we ring in a new year, we have another great month of mystery and suspense coupled with steamy passion.

Here are some juicy highlights from our six-book lineup:

 Julie Miller launches a new series, THE PRECINCT, beginning with Partner-Protector. These books revolve around the rugged Fourth Precinct lawmen of Kansas City whom you first fell in love with in the TAYLOR CLAN series!

 Rocky Mountain Mystery marks the beginning of Cassie Miles’s riveting new trilogy, COLORADO CRIME CONSULTANTS, about a network of private citizens who volunteer their expertise in solving criminal investigations.

 Those popular TOP SECRET BABIES return to our lineup for the next four months!

 Gothic-inspired tales continue in our spine-tingling ECLIPSE promotion.

And don’t forget to look for Debra Webb’s special Signature Spotlight title this month: Dying To Play.

Hopefully we’ve whetted your appetite for January’s thrilling lineup. And be sure to check back every month to satisfy your craving for outstanding suspense reading.

Enjoy!

Denise O’Sullivan

Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

Bodyguard Rescue
Donna Young

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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For Matthew, Cameron and Lauren

The loves of my life

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Donna Young, an incurable romantic, lives in beautiful Northern California with her husband and two children.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Roman D’Amato— As a government operative, he is assigned one mission: to protect the one woman he’s ever loved—or kill her. Whichever proves most necessary.

Kate MacAlister— A world-leading antimatter research scientist. Her recent development of a new energy source could revolutionize the planet—or destroy it.

Nigel Threader— Underworld arms merchant who wants the formula from Kate—and much, much more. No matter the cost.

Cain MacAlister— Kate’s eldest brother, Roman’s Black Ops partner, and a man with zero tolerance when someone threatens his family.

Ian MacAlister— Kate’s older brother, a Navy SEAL with a reputation for getting the job done—whatever it takes.

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 Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter One

The screams sought him in the darkness where he was the most vulnerable. Sinking further into the shrouded layers of fatigue, he let the murkiness surround him. Maybe this time the shadows would provide refuge. Maybe this time she’d leave him in peace.

Instead the tortured wails followed him, penetrating his sanctuary, their pitch growing maniacal as she pursued him. Didn’t she realize he couldn’t save her? Not now. Not ever.

Taunting his cowardice, the screams became deafening, demanding his presence. Their razor-sharp edges sliced through the darkness and forced him away from the protective shadows.

She appeared at the edge where light and dark blended into a misty vapor. Her features, contorted in anguish, softened when she recognized him.

“Help me,” she pleaded, her cries turning to whimpers.

The image grew clearer as the shadows receded. Her face, once exotic in its beauty, loomed before him now slashed and bloody. Her naked body, broken and mangled. Eyes, black as midnight, reflected the tortured spirit lying beneath.

“Kill me,” she begged as her hands clawed at him, smearing his chest with blood. “Please.”

“No.” His own scream wrenched through the air, its rawness jarring him from his sleep. His eyes flew open and he expected to see her body lying next to his, but only the smell of her blood followed him back into reality. The metallic scent lingered in his nostrils, mixing with the sour odor of his sweat and the staleness of the cabin. His stomach heaved in protest.

“Damn.” Roman D’Amato swung his legs over the edge of the berth and pressed the heels of his hands against his temples. The sledgehammer inside his skull eased into a rhythmic throb.

He’d made the wrong choice. If the nightmares were the punishment, so be it. Lord knew he deserved worse, much worse.

He grabbed a cigarette from the nightstand and shoved it between his teeth, ignoring the slight tremor in his hand when he lit up. The first drag was long and deep, allowing him to savor the taste while it filled his lungs. He waited until the burning pressure in his chest forced him to exhale, then slowly he blew the smoke out, letting it swirl around his head.

The scent of Amanda’s blood faded.

Roman fell back onto the bunk and covered his eyes with his forearm. Before long, the even rocking of the boat and the nicotine soothed him. He’d bought the cabin cruiser a few years back to escape. Its long, sleek lines and comforting rhythm drew his soul like a magnet. Still, the boat couldn’t save Roman from his demons or the punishment they bestowed. Nothing could.

It didn’t matter, he mused. He wanted retribution, not salvation. The timing wasn’t right, though, not yet.

But soon. Very soon.

A black heat pulsed in his blood, burning with revenge.

For Amanda. For himself.

The shrill ring of the telephone jolted him out of his thoughts. He grabbed the clock from the nightstand, then dropped it onto the cabin floor in disgust. Nine in the morning. Only three hours of sleep.

He got up from the bed, not bothering to put his shorts on, and walked naked to the desk where he’d tossed his cell phone. Only one person had his number, and that person would have only one reason to use it.

Automatically activating the scrambler, he answered on the fourth ring. “Yeah.” Roman saw no need for niceties since the man on the other end of the line was Jonathon Mercer, Director of Labyrinth, an elite branch of the CIA.

“I’ve just canceled your vacation, D’Amato.” Mercer didn’t believe in polite conversation, either. In their business, it was a waste of time. “We have a situation.”

Roman laughed, and acid burned his throat. There were always situations. He’d been a specialist too long to believe otherwise.

“I’m unavailable, Mercer. Get someone else.” He bit out the words, not caring if it cost him his career. Hell, maybe it was time to retire, anyway.

“Damn it, there isn’t anyone else,” came the impatient reply. “Kate MacAlister walked out of Las Mesas and disappeared.”

“What do you mean she disappeared?” Dread raked his gut. Cold and razor sharp.

“Exactly that,” the director admitted irritably.

There was a short, tense pause while Roman swallowed an obscenity. At the mention of Kate’s name, his reputed control always vanished. A truth he’d never been able to escape.

“I’m listening,” Roman ground out, his voice tight. He reached for another cigarette. The Las Mesas Institute was a nuclear laboratory located in southern New Mexico. Their security measures were the most advanced in the country. Impenetrable. The way Roman had designed them to be.

“A few months ago, Dr. MacAlister made a breakthrough on her antimatter energy research,” Mercer replied gruffly. “It appears she found a way to capture the energy created when antimatter particles collide with normal matter.”

Familiar with Kate’s theory, he wasn’t surprised she’d succeeded in proving it. Besides being Las Mesas’s top physicist, the woman was a certified genius, having gotten her doctorate in both computer science and physics by the age of nineteen.

“Last night, shortly before midnight, she ran a program at the lab, destroying all her research data. Then she left.”

“It doesn’t make sense.” Roman frowned. “The antimatter research was her baby, had been for the past five years.”

“Still, her disappearance was triggered by a phone call she received at the lab.” After a pause, Mercer continued, “We’ve reason to believe it was Marcus Boyd, her associate on the project.”

Roman remembered meeting Dr. Boyd at some award banquet held in Kate’s honor. The man had reminded him of an old mouse, slight in stature with a nervous disposition. He also remembered Kate’s disapproving look when he’d casually offered the timid man some cheese from the buffet table.

Mercer interrupted Roman’s thoughts. “We suspect she’s hiding but can’t verify it without tipping off the domestics.”

Domestics meant FBI and the local police. Labyrinth tended to avoid contact with them for security purposes.

Roman swore and pressed his fingers to his eyes, where the rhythmic throbbing metamorphosed once again into a sledgehammer. The woman had more brains than she had common sense. “I’m still listening, Mercer, but so far you haven’t explained why the doc went into hiding.” Roman grabbed the aspirin bottle from the desk drawer and swallowed four tablets dry as Kate’s image flashed before him. The long, black hair, the startling gray eyes, the delicate lines of her face.

When he got hold of her, he’d wring her beautiful neck.

“Copies of Dr. MacAlister’s latest research notes have surfaced among some of the world’s leading arms dealers.” Mercer’s voice hardened. “Specific handwritten notes only someone working closely with her would have access to.”

“Boyd,” Roman supplied. The doc had been set up.

“He was the most logical suspect,” Mercer agreed, “but it’s going to be damn hard to confirm our suspicions— Boyd’s dead.” Roman smashed his cigarette between his fingers then threw the remains into a half-eaten bowl of cereal he’d left on the desk the night before. The little fool, she put herself in harm’s way the moment she destroyed her research. Even if Boyd wasn’t selling her work, someone was. It was only a matter of time before whoever killed Boyd went after her.

“What do you have that’s concrete?”

“Not much,” Mercer responded, echoing Roman’s frustration. “A short while ago she contacted Cain’s office from a pay phone in Raton, New Mexico. We assumed she couldn’t get a signal on her cell phone and took a chance on being traced.” Mercer grunted. “Which we did, of course. She hung up after Cain’s secretary told her he was out of town.”

Roman rubbed his face, barely noticing the whiskers that scraped his palm. Cain was Kate’s oldest brother, Roman’s most trusted friend and one of the Agency’s top operatives.

“He’s overseas,” Mercer confirmed. “Too deep undercover to reach. Hell, even if I could manage it somehow, I wouldn’t.”

Roman understood. If Cain found out about Kate while on an operation, the distraction might prove fatal.

Looking out the porthole, Roman squinted at the sun glaring over Chesapeake Bay. Kate was out there somewhere, alone and in danger, and he wasn’t sure he could get to her in time.

Mercer continued, unaware of the emotional turmoil Roman fought to keep in check. “She doesn’t know the good guys from the bad guys.”

“She knows me.” The words were clipped, the control back.

“Exactly.”

Would she trust him? Roman was grateful the doc didn’t like guns, because if she did, she would probably shoot him on sight. No, she wouldn’t trust him, at least not at first. He would have to gain her confidence somehow.

Mercer’s tone grew speculative. “Raton is on the Colorado-New Mexico border. We’re assuming she headed north for Denver.”

Cain’s cabin. The ever-logical doc was heading for her brother’s cabin just outside of Aspen, Colorado. A secret hideaway he had shared only with his family and his best friend.

“I’ll find her.” Roman kept his voice even, but his mind raced, already making plans to reach Kate by nightfall.

“Let’s hope so,” came the reluctant response. “It’s one reason why I need you on this. You know her as well as her family—maybe better.”

“She’s hiding, waiting for Cain.” He didn’t even consider the possibility she would sell the data to save her life.

“That’s what I figured,” the older man answered. “She doesn’t know either of you are operatives, which means she’s hoping her big brother knows someone trustworthy in the government.”

Roman silently agreed. As far as Kate was concerned, Cain owned MacAlister Security, a successful international security company. Roman preferred to keep it that way.

“What about Ian?” he asked. Ian MacAlister, Kate’s other brother, was a Navy SEAL team leader stationed in Virginia.

“I called in a favor. He’s been shipped out to the South Atlantic with his team on training maneuvers.” Roman detected grimness in Mercer’s tone. “The man is a loose cannon. I don’t want him finding out about her disappearance until it’s too late. There’s no telling what the idiot might do.”

Roman knew. Ian’s rage would be uncontrollable. Then again, so would Cain’s. But that was Mercer’s problem.

“Her parents?”

“They’re in Scotland. Left a week ago and aren’t due back for a few more. A combined business and pleasure trip.”

Roman frowned. It didn’t give him much time. Even Mercer couldn’t keep something this serious under wraps for long. It was bad enough she was a world-respected scientist, but the fact she was also an heir to the MacAlister fortune made for big news. Once Kate’s disappearance became public, her parents would be on the next Concorde home, complicating matters. Quentin “Mac” MacAlister had his own way of solving problems.

“You said my knowing her was one of the reasons you called me. What’s the other?” he asked, impatient now to get to her. He imagined her holed up in a cabin in the mountains. She hated the mountains almost as much as she hated him. It wouldn’t stop her, though. She would wait there until she could contact Cain.

“My people found Boyd tied, hanging by his fingers to his basement rafters. From the looks of the photos, the guy was tortured then mutilated.” Roman heard the shuffling of papers. “I received a copy of the coroner’s preliminary report. Says here Boyd bled to death. Primary weapon used—surgical scalpel. The victim showed signs of acid burns, blunt trauma with multiple fractures and dislocations.”

“Hell,” Mercer said in a tone tinged with hatred. “This could be Amanda’s file, the technique is that similar.”

Images of Amanda’s broken body flashed through Roman’s mind. A cold chill gripped his insides.

“Nigel Threader,” he stated with barely restrained savagery, then pushed the images away. For now.

“That’s what we suspect. However—” he emphasized the word before Roman could interrupt “—we’re not positive. And since you know more about the bastard than his own mother does, you’re Dr. MacAlister’s best bet for staying alive.”

“He’ll go after her,” Roman said flatly, his gaze drawn to a thin pink scar on the back of his hand. He had no doubt that Threader wanted Kate. Flexing his fingers to relieve a phantom ache, he considered the arms dealer’s actions. Threader might be a sick bastard, but he was a brilliant strategist.

“If it’s him, he’s already looking for her,” Mercer agreed, then paused. “My boys got to Boyd just before he died. But he only lived long enough to warn us that Kate was in danger. We didn’t get any names.”

Mercer continued, his voice holding a note of impatience. “Another thing. Someone’s investigating the MacAlister family. We haven’t found the tie-in yet, and whoever it is hasn’t left much of a trail. Could be Threader, could be anybody.”

“It’s Threader.” A bitter certainty cemented Roman’s tone.

There was another pause, this time longer, before the director said his next words carefully. “I’m not wasting my breath with lectures about the dangers of taking missions personally. You’d tell me to go to hell, anyway. But I am going to tell you this—under no circumstance can he or anyone else get that formula, D’Amato. Is that clear? If you can’t save her—”

“I know.” Roman interrupted, not wanting Mercer to finish the order. If he couldn’t get her back safe, killing her himself would be the only alternative, more humane than what waited for her at the hands of a psychopath like Threader.

Even so, Kate’s quick death would be secondary to Roman’s true mission. If he failed to rescue her, he would have to kill her simply because she was the last known source of information on a weapon ten times more powerful than the hydrogen bomb.

It didn’t matter Kate was the only woman he’d ever loved. It didn’t matter he’d already betrayed that love once to keep her safe. What mattered was that millions of people could die at the hands of a madman.

Roman ran his hand through his hair and gave it a vicious yank. Another one of his nightmares had just become a reality.

Chapter Two

They’d found her.

Tossing off the quilt, Kate MacAlister slid from the cushions onto her hands and knees, letting the overstuffed sofa shield her from the front window.

How they’d found her so quickly, she would figure out later. If she lived.

She heard no sound, spotted no movement, but she sensed the threat nonetheless.

Her father would insist her Celt blood hummed the warning. Pure and blessed, it was. A gift passed down from their ancestors to a chosen few, he would say.

A few that included Quentin MacAlister’s offspring.

Whatever it was, remained a mystery to Kate. Yet she learned long ago to accept the warnings, to trust them—just as her brothers did.

So when the fine hair on the back of her neck started to do a tap dance down her spine, it meant only one thing.

Time to move.

Blinking hard, she forced her eyes to adjust to the darkness that enveloped the cabin, keeping her panic at bay while things shifted into decipherable patterns. A solitary light glimmered from across the room as a few embers burned in the fireplace, their dim orange glow barely distinguishable.

She concentrated on filtering out the noises of the night, straining to hear her enemies, waiting for confirmation on what her sixth sense already understood. They were close.

Staying crouched below the back of the couch, Kate pushed the sofa pillows under the covers, then crawled across the room, army-style, her body tight to the floor. Her brother’s dark jersey blended well with the night, although it did little to protect her from the icy dampness of the hard wood. Tremors rippled through her, but from cold or fear Kate wasn’t sure.

Please God, just a few more seconds.

At the wood box by the door, she paused no more than a heartbeat, grabbed a slim log and inched up the wall before shrinking into the shadows.

Blood pounded in her eardrums, its rhythm matching the fierce tempo of her heart. She wanted to claw at her ears to make it stop. Instead she made herself take a deep, calming breath. After the second breath, the hammering eased, yet the terror remained, cloaking her like a damp wool blanket.

Soundlessly the door opened and a large, dark figure slipped into the cabin. She forced back a surge of panic and gripped the makeshift club tighter, disregarding the rough bark as it dug into her palms.

What if there was more than one? How far would they go to get the formula?

Stepping deeper into the shadows, she held her breath when the man’s shape passed within a few feet of her. His movements, silent and deliberate as he maneuvered through the room, reminded Kate of a stalking panther.

Or a professional hit man.

She searched his silhouette for a weapon.

He had none. No gun, no knife, not even a rope. His hands hung indifferently at his sides, empty.

Anger exploded in her head, destroying the knot of fear in her belly.

Why did she think he would bother with a weapon? After all, he probably thought she was an easy target. Some egghead doctor he could knock off with his bare hands. Some weak-kneed nonentity who would die because she had no backbone.

She glared at the man as he circled the room, obviously searching for her computer, unaware of the wrath he left in his wake. He wouldn’t find it—ever. She’d worked too hard on her research to let it drop into undesirable hands.

Kate relaxed her muscles, then rolled her weight to the balls of her feet, offering up a brief prayer of thanks for her brother Ian’s insistence on teaching her the rudiments of self-defense. Using the shadows to cloak her movements, she slowly raised her makeshift club, then waited—and watched.

This egghead doctor is going to knock you clear into Christmas, pal. Then you can go back and tell your boss to forget about his plans for the formula.

With his back toward her, the man paused at the couch. She drew in a deep breath as he reached for the covers concealing the decoy. When he grabbed the quilt, Kate lunged. She swung the log hard, intent on striking the back of his head, only to have it disappear in an inky blur before she felt any impact.

Twisting away, he caught the wood with one hand and jerked it from her grasp. In an instant he grabbed her and sent her flying over the couch like a bag of garbage. Her back hit the floor, cutting her scream off with a whoosh.

She bit back the pain that exploded across her shoulder blades and rolled away from the couch, using the momentum to scramble to her feet. The man dived over the furniture, missing her by mere inches. A whimper of terror tore from her lips when she bolted toward the door, her lone chance for escape.

Suddenly a hand snaked out and caught her ankle in a viselike grip, slamming Kate to the floor, chest first. Before she could recover, he was on her back, straddling her waist and locking her hands behind her.

Enraged and frightened, she thrashed about, fighting the inevitable, her body heaving and kicking, trying in desperation to buck him loose.

“Enough.” The command cracked through the room. Its echo bounced sharply off the wall, making Kate cringe.

Exhausted and near collapse, she stopped struggling to lie still on the floor.

“Get off me.” The low, guttural words exploded from her as she tried to gulp in oxygen while his weight crushed her lungs.

“No way, Doc.” The fact he was speaking softly didn’t lessen the fury behind the tone. “Not before I get some answers. Capisce?”

A flicker of déjà vu swept through her. Only one person owned a voice like that, husky and warm like her father’s favorite scotch. He was the only person who got away with calling her that name. And the last person she wanted to see.

God, let me be wrong. Let it be a hit man on my back.

Deftly he flipped her over and snagged her hands above her head. His body straddled hers in a position far more intimate than before, one her body was achingly familiar with.

“Roman?” she gasped, her mind refusing to believe what her heart now recognized.

He leaned down, putting his face inches from hers. His sharp, stony features were barely visible in the darkness, still it didn’t matter. At one time Kate cherished every angle, every plane, every…

“I’m waiting,” he said, the impatience slicing through her thoughts.

His tone sent a shock wave of old memories sweeping through Kate’s body—memories that aroused, then infuriated. He’s waiting.

So what? She’d been waiting for two years, since the morning she woke up and found herself alone. No note, no explanation—nothing.

Kate tried to laugh, but the sound was so weak it came closer to a sob. “Go to hell, D’Amato.”

“I’m already there, Doc.” He laughed, too, the savagery in it making her stomach lurch. “So your suggestion is pointless.”

“I…” Kate stopped as a wave of nausea rolled through her. Bile rose to the back of her throat and she gulped in order to keep it down.

“Roman,” she whispered, the panic evident while she struggled for control. “Please.” With a snap, the dam burst down at the base of her spine and wave after wave of anxiety flooded her body. Oh God, oh God. Not a panic attack. Not now.

“Let…me…go!” She screamed, her voice, thin and high with hysteria as she tried to break free of his suffocating hold. She was shaking violently now, almost convulsively, her hands and feet ice-cold. If she could reach the couch, she could curl up into a ball until the worst passed.

Evidently Roman was way ahead of her. He tightened his grip and lifted her into his arms, then headed for the couch.

“It’s okay, Doc. Just hold on,” he coaxed while he laid her across his lap. His unbreakable but oddly gentle grip pinned her to his body. “Let me help.”

At first Kate ignored the words he crooned in her ear. Time held no meaning while she dealt with the emotional turmoil within her. It didn’t take long before her body, already weakened from the past twenty-four hours, gave out. Gut-wrenching sobs racked her, draining what little strength she had, finally, mercifully leaving her purged but exhausted.

She turned into Roman’s chest and buried her face into the sturdy column of his neck, instinctively searching for a warm refuge from her fears. Under her lips, she could feel his pulse, strong and reassuringly steady. Kate moved her fingers over his heart trying to absorb its solid rhythm.

Roman caressed her back. The strokes felt tender and soothing while he continued to murmur soft, unintelligible words into her hair.

Gradually she drifted back to reality drawn by his voice, its husky timbre vibrating against her face. She could feel dampness on her cheek and realized it was from her own tears. How are you going to explain this, MacAlister?

Kate didn’t want to think about explanations or make any decisions, so she pushed the question away. She’d forgotten how comforting it was to be held in a man’s arms, in Roman’s arms.

Strange how it had always been that way. From the first time they’d held each other to the last time, Kate had responded to Roman on more than just a physical level. From the moment their souls connected, she was lost. She’d never wanted another lover after he’d left because she knew deep down no man would ever reach her as he did.

“Thank you,” she murmured. Then, unable to stop herself, she moved her mouth softly against his neck, relishing the familiar musky taste of him on her lips.

A soft hiss brushed past her ear, and his body tightened against hers. He cupped the back of her neck, bringing her face up. His warm breath fanned her lips in a light caress. A shiver of desire skittered down her spine. She squashed the feeling of betrayal that threatened to surface and closed her eyes in anticipation of his kiss, her mouth parting with an eagerness that surprised her.

A muttered “hell” was the only warning she got before he slid her from his lap onto the cushions of the couch. She blinked, stunned, as he wrapped her in the discarded quilt and stood.

“Try to relax, Doc. I’m going to stoke the fire, then find us something hot to drink—or if I’m lucky, something strong.” She tried not to blanch at the coolness in his voice. It was apparent the man was not happy to see her again.

The sharp sting of humiliation traveled down to the core of her being, but thankfully she was too numb to care.

Almost.

KATE GAZED into the fireplace, watching the flames lick greedily around the new logs Roman had tossed there. She tucked her bare feet under the quilt as a shiver danced over her. Even with the extra fuel, the fire did not drive away the coldness seeping into her bones.

The wind howled outside the cabin, and its agitation echoed her unease. Ignoring Roman’s order to rest, she draped the quilt over her shoulders and forced herself off the couch toward the window. He wouldn’t be happy, but she didn’t care. While the panic attack had left her feeling drugged and unstable, she refused to succumb to the aftereffects. Experience had taught her that immobility only delayed her recovery.

Her legs wobbled but supported her well enough to get her across the room. Once there she peered into the pitch-black beyond the cabin, careful to remain concealed behind the slightly parted denim curtains. How much time did she have before they found her? Were they out there now, watching, waiting?

The faint clatter of pans reached her from the kitchen, and reminded Kate of her unwanted company. What was Roman D’Amato doing here? More important, how was she going to get rid of him? Or did she want to? As much as she disliked the man, she wasn’t sure she dared risk his safety. She sighed and adjusted the edges of the curtains together. Placing another human being in jeopardy, even a questionable one like D’Amato, went against her nature.

She hugged her arms tight to her chest, knowing she wasn’t in any shape to do any more strategizing tonight. Under the quilt she rubbed her arms with her hands. In the few minutes by the window, the tremors had stopped, leaving her legs feeling quite a bit steadier, but the iciness still lingered deep within her joints. It would, she was sure, until her nightmare ended.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Kate stiffened at the militant tone. He’d missed his calling when he’d chosen computer consulting over the Navy as a career. Well, she wasn’t a subordinate he could order about. Relaxing her features, she planted a wide smile on her stiff lips and swung around.

“Looking outside,” she said, being deliberately obtuse.

The light from the kitchen flooded the living room, allowing her to see every harsh, irritated angle of his face. Her smile almost faltered.

Up to an hour ago no one had ever seen her fall apart, not even her family. She would be damned if she let it happen again.

Roman walked toward the couch, a coffee mug in his hand, his eyes narrowing as they took in every detail. The dark brown of his irises reminded her of tarnished copper, flecked and ringed with gold she knew turned molten amber with anger or desire.

Now they glinted with suppressed annoyance.

“You look like hell, Doc.” Deftly he placed the mug on the end table, and in two strides he was standing in front of her.

She had a good idea what she looked like. She’d caught a glimpse of her image in the rearview mirror of her sports car, right before she deliberately drove it into a ravine. The dark smudges. The pale skin. “Thanks, I wish I could return the compliment,” she retorted, not trying to hide her sarcasm.

Almost forty, Roman was in better physical condition than most males half his age. The man oozed masculinity, not that it surprised her. His broad shoulders, well defined under his dark T-shirt, tapered to a lean, narrow waist. A worn pair of blue jeans sheathed his muscular thighs. Her eyes followed the snug fit, setting off a heat in Kate’s stomach. Uncomfortable, she forced her gaze back to his face.

He kept his dark, curling hair longer then she remembered, with the ends brushing casually against his shirt collar. The thick mane now showed signs of silver shimmering in its depths, but instead of detracting from his looks, it added to the rugged hardness of his features.

Distracted, she missed the determination reflected in those same features until it was too late. Before she realized his intention, she was off the floor and against his chest.

“Stupido,” he muttered over her head.

Stupid. Nobody called her stupid. She tried to escape his iron grip, but the covers acted as a cocoon, thwarting her attempts. Furious, she resorted to verbal abuse, calling him every vile name she’d learned from her brothers over the years.

“Shut up.” The words were clipped, their sting sharp enough to cause her to flinch. “I can’t believe you kiss your mother with that mouth.” He dumped her onto the couch and stood away, his hands on his hips. “When’s the last time you ate?”

She blinked. Ate? When was the last time she ate? Long before the phone call from Marcus…

“Never mind.” He let out a sigh and shoved the cup toward her, forcing Kate to drop the quilt to grab it. The warmth from the ceramic felt good against her cold hands.

“Drink.” He squatted in front of her. “It’s canned, but it’ll do.”

Irritated, she hastily sipped the warm broth, not really tasting it. “I’m—”

“All of it,” he commanded, placing his hands over hers before lifting the mug to her lips again. Inwardly seething over his high-handed approach but afraid he would notice her hand trembling beneath his, Kate drank most of the soup in one gulp.

It slid down easily. So easily in fact, she disregarded the vague, bitter taste it left behind on her tongue. Vegetable. She should have guessed. Cain was addicted to vegetable soup.

The warmth filled her stomach, then slowly mushroomed through her body, diminishing some of the hollowness and leaving her strangely comforted. She smothered a yawn.

With a soft grunt of satisfaction, Roman stepped away. He took the iron poker and stoked the fire. “What are you doing here, Doc?” he asked, glancing her way.

She paused, just a fraction. The lift of his eyebrow indicated he saw her hesitation. The man was too perceptive. With a shrug, she managed to say, “Taking a break from work.”

Roman regarded her, his gaze burrowing into hers. Seconds ticked away while Kate, refusing to fill the uncomfortable silence, waited with what she hoped was a blank look. He could wait until the next ice age as far as she was concerned. It didn’t matter Cain trusted this man. It didn’t matter that her parents loved him. She wouldn’t. Ever.

“Let’s try again.” He returned the iron to its stand and leaned against the fireplace brick. “What are you doing here?”

She wasn’t fooled. His tone was friendly, even mildly pleasant, but the man was angry. Not seething, but infuriated enough to harden his jaw. Why?

“I’m on vacation,” she replied, shocked at how easily the lie slipped over her tongue. “I wanted time to myself and decided to use my brother’s cabin. When I called Cain, his secretary said he was out of town indefinitely.” She waved a hand in the air. “Some overseas business complication.”

“So you decided to come anyway, is that it?”

Kate glared down the censure in his eyes. “That’s it.”

“What about the attack?”

“What about it?” she returned, covering the defensiveness by setting her mug on the end table and gathering the covers around her. “My nerves are shot from working too hard, and I certainly didn’t expect to be scared out of my mind by you creeping around.” She eyed him shrewdly. “What’s your story?”

“The same, it appears. Cain loaned me the cabin because I wanted to relax and do some fishing, since I’m in between projects.” One shoulder rose in a negligent motion. “I thought you were some local kids trying a hand at vandalism.”

“Quite a coincidence,” she murmured. What were the odds? It went against her nature as a scientist to believe in coincidences.

“That would explain how you opened the locked door so easily. Cain must’ve given you his key. I took the spare from under the porch.” She frowned. “When did you talk to my brother?”

“A few days ago,” he said, then changed the subject. “It still doesn’t make sense.”

A sharp thwack sounded against the outside wall of the cabin and Kate jumped. Cautiously, Roman straightened from the hearth and lifted the curtain. Kate watched in tense silence as he studied the outside, a short prayer whispering through her mind. A second thump sent a small cry of alarm from her lips. “Roman.”

He let the curtain drop back into place. “It’s just a tree branch, Doc.” As he spoke, he started toward her. “But this proves my point. We both know you’re more of the moonlit-beach, soft-breeze and Calypso-band type. So why choose the wilderness?”

Because it was the safest place to hide. “Because I wanted a complete change.” Uncomfortable with his prodding, she decided to switch the subject. “What makes you an expert on my likes and dislikes?” she quipped. He was right, of course. She would’ve traded anything to be lounging dreamily on a nice, flat beach right now, free of her nightmare. Trade anything, that is, except millions of innocent lives.

“I know you.” Leaning over, he placed one long finger under her chin and tipped her face up toward his. “Better than you know yourself.”

There was a time when that was true, right before he’d gotten bored with their relationship. She was a different person now, mostly because of him. “Be careful, D’Amato, your arrogance is showing.” She jerked her head away and was immediately sorry when the movement made her light-headed. “You might’ve known me two years ago, but times change and so do people.”

“Yes, people change. Just not you.”

Another insult. Scottish pride stiffened her spine. “Don’t assume that because we were once—” She groped for the word, but her mind fumbled.

“Lovers?” He inserted, his voice dipping huskily.

“Close,” she corrected. At one time, the possessiveness in his voice would have liquefied her insides, now it raised her defenses. She tried to slide toward the end of the couch to put some distance between them, but her body suddenly felt denser than lead, making her movements cumbersome.

As he watched her retreat, amusement glinted in his eyes. “‘Close’ or not, I understand you. And you wouldn’t be caught dead in the wild unless you had no other choice.”

He sat down beside her, successfully pinning her between him and the arm of the couch. He gathered her close, ignoring the stiff resistance of her body.

“Let me help you.”

“Help me?” Awareness rippled through her as the warmth of his body seeped inside the quilt, increasing the lethargic haze that had settled over her. She shook her head to clear her mind, but the dizziness continued to assail her, muddling her thoughts.

“If I did need help—which I don’t—you would be the last person I would turn to.” She emphasized each word by trying to poke her finger into his chest.

He started to say something, then changed his mind. Abruptly he released his hold and leaned back into the cushions. “I’m not going to rehash the past with you. I admit I could have handled the situation a little better.”

“A little better?” She bumped him with her elbow and snorted. Not very ladylike, but she didn’t care. “Even King Kong treated his woman better.”

He responded in Italian, a habit he had when he was angry, but she ignored him. She was fluent in five languages, Italian being one, along with Spanish, Russian and two others she seemed to have forgotten for the moment. Even trying, she couldn’t focus on the translation—something about his knowing what’s best.

Her eyes burned with fatigue, and she rubbed them with the heels of her hands, releasing a long, audible breath. Lord, dealing with a hardheaded Italian left her even more drained—something she’d considered impossible. She wrestled with the fatigue, trying to maintain her train of thought while her head continued to swim.

“Look, Roman, you can do whatever you want,” she said, interrupting his tirade. She tugged the covers up to her chin, not quite ready to let go of their protection, and slumped toward the edge of the cushion. “Just do it away from me.” Checking first to see that the quilt sufficiently covered her legs, she struggled to stand up, praying her limbs wouldn’t give out.

“I’m going to bed.” She looked slowly around the cabin. Where in God’s name was it? She shut her eyes briefly trying to concentrate on her surroundings, but the fog grew thicker, enveloping her mind.

“Is something the matter, Doc?” The question sounded distant and muffled in her ears. She tried to face him, but couldn’t quite make it. Still, she could feel his gaze on her, intent while he watched her confusion.

“I can’t seem to remember where the bedroom is…” Her voice trailed off as her tongue grew thick, taking up most of her mouth. She tried moving it to the side.

“Upstairs.” Quiet amusement laced the word, but she barely noticed because the room blurred. Upstairs. She remembered now. Sleeping up in the loft would have left her vulnerable, that’s why she’d chosen to sleep on the sofa. She nodded, and the room began to sway. She grabbed for the couch in an effort to gain her balance, but that was a mistake. Her feet tangled with the quilt, causing her to fall back onto the cushions with a bounce.

Kate heard a soft, masculine chuckle over her head, but her eyelids refused to open so she could glare. He would just have to wait until morning. She could feel her body floating, snug and protected. It had been so long since she’d felt safe that she gave in to the exhaustion and leaned into her warm haven. A deep voice drifted over her, its tone gentle and comforting.

“Sweet dreams, babe.”

Chapter Three

Isla de El León (Island of the Lion), Gulf of Mexico.

Poised at the edge of the diving board, the ebony-haired beauty smiled up at Nigel Threader. Her classic features softened with feline pleasure before she sliced cleanly into the kidney-shaped pool. From the private balcony, he watched in fascination as the blue glow of the underwater lights cloaked her dancer’s body with ethereal radiance beneath the rippling water. Exquisite.

It was an illusion, of course, but nonetheless magnificent because it hid the imperfections he knew existed. Like a brilliant but flawed diamond.

Pity.

Marina Alexandrov’s pedigree as the prima ballerina of the Paris Ballet was above reproach. With Russian royalists for parents, her upbringing was exemplary, her social status assured. She reached the end of the pool, planted both hands on the edge of the tile and hauled herself upward in a cascade of water, her nude body arching gracefully in the night air.

He returned her seductive smile before walking back into his office. Yes, it certainly was a shame. Even her baser needs matched his. They could have shared a future together full of limitless possibilities.

Unfortunately, with her great beauty and ancestry came a lack of intellect. Marina was a woman of average intelligence, an intolerable flaw his employee had overlooked and which Nigel hadn’t discovered until it had been far too late. A disappointing situation indeed.

The man paid for his incompetence, of course. What little pleasure Nigel gleaned from the kill was still too small a compensation for the time he’d wasted on seducing Marina.

He frowned and felt the familiar stiffness pull at his right eye. Resisting the urge to touch the cause, he tugged at his sleeves instead, automatically running his fingers over the yellow diamond cufflinks as he entered his office. Naturally he would enjoy her tonight. After all, it would be their last evening together. Loose ends were untidy.

Sitting behind the massive, seventeenth-century ebony baroque desk, he reached for the bottle of cognac that sat at the corner. Nigel glanced at the label, pleased to see that Quamar had brought him his favorite French vintage, and then poured a healthy dose into the snifter.

A red light flashed across the room, drawing his attention to the bank of closed-circuit televisions on the opposite wall. He warmed the cognac, swirling the amber liquid against his palm. Their guest had arrived. Leaning back into his plush throne chair, he studied the silver Jaguar while it followed the winding curves of the sleekly paved drive to the villa.

The estate itself was more than fifty acres of enclosed land overlooking the Gulf of Mexico. The three-story villa, originally designed by a French architect, was built of adobe, mosaic tile and imported marble. A masterpiece of French-Mexican culture. As he watched, the car came to a halt in front of the wrought-iron gates set in the twelve-foot wall surrounding the villa.

He pushed a button under his desk activating the automatic gates and then swung around in the chair to press the intercom on his desk. “Quamar. Our guest has arrived, please escort him to my office.”

Several moments later the oak doors opened. Nigel glanced up from his glass when Quamar entered.

“Mr. Hiram Alcott, sir.”

Nigel nodded at the huge man who stepped aside to allow their guest through the doorway.

“You may stay, Quamar.” The bodyguard bowed but said nothing, closing the doors behind him.

“Has Pheonix reported in yet?” Nigel spared only a flickering glance at Alcott.

“No, sir.”

“When she does, tell her I need to see her.”

Again Quamar bowed.

Only then did Nigel turn his attention to his guest.

“A pleasure to meet you in person, Mr. Threader.” The wiry little man crossed the room, set his briefcase down, then leaned over the desk to offer his hand. The scent of cheap cologne saturated the air. “Nice place you got here.” His watery eyes scanned the elegant room before returning to Nigel, hesitating only slightly on the puckering scar tissue that pulled at Nigel’s right eye. “Very nice place.”

Dirt caked the underside of the man’s overgrown fingernails. Ignoring the outstretched hand, Nigel placed his drink on the desk and gestured to the chair beside his guest. “Have a seat.”

Alcott cleared his throat, bringing his hand back to smooth his tie, then slid into the high-backed leather chair.

“You disappoint me, Mr. Alcott.” Nigel rose slowly from behind the desk, well aware of the effect his deliberate movement had on the man across from him. “I’ve paid you a great deal of money to perform a mediocre task and, so far you’ve failed to live up to your end of the deal.”

Alcott didn’t flinch. Instead the man sat back and crossed his legs. The casual pose didn’t quite mask the tension in his body.

“Finding a woman on the run isn’t a mediocre task, believe me.”

Nigel picked up the Buddha from the desk corner. The size of his fist and carved from pure white jade, the statue symbolized enlightenment.

“I believe you claimed expediency, accuracy and complete confidentiality. I have yet to witness either of the first two.” Nigel observed his guest’s face muscles tighten with apprehension at the statement. “And I have my suspicions about the third.”

Carefully, he set the statue back in its place, then continued. “But since my time is limited and your tracking skills came highly recommended by our mutual business acquaintances, I’ve decided to allow you to continue with your efforts. Provided, of course, you start showing me results.”

Alcott’s expression eased a little as he ran a hand over his lacquered gray hair then wiped his palm on the chair. Nigel’s eyes narrowed in disgust.

“I promise you, I won’t require much more time, Mr. Threader. A week on the outside. Dr. MacAlister has proven to be an unexpected challenge, but I’m closing in.” He shifted his position, his hair leaving a grease mark on the back of the chair. “These things can be tricky, if you know what I mean.”

“I see.” Nigel kept his expression noncommittal as he leaned against the desk pretending to consider Alcott’s excuses.

After a significant pause, he said, “I believe you, Mr. Alcott.”

Alcott visibly relaxed. “I appreciate that. After all, we aim to please. But it’s nice when a customer understands the difficulties of the job, if you know what I mean.”

“Hmm,” Nigel murmured while brushing a blond hair from the arm of his silk suit. Over the years, the natives on the island began calling Nigel “El León,” or the lion, because of his thick, tawny mane of hair.

“I trust you had a pleasant trip to my island.”

“Oh, yeah, slept like a baby through most of the plane ride.” The investigator reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a cigarette, obviously taking the change of subject as a good sign. “That Jag you left for me at the airport was one impressive number.”

He waved the cigarette in the air as if it were a baton. “It’s quite a setup you got here, Mr. Threader.” Alcott grinned, revealing a row of tobacco-stained teeth. “Owning your own island and all,” he added, before lighting his cigarette.

“Yep, one sweet setup.” Leaning back into the chair, Alcott tucked his lighter back into his jacket pocket. “One a man like me could appreciate.” He exhaled a stream of smoke that turned into a low whistle when he noticed the Renoir on the wall. “Classy.”

Nigel’s gaze followed his to the painting. “I’m glad you like it,” he said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. “We aim to please, also.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet you do.” Alcott flicked his ashes off to the side and onto the Persian rug.

Irritation scraped against Nigel’s nerves, but he forced the emotion down. “Did you bring the dossier on Dr. MacAlister?”

“Got it right here.” Leaving the cigarette dangling from his mouth, Alcott grabbed the case and pulled out a manila folder. “You know at first I couldn’t understand why you wanted a profile on the dame. I got the impression you already knew who she was.” He slid a color glossy of Kate MacAlister out of the folder and took a long, appreciative look. “Once I got this, I figured it out real quick.”

He shoved the picture into Nigel’s hand. “Now, there’s a good-looking broad. It doesn’t hurt that her daddy’s an international tycoon. Or that he manufactures the best damn scotch known to mankind. Money, brains, looks and an unlimited supply of booze. Wouldn’t mind getting to know her better myself. If you know what I mean.”

Nigel studied the photograph, ignoring Alcott’s suggestive laugh. No matter how abhorrent the man appeared, as an investigator he did excellent work. The woman in the picture was dressed in a light T-shirt and jeans but the casualness of the dress didn’t detract from her natural beauty. A perfect oval face, the elegantly defined nose complemented her classically high cheekbones. Her black hair, tied back into a long, silken tail, accented her flawless skin. Nigel resisted the urge to run his finger over the image. Her pale gray eyes flashed brightly with amused intelligence, taunting him, daring him, with an impudence reflected in the generous curve of her mouth and delicate arch of her eyebrows.

Oh, yes, even the great Michelangelo himself would’ve been in awe.

“Interesting.” He maintained a noncommittal coolness as he placed the folder onto the desk, preferring to peruse the rest at his leisure where he could analyze this new development alone.

After taking a linen handkerchief from his pants pocket, he wiped his hands. “Now about your timetable, Mr. Alcott. More than twenty-four hours is unacceptable.” He meticulously folded the material and tossed it into the wastebasket.

The other man blustered. “Look here, Mr. Threader. I thought we had an agreement. It’s like I told you. I’m close, but a job this sensitive takes time.”

Nigel sighed and nodded to Quamar, who immediately came over and grabbed Alcott from behind, pinning him to the chair with one arm braced against the little man’s throat. The bodyguard ignored Alcott’s shriek of surprise and slammed the man’s left arm down on the desk, exposing his palm. The investigator struggled briefly but was no match for the well-muscled giant.

“What the hell is going on?” Alcott’s eyes widened in alarm, his face etched in desperation. “Listen, we can discuss this like civilized gentlemen. There’s no need to get heavy-handed.”

Nigel responded in a bored voice. “You are an ill-mannered cretin, Mr. Alcott. Please do not insult my intelligence by trying to convince me otherwise.”

Without waiting for a response, he walked behind the desk, opened the top drawer and pulled out a pair of surgical gloves.

Alcott watched, his face reflecting a numb horror as Nigel snapped on the gloves. The sound ricocheted through the room. Out of sheer desperation, the small man fought against his captor. “What the hell is this? You can’t do this.”

“This, Mr. Alcott is a warning.” His dark blue eyes turned arctic. “And make no mistake— I do as I please. I make it a point never to deal personally with brutish, ignorant people such as yourself.” Nigel withdrew a cigar from the rosewood humidor beside the desk and rolled it between his fingers. It was his own personal blend, handmade on his plantation in Cuba. “But time and circumstances have forced otherwise.” He picked up the guillotine cigar cutter lying beside the humidor. Its silver blades flashed in the light.

Alcott whimpered.

“I believe you are aware of my reputation,” Nigel said while he placed the end of the cigar into the guillotine circle and squeezed. The twin blades sliced together, deftly cutting the tip of the cigar off.

He studied the decapitated end for a moment, pleased with the clean edge. “You have until midnight tomorrow to locate her and notify me.” His voice took on a hard edge. “Or I will kill you.” He placed the cigar on the desk beside him. “I consider myself a fair man. Moreover, to prove it, I will loan you some of my staff to help with the search. Remember, Mr. Alcott, expediency, accuracy and confidentiality.” Nigel leaned forward and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “After all, we would not want to put a permanent black mark on your reputation, would we?” Leaning back, he tossed the cutting instrument in his hand, like a child would a coin. “If you know what I mean.”

The sweat poured off Alcott’s face soaking the grimy, white collar of his shirt while his gaze fixated on the blade in Nigel’s hands.

Nigel glanced at Quamar and nodded toward the desk. The bodyguard grunted in approval before he grabbed Alcott’s neck from behind and slammed his face onto the desktop, leaving it pinned there.

Nigel stood to the side, a small, inhuman smile creasing his lips. “Think of it this way, Mr. Alcott,” he said softly as he inserted the pinkie into the cutter. “You might be leaving here with a whole new perspective on the phrase ‘Close but no cigar,’ but at least you’ll be leaving.” Nigel squeezed the cutter. “If you know what I mean.”

THE UNMISTAKABLE HUM of helicopter blades woke Roman. The sound, out of place in the quiet mountain wilderness, had him off the couch. Within seconds he grabbed a pair of binoculars from the peg beside the back door, his senses instantly alert. Damn. Whoever it was, was circling low and easy. After unstrapping the 9 mm Heckler & Koch from his ankle, he stepped barefoot onto the porch, staying hidden in the midmorning shadows of the eave.

A slight turn of the lens’s dial placed the helicopter in focus. It was a civilian bird, brand-new with no call numbers and definitely high tech with its sleek lines and stealth capabilities. Roman’s grip tightened reflexively around the binoculars as he released a soft whistle between his teeth. Big bucks.

The helicopter banked left, hovering for a split second before it increased its speed and headed west. Through the lenses, he caught a glimpse of two men dressed in outdoor gear, viewing the area through their own scopes before the helicopter disappeared beyond the farthest ridge.

Helicopters were a common enough sight in the Rockies, but not one hovering so close to the treetops. Since the cabin was located in prime terrain for hiking and rappelling, a logical explanation could be that these boys were outdoor enthusiasts with more money than brains, scouting the area for new trails.

Roman’s lips twisted back in a feral grin. Sure, and he’d just bought some swampland in Florida to start a Putt-Putt business.

It was more likely Threader’s people were mapping the cabins in the area for a ground-level search. Not hard to do when the pilot doesn’t file a flight plan.

He stuck his head through the doorway, listening for any movement upstairs. Silence greeted him, which meant the doc was still asleep, undisturbed by the helicopter.

Over ten hours now. The mild sedative he’d slipped into her soup the night before had done its job.

He ignored the twinge of guilt over drugging her. It had been necessary. Obviously, Kate had been living on raw nerves for quite a while. The paleness in her face, the hunted look in her eyes, but most of all the fact she’d attacked him instead of running, told him that she wasn’t thinking straight.

At first he’d been enraged, knowing how foolish it was for her to stand and fight anyone Threader sent. Damn it, she knew better. The thought that he might have been one of Threader’s thugs and what they could have done to her—what they could still do to her if they found her—scared the hell out of him. He’d regretted it almost immediately, though, when his fear had turned to anger and caused what little control she had left to snap.

Suddenly feeling a need to check on her, Roman tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans, its coolness reassuring against his naked back, then took the loft steps two at a time, stopping short at the top.

The bedroom was dim in the midmorning light. Faint streaks of sunlight sliced through the partially open slats of the wooden blinds. Kate lay sideways on the rustic pine bed. The tartan flannel sheet lay tangled across her chest while Cain’s faded football jersey rode high around her rib cage, leaving her stomach and legs exposed. The comforter he had wrapped snugly around her the night before lay in a heap at the side of the bed. Even the drug-induced sleep couldn’t stop her habit of wreaking havoc on the bed linen during the night. Sharing space with the doc was like going ten rounds with a steroid-enhanced octopus.

He smiled at the memory.

Assured she would sleep a few more hours, he started to turn away then caught sight of a wisp of peach lace. His mouth went dry.

The fluff of underwear, while accenting her slim hips and long, supple thighs, did nothing to protect her from his gaze. Roman’s throat tightened. He’d forgotten her fondness for sexy lingerie.

His conscience nudged him to turn away, but he ignored it. In the diffused light her skin reminded him of some fresh cream he’d gotten once from a Slavic farmer, warm and rich with the texture of liquid velvet. He feasted like a starving man.

Then he swallowed, willing his glands to work again while he devoured her with his eyes. They traveled down her sleek, smooth legs, stopping briefly on the gentle curves of her calves, before finally resting on her toes—each nail painted a deep, decadent red.

He held his body tense, anticipating the heavy blow of desire. And it came—like a wrecking ball catching him in the solar plexus.

She muttered something, drawing his attention to her face. Her brows furrowed, then smoothed, but she didn’t open her eyes.

Her midnight hair fell in shimmering waves around her face, mussed by the pillow. Her ivory complexion had an elusive pink hue, like the flush of sunset on snow. She looked warm and feminine and so damn inviting he wanted to submerge himself in her softness and not come out, ever.

Years of need and longing twined tightly within him, forcing him to fight his urges. He remembered the way she felt in his arms, the gentleness of her touch, her sweet shyness that always gave way to an even sweeter surrender. He could still feel her lying in his arms that last night, her cheek resting against his heart when she whispered she loved him.

Swearing under his breath, he jerked around and went downstairs. His desire for her was as strong as ever.

He slipped out the front door, too agitated to stay within the confines of the cabin. He was here to do a job, damn it. The situation was complicated enough without allowing his emotions to overrule his mind.

He wrenched his gun from his waistband and circled the cabin, moving silently through the aspen and pine.

Cain, never one to leave anything to chance, had designed his little vacation getaway out of native rock, using little pine, making the structure impervious to most guns and nearly impossible for anyone to burn down.

The rear of the cabin butted up to shale, with two propane tanks that provided the fuel for heat off to one side. The rock wasn’t impassable, but if someone rappelled from the top of the mountain, it would be damn difficult to remain undetected.

Roman patrolled the perimeter twice, assuring himself they weren’t under surveillance. Not because he sensed anything unusual—the normal sounds of the forest had already told him they were safe—but because he wasn’t ready to face what waited for him inside.

Last, he checked the rented SUV, parked a few yards away. It, too, rested undisturbed and well hidden beneath the thicket of trees.

After sliding his gun back into his back waistband, Roman sat down on the front porch steps and lit a cigarette. He glanced briefly at his lighter. To the untrained eye, it looked like an ordinary disposable lighter. To Roman the homing device hidden in the plastic cylinder was a lifeline connecting him to the one person who might be able to liberate them if the situation became too explosive. Cain.

Roman tucked the lighter into his pocket. They would be safer lying low in the cabin for the day before he moved Kate. If he was right about that helicopter, Threader’s men would hit town late tomorrow. He could get Kate out and keep her relatively safe before the search reached the cabin.

That would also give him a chance to break down her defenses and gain her trust.

Last night hadn’t been the time to tell her the true reason for his appearance. She’d been in no condition to handle any more shocks to her system, and finding out her ex-lover was a government operative ranked high on the emotional Richter scale.

Even as the lesser of two evils, lying to her had been a calculated risk, one that could quite easily blow up in his face.

Unless he controlled the explosion.

Roman leaned back against the pine railing, occasionally taking a drag on his cigarette.

With Kate it might work.

She had a hidden sensitive side, but she definitely possessed her father’s volatile temper, too. Making her angry was easy, but could he convince her to turn that anger toward Threader long enough for her to forget about their past and to trust him? Long enough for him to keep her alive?

“D’Amato!”

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