Images of Olivia flashed through Craig’s head

Then another image appeared—the attacker waiting for her when she’d arrived home, ambushing her. The Savannah Squares and graveyard whirled past. Concrete tombstones and monuments stood in rows, the symbols of death macabre in the murky gray light. The fear that Olivia might be severely injured twisted his insides.

He’d told her he’d take care of things—had promised to protect her….

But he’d failed and now someone had tried to kill her.

It seemed like an eternity, but he finally reached the street to her apartment. As soon as he reached the porch stoop, he saw her lying on the ground near the flower bed.

“Olivia, can you hear me?” Craig’s throat jammed as he knelt and checked her pulse. It was weak and thready, but she was alive….

Mysterious Circumstances
Rita Herron

MILLS & BOON

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Award-winning author Rita Herron wrote her first book when she was twelve, but didn’t think real people grew up to be writers. Now she writes so she doesn’t have to get a real job. A former kindergarten teacher and workshop leader, she traded her storytelling for kids for romance, and writes romantic comedies and romantic suspense. She lives in Georgia with her own romance hero and three kids. She loves to hear from readers, so please write her at P.O. Box 921225, Norcross, GA 30092-1225, or visit her Web site at www.ritaherron.com.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Olivia Thornbird—A reporter who wants to know the truth about her parents’ deaths—even if it kills her.

Special Agent Craig Horn—A tough, hard-edged FBI agent without a conscience—until he meets Olivia Thornbird.

Dr. William Thornbird—Olivia’s father died researching the strange virus killing innocent people in Savannah. But did he take the truth about the virus and his wife’s death with him to his grave?

Dr. Ruth Thornbird—Her death twenty years ago was suspicious—could it be related to the current rash of virus/suicides in Savannah?

Senator Horn—Craig’s father will do anything to protect his reputation, even keep secrets….

Dr. Hal Oberman—The Department of Public Safety’s job is to protect the public. Is Dr. Oberman protecting himself instead?

Dr. Martin Shubert—He is suffering long-term effects of the virus that killed Olivia’s mother—but was he responsible for the virus’s creation?

Dr. Fred Fulton—Thornbird’s coworker is racing against time to study the virus and create an antidote. Will he be able to do so in time to save Olivia?

DJ Dunce—A hired killer. But who is he working for, and why is he targeting Olivia?

Iskha Milaski—An internationally known terrorist, is he responsible for the virus that is being used to murder innocent people?

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Prologue

Too many people had died already.

Ruth Thornbird had to tell someone the truth about what was going on. She’d come to this hellhole of a place hoping to help eradicate disease and had devoted her every day and night to the project, traveling to un-godly primitive areas to save lives.

But she’d been brought to Egypt under false pretenses. And three weeks into her mission, her orders had changed.

Now she was investigating a strange outbreak of an unnamed virus that was killing people in droves. A disease she suspected could have been prevented.

Worse, she also suspected innocent people were being used as test subjects without their knowledge.

Yanking the sterile gloves from her hands, she tossed them into the bin designated to collect biohazardous materials and rushed toward the small cubicle serving as her temporary office. Darkness bathed the cramped space, the desk lamp shedding the only light from a low-wattage bulb. The clock read nearly midnight. She’d purposely waited until everyone was gone so she wouldn’t get caught.

Once she phoned the proper authorities and sent them her suspicious findings, she’d ask to return stateside. As much as she wanted to help cure this disease, for the first time in her life she actually feared what she might find—that there was no cure.

And that her own government was to blame for the outbreak.

Guilt slammed into her for being a coward and wanting to run, and she hesitated, but the angelic face of her eight-year-old daughter Olivia flashed in her mind, and her fingers tightened around the handset. She desperately wanted to hug her child. To forget that horrors like this existed.

The door squeaked open behind her. She jerked around, shocked to see a man enter and move into the shadows. Her nerves on edge, she searched his face for recognition, but he wore a surgical suit and mask. The only visible part of his body—his eyes.

They stared at her with a coldness that sent a chill down her spine.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“That doesn’t matter,” he said in a low voice. “But I can’t let you leave here, Dr. Thornbird.”

The low timbre of his tone made her stomach clench. She reached for her purse, but the man vaulted forward, knocked it from her hand, then manacled her wrist. When she saw the hypodermic in his hand, her blood turned to ice.

He lifted the needle so the tip glinted in front of her face. “You know what’s in here, don’t you?”

A sob caught in her throat. She not only knew, but she’d witnessed the deadly results of its effects. The bodies she’d been studying. The horrible way the people had suffered. The inevitable death.

Her heart pounding, she kicked out at him and ran, but he caught her, jabbed the needle into her neck, and held her until a chilling ache seeped through her. Her throat closed. Her body convulsed. The horrible panic of knowing what came next sliced through her.

She slumped to the floor like a rag doll as he released her.

Her little girl’s face appeared in her mind’s eye. Sweet, precious Olivia. That beautiful angelic blond hair. Those baby-blue eyes.

She’d talked to her husband earlier. Olivia was making posters, decorating the house for her homecoming. She’d been marking the days on the calendar until she returned. Had planned a surprise party with homemade chocolate chip cookies. Her husband was even taking the day off so they could all be together.

A tear rolled down her cheek, but she was helpless to wipe it away. Then she closed her eyes, welcoming the numbness. Regrets surfaced. She would never see her husband or baby girl again. Never hold them or kiss them good-night.

And no one would ever know the reason she’d died.

Chapter One

Fifteen years later

Olivia would find out the truth about the Savannah Suicides—even if it killed her. The local police and FBI couldn’t just bury the story, hide the details from the public and get away with it.

Not like they had when her mother had died.

Bitterness threatened to rob her calm, but she stifled it. The only way to keep the world safe was to inform the people of potential dangers.

She swung her leather shoulder bag over her arm and marched toward the building that housed her father’s office at CIRP, Coastal Island Research Park. She’d sensed he was keeping something from her the last few weeks. He’d been acting oddly secretive, distracted, had even sounded paranoid.

He’d even made some strange remarks about her mother’s death and a cover-up, which he’d never spoken of before. And she thought he was working with the feds on the suicide cases.

She’d noticed an odd rash on two of the victims’ bodies at the crime scene and had spotted that federal agent, Craig Horn, leaving her father’s office at least twice. She’d finally put two and two together. But when she’d contacted Agent Horn, he’d refused her calls. She’d tried to deal with the infuriating man before.

But Horn was cold. Calculating. An agent single-minded in his mission. A man with no feelings.

Her cell phone jolted out the programmed melody, and she answered it as she climbed into her Toyota. “Olivia Thornbird.”

“Miss Thornbird, this is Special Agent Craig Horn of the FBI.”

Olivia’s eyebrows shot up. So, the sexy, enigmatic agent had finally decided to make her an ally. “I’m glad you called, Agent Horn. Are you ready to talk to me?”

A hesitant pause fraught with tension followed. “Miss Thornbird, I think you’d better get over to your father’s house. He’s barricaded himself inside.”

“What?” Olivia’s heart raced.

“I hate to tell you this,” Agent Horn said in a decidedly low voice, “but you should hurry. He has a gun, and he’s threatening to kill himself.”

CRAIG DISCONNECTED the call, his hands sweating as he skimmed the overgrown yard surrounding Thornbird’s small brick ranch. The sagging boards on the front porch attested to the house’s age, the chipped paint, shutters hanging askew and dead plants evidence of lack of upkeep. Thornbird had first impressed him as a genius, scatterbrained scientist who related more to test tubes and vials than humans. He supposed it followed that he’d neglect his home for work, but this lack of long-term care indicated depression.

After meeting with Thornbird a few times, he guessed he and his daughter weren’t close. The realization that Olivia’s family had been just as screwed up as his own had spiked his curiosity about the woman and her drive. He actually admired her ambition.

If she wasn’t a damn reporter, he might even like her.

And he sure as hell had to admit she was a looker.

But he’d never trust her.

The hushed murmurs of police officers communicating via radio jolted him back to reality. Several local police were situated at various strategic points around Thornbird’s property, each armed and ready to bring this ordeal to a peaceful resolution. Others had cordoned off the property to contain neighbors, curious spectators and reporters.

Unfortunately, so far, Thornbird wasn’t responding to their negotiation tactics. But at least he hadn’t opened fire again like he had at Horn when he’d first arrived.

Craig raised the bullhorn one more time in an effort to defuse the increasingly catastrophic situation inside. “Dr. Thornbird, it’s Craig Horn again. Please, sir, put down the gun, and let’s talk.”

“Go away, you communists! Leave me alone!” Thornbird shouted. “You’re all just pagans wanting to steal the life from me and all the innocent people in this town.”

“No, Dr. Thornbird. We’ve been working together, remember?”

The window suddenly shattered and the lights flickered off. Two cops raised their guns as if to fire, but Craig motioned for them to hold off.

“What’s the story?” New arrivals to the scene, local cops Detective Adam Black and his partner, Clayton Fox, strode up and hunkered down beside him.

Craig filled them in. “Thornbird, the research scientist who’s been studying the rash on our suicide vics, is holed up inside, threatening to kill himself.”

“He find out anything about the rash?” Black asked.

“He thinks it’s symptomatic of a virus, but he hadn’t yet isolated the strain or determined its cause.” Horn frowned as a breeze stirred the nearly dead leaves of the fern hanging from the front porch awning. “The last two weeks, he’s been working day and night. I thought he might be on to something.”

Fox raised a brow. “And?”

“A few days ago he started refusing my calls,” Craig answered. “When I finally got through, he sounded disoriented. Paranoid.”

Black’s gaze met his. “All symptoms the other victims exhibited before they ended their lives.”

Horn nodded, agitation constricting his stomach. Had Thornbird contracted the unnamed disease he’d been investigating?

Guilt nagged at him. He’d gotten the man involved. If Thornbird committed suicide, his death would rest on Craig’s shoulders.

Suddenly the squeal of tires on asphalt jarred the tense silence, the air vibrating with the smell of burned rubber and panic as the car screeched to a stop. Olivia Thornbird jumped out and ran toward him. The sassy, confident air she normally wore had disintegrated since his call, the frantic unease of a terrified daughter flaring in her overly bright eyes instead.

The wind whipped her long blond hair around her face, and she scraped it back with a shaky hand, then reached for the bullhorn. “What did you do to him?”

He ignored her barb, plastered on a steely, cool face. “I’ve been trying to talk to him.”

She glared at him. “He’s been working for you, hasn’t he?”

Craig swallowed hard, debating a lie. “He’s been doing some research, yes.”

“I knew it!” She grabbed the speaker and faced the house. “I have to talk to him.”

Craig covered her hand with his. “I’ve made every attempt to convince him to come out, but he’s incoherent.”

Her gaze locked with his, then her bottom lip quivered slightly as his warning registered. Finally, she swung back toward the window, her bravado tacked in place. “Dad.” Her voice warbled through the speaker. “It’s me, Livvy.”

Craig caught the anxious looks on the other cops’ faces. They’d been down this same road too many times the past few weeks and lost. Hope wasn’t exactly lighting the skies that this time would be any different.

“Dad, please come out, I’m worried about you.”

“I can’t.”

“Dad, please, the police won’t hurt you, I promise.”

“I can’t leave the house.” His voice screeched. “It’s the only place that’s safe.”

Olivia inhaled a deep breath. “Then let me come in and talk to you. Whatever’s going on, we’ll figure it out.”

The curtains at the front window rustled open, and Craig spotted the old man peer through the broken glass. His wiry graying hair was standing on end, as if he’d run his hands through it a thousand times; his eyes appeared glassy, and his expression disoriented. “Ruth, is that you?”

“No, Dad.” Anguish made her voice brittle. “It’s me, Livvy. Mom’s not here anymore, remember?”

“Livvy?”

“Yes. I’m coming in now. We’ll talk, work out whatever is bothering you.” She stepped forward tentatively.

“Livvy, no, stop! It’s too dangerous! They’re everywhere.”

She took another cautious step. “Who’s everywhere, Dad?”

“The spies,” he cried. “They’re on the lawn, in the house, on the roof. They’ll get you.”

“Dad, nothing’s going to get me. I’m coming in.”

“You don’t understand.” He waved his arm frantically in front of the window. “The government wants it kept quiet. I can’t protect you anymore.”

Olivia dashed forward, shoving away from Craig when he grabbed her arm. “Dad, it’s okay. I’m right here, I’m coming in….”

Thornbird suddenly disappeared behind the wooden frame of the house, and Craig’s instincts kicked in. “Olivia, stop!”

A gunshot pierced the air.

Olivia screamed and vaulted forward, but Craig caught her. He didn’t have to go inside to know Thornbird was dead.

And it was all his fault.

“NOOOO!” OLIVIA’S LEGS buckled as the guttural protest tore from her throat. Grief and shock welled inside her, overflowing. People shouted, officers mumbled and chaos erupted around her. Doubling over, she crumpled to the ground, but Agent Horn caught her as the police rushed into her father’s house. Sobs racked her body, the tears spilling over, the anguish so deep she couldn’t contain it.

Her father, the only family she had left, had just shot himself.

She clutched the agent’s shirt, dazed and confused and too weak to stand. Horn stroked her hair and back, rocking her in his arms as he coaxed her to the front porch where she collapsed onto the stoop.

“Damn you, Horn,” she exploded, jerking at his shirt, “this is all your fault. If you’d called me sooner, maybe I could have saved my dad. Why did you get him involved in this case?”

He clenched her wrists to stop her assault, but she lurched up and tore away from him, determined to see her father. Maybe he was still alive…

He grabbed her, yanked her back. “No, Olivia!”

“I have to see him. He might still make it!” Shoving him with all her might, she pushed past the police through the front door and into the foyer where she’d greeted her father so many times. The familiar details of the house registered—the same yellowed walls, the oak rolltop desk, the potted plant she’d given him for Christmas, now dead.

Then she spotted him lying on the faded beige carpeting. Face up, his jacket was open, his mouth gaping, his eyes glazed over in death. Blood splattered the floor, the walls, the charcoal gray suit he always wore, even his hands. A shotgun lay beside him, blood dotting the barrel.

The room spun. The stench of death and foul body odors assaulted her. The reality that this wasn’t a story she was working on, but her own flesh and blood, hit her.

Mindless of what she was doing or saying, she dropped to her knees and cradled his hand in hers. “Daddy, please don’t die,” she whispered. “Please. I need you.”

But the limp hand that met hers told her it was too late. Her father was already dead.

A FEW MOMENTS LATER, guilt churned at Craig as he dragged Olivia from her father. The EMT had already checked for a pulse while the police secured the scene and the CSI team rushed in.

He’d known Thornbird was behaving oddly, but hell, the man was strange, eccentric, had wanted to work on the case so much that he’d literally thrown himself into the job 24/7. Thornbird had never mentioned suicide though.

Or had Craig missed the signs?

Olivia’s sobs finally quieted, but the glazed shock and pain in her eyes cut him to the bone.

“I’m sorry, Olivia.” He rubbed her back to calm her, then gestured toward the kitchen which was visible from the small den but far enough to get her away from the body. “Come on, let’s sit down.”

She swayed as he guided her to a kitchen chair. Braced for another assault, Craig reached inside the battered cabinet, found a glass and filled it with tap water, then pressed it into her hand. “Drink this.”

She obeyed, her acquiescence a definite sign of her devastation. Craig zeroed in on the details of the house. It smelled old and musty, as if it hadn’t been cleaned in ages. Haphazard piles of notes, medical magazines and journals cluttered every conceivable space. The furniture in the house looked Early American, all in golds and avocados, an obvious indication that Thornbird didn’t value material wealth. He guessed the furniture had been early marriage. Other odors permeated the stale air—cigarette smoke, perspiration and rotting food. Fruit flies swarmed around two blackened bananas, and a dead fly floated in a glass of milk that had soured.

In the den, he spotted a yellowed photograph of Thornbird and a woman he assumed to be his wife. The woman had burnished copper hair instead of Olivia’s gold, and it was straight, not wavy, but those killer blue eyes came from the same gene pool. The first picture was of their wedding. The next, the couple held an infant, obviously Olivia, in their arms, as they stood beside a faded green Chevrolet. Thornbird looked happy, content, so much younger that Craig barely recognized him.

The Thornbird he knew had empty eyes, and he’d never smiled. A strangled sound caught in Olivia’s throat as she set the glass on the table, then she looked up at him with tears pooling in her baby-blue eyes.

“You got him involved in this,” she said in a choked voice. “He got sick because he was investigating that rash for you, didn’t he?”

He swallowed, aching for her, yet unwilling to show it. “I can’t talk about the case.”

She grabbed his shirt and shook him. “This is my father we’re talking about, Agent Horn, not some anonymous stranger. He was working for you, and that job killed him.”

Craig couldn’t reply without compromising his case, but he couldn’t argue with her, either.

Most people thought he was a coldhearted bastard. The Iceman, his co-workers called him.

Olivia thought the same, too. But he had to be the Iceman in order to do his job.

Just like he’d have to live with the guilt and the anguish in her eyes the rest of his life.

Chapter Two

As Craig checked on the progress of the investigation, his head rattled with questions about the rash, the possible virus and how the victims had contracted it.

Even more unsettling—how would they stop this illness from spreading and taking more lives if they didn’t identify it soon? Worse, they’d have to keep things hush-hush to avoid a potential panic across the country.

Had the scientists at Nighthawk Island been researching the virus, or had they created it?

While the CSI team photographed the body and processed the crime scene area, the detectives were taking notes and talking in low voices.

“Canvass the neighbors,” Detective Fox told two other officers. “See if anyone had a clue as to what Thornbird had planned or what was troubling him.”

“Check and see if he had any recent visitors, too,” Craig cut in. “I’ll talk to his co-workers at CIRP.”

Detective Black nodded and the men dispersed just as Agent Devlin approached him. “Did he give you any information about the research before he died?”

“No, but I’ll question his colleagues, find someone who understands his work and can pick up the thread where he left off,” Craig said. “Maybe his files will aid in the identification process.”

Devlin pocketed his cell phone and glanced at Olivia. “She going to be all right?”

Craig shrugged. “She’s in shock.”

Devlin nodded. “Don’t suppose she’ll be writing this one up.”

Craig grimaced. True, but callous. He supposed it went with the agent’s job. They’d both seen the darkest sides of life and survived. “She blames me for getting her old man involved.”

“Don’t go there, Horn. From what you told me, Thornbird volunteered to study this virus. I did some checking on the man. He was obsessed with his work. I think it had something to do with the way his wife died.”

Craig arched his brows. “She died in Egypt, right?”

“Right. By another strange, unknown illness.”

Craig picked up on Devlin’s silent insinuation. “Did they do an autopsy?”

Devlin shook his head. “If they did, the results were never revealed. Authorities were too worried about transmitting the virus and refused to transport her body back to the States. She was cremated.”

Craig swallowed hard. Maybe they were hiding something. “Must have been tough on the family.”

“After that, Thornbird’s reputation slid downhill. He lost a couple of grants and posts.”

Craig’s gaze swung to Olivia. Her face was so pale, her eyes listless, her arms wrapped around herself as if the muggy breeze blowing through the window might shatter her into pieces. He ordered himself to be impartial. This woman might be suffering now, but she’d been a pain in the butt wanting the scoop on his investigation. He couldn’t afford to let her get too close.

Especially now.

She had even more reason to want the truth about the virus, even more reason to detest him and his unwillingness to cooperate.

“Listen, Horn.” Devlin cleared his throat. “I received word this morning that two scientists have died in Germany. Their deaths sound remarkably similar to Thornbird’s and our other suicide victims.”

Craig frowned. The situation was desperate. They needed some answers fast. He hoped to hell Thornbird hadn’t taken whatever information he’d learned concerning the virus to his grave.

DARKNESS SETTLED OVER Olivia’s father’s kitchen, the hushed voices and officers milling around the house echoing in the distant recesses of her mind like a TV she’d forgotten to turn off. Olivia blocked them out, unable to process the truth that her father was dead.

In her mind, she could see him standing by the scarred beige counter pouring his fifth cup of coffee into his favorite orange mug, one her mother had gotten for him in Portugal on one of her trips.

Through the back window, she watched the tire swing she used to spend hours in sway back and forth in the breeze, and the now defunct sandbox she’d played in as a child was covered with leaves and debris. The basketball hoop where she’d spent nights tossing the ball, thinking through stories she’d write for the school paper, was rusted, the net torn and ragged. Once her parents had planted flowers in that backyard, had grown herbs and roots, saying they didn’t want her harmed by the processed foods and chemicals. They’d pushed Olivia in the swing, laughed as she’d run through the sprinkler, churned homemade ice cream on the patio while she’d learned to ride a bicycle.

Then her mother had died. And everything had changed.

There’d been no more laughing. No more homemade ice cream. No more herb garden.

Olivia had needed her father then. She’d begged him to let her crawl into his lap, but he’d pushed her away, as if he wished she’d died with her mother. Finally, she’d stopped trying to win his love.

But as a rebellious teenager she’d done other things to get his attention—misbehaved in school, gotten into scraps. She’d even ended up in jail for underage drinking and vandalizing. If her high school English teacher hadn’t taken an interest in her and assigned her to the school paper, she would have ended up in the headlines more. But writing had given her a goal; a byline gained her the attention she’d been lacking.

Her stomach churned, her hands were sweating and her throat was so clogged with tears she felt as if a golf-ball had been lodged inside. Forcing herself to think rationally, like a reporter and not a grief-stricken daughter, she scanned the kitchen for clues to her father’s mental state, searching for any changes in the room that might indicate what had brought him to the point of suicide.

Three coffee cups, a stack of used plates with dried bread crumbs and a half-eaten sandwich overflowed the sink. Cigarette ashes littered the top of a soda can, the fact that her father had partaken of both a testament to how much he’d changed.

Except for his work. That, he’d never ignored.

Not as he had her.

“Olivia?” Craig’s voice made her spring back into action. She stood and walked toward him. “Was there a suicide note?”

He hesitated, then shook his head.

“I want to see his things, especially his desk.”

The detective beside him cast Craig a warning look and strode toward another crime scene tech who was bagging the gun Olivia’s father had used to shoot himself.

“Olivia, the police and FBI are working this case. Let us do our job.”

She gripped his arm. “I have to know everything he was working on. He was obsessive-compulsive and would never have left a project unfinished.”

“We’ll find the answers,” Craig said through gritted teeth. “Just give us time.”

She narrowed her eyes, battling another onslaught of tears. She didn’t want sympathy, she wanted the truth. “He died because of the work he was doing for you, didn’t he? I saw you leaving his office—”

“Yes, he was helping us.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “But that’s all I can say.”

“I saw the red welts on the other victims,” she said. “You think all the suicide victims had some kind of virus. What does it do—cause the infected people to go crazy?”

“I can’t disclose details that might jeopardize the case, Olivia. You have to understand that.”

She folded her arms, her anger rallying. “This isn’t just a case, Horn. It took my father’s life. And what about more innocent lives that might be lost if you cover this up?”

“Don’t you think I’m working my tail off to get to the truth so there won’t be any more victims?”

She bit her lip. “If my father did contract some rare virus, it wasn’t an accident. He was meticulous about safety precautions.”

Craig’s dark gray eyes met hers, silently acknowledging her declaration as he gestured around the den and kitchen. “Judging from the looks of his house, I might question that.”

“It’s usually not this bad. And he was much more precise and detailed about his work.”

“Everyone makes mistakes, Olivia. A punctured glove, a spill, if he was dealing with some unknown bacteria he didn’t recognize—”

“No,” Olivia snapped. “He never made mistakes.”

Except he hadn’t pushed the government for the truth about her mother. When Olivia had gotten older and questioned him about her mother’s death, he’d refused to answer. She’d realized then that he’d allowed the government to get away with their cover-up.

That was the reason she’d gone into journalism. Someone had buried the truth about her mother’s death, and one day she hoped to uncover it. She sure as hell wouldn’t let them bury the story about her father’s death now, too.

“If my father contracted this virus,” she said in a cold voice, “someone infected him.”

Craig grimaced. “You’re suggesting murder?”

“I’m suggesting this is some kind of germ or chemical warfare, and you’re trying to keep it under wraps from the public.” She ignored the flare of heat in his eyes. “But trust me, Agent Horn, I refuse to let my father’s death go until I discover the truth.”

“Trust you?” His voice dripped sarcasm. “I learned a long time ago not to trust reporters.” His unwavering glare slid over Olivia. “I feel for you, Olivia, I honestly do. But I’m warning you—don’t get in the way of this investigation.”

Olivia shot him an equally menacing look. She’d be damned if she’d let him intimidate her.

They were both after the truth.

Unfortunately, they were on opposite sides.

CRAIG WAS ON THE VERGE of suggesting someone drive Olivia home when Dr. Ian Hall, the director of CIRP, rushed inside, accompanied by Detective Clayton Fox.

“I came as soon as I heard.”

Hall’s face looked ruddy with emotions, his tie hanging askew as if he’d been twisting it in the car. The sweltering summer heat drifting through the door also marked his skin with perspiration. “What happened?” Hall asked.

Craig gestured toward Olivia before explaining. “Dr. Hall, this is Olivia Thornbird, Dr. Thornbird’s—”

“I know who she is.” Hall’s look bordered between a scowl and regret. “Miss Thornbird has been to my office several times in the past few months.”

Craig nodded. “Of course.” She would have been looking for a story. Or maybe she’d covered some of the disreputable events that had occurred at the research park already. He made a mental note to check the newspaper archives.

“It appears that my father killed himself,” Olivia said before he could finish, “because of some research he was doing regarding the Savannah Suicides.”

Hall’s face blanched. “How do you know it had something to do with his work?”

“We don’t,” Craig said, vying for damage control. “The medical examiner will have to determine cause of death, and if Dr. Thornbird was suffering from any other medical problems.” Craig indicated Thornbird’s computer and the cluttered oak desk. “We are confiscating all of his research notes and hope you’ll provide us with a liaison to interpret them.”

Hall scraped a hand over his forehead. “Certainly. We’ll do whatever we can to expedite the investigation.”

Craig grunted. CIRP had a reputation for keeping certain projects classified, even from the feds. With the current state of the world and constant threat of terrorism, studying biological and chemical warfare had to rank at the top of their priorities. The security they enforced upon the employees and their research projects at Nighthawk Island was cutting-edge, but their secrecy suspicious.

Hall offered Olivia a conciliatory smile. “Miss Thornbird, please allow CIRP to pay the expenses for your father’s burial. He was a valued employee of the scientific community and will be sorely missed.”

Olivia’s face paled at the mention of a funeral, and Craig was tempted to reach out and offer her a comforting hand, but she stiffened perceptibly when he stepped closer. “How valuable was he to you, Dr. Hall?” she asked.

Hall’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not certain what you mean.”

Olivia squared her shoulders. “I’ve heard about your community and the founders of CIRP. They actually killed two of their scientists for nearly exposing secretive work you were conducting. Perhaps that’s what happened to my father.”

Hall squared his shoulders. “Any disreputable activities that occurred in the past are to be left there,” he said curtly. “Since I assumed leadership of CIRP, things have changed. Recently one of our psychiatrists, Claire Kos, was instrumental in helping catch the serial killer stalking Savannah.”

“But it’s awfully coincidental that Savannah is suddenly stricken with something that might be a dangerous unknown virus when your team is conducting secretive research on Nighthawk Island.” Olivia’s voice held an undercurrent of accusations. “Perhaps my father discovered the truth about the rash these suicide victims had contracted. What if his findings lead back to CIRP? And you had him killed to keep him quiet?”

“You’re letting your grief make you irrational.” Hall’s eyes flickered with anger. “And I wouldn’t print false accusations like that in the paper, Miss Thornbird.”

“Oh, I’ll find proof to substantiate it before I print it.”

A vein in Hall’s forehead throbbed. “Your father shot himself, didn’t he?”

“That is the apparent cause of death,” Craig answered, in an attempt to defuse the volatile situation before it spiraled completely out of hand.

Olivia had a point, but so did Hall.

In fact, it had also occurred to him that Hall and the other scientists at CIRP might hurt Thornbird to keep him from discovering the truth about the virus.

Olivia’s words rushed back to haunt him.

My father was meticulous about safety precautions. If he was infected, it wasn’t accidental.

Could she be right? Could someone have infected Thornbird? If so, his suicide would be murder. And he had just asked Hall for a liaison to interpret the results…

Could Craig trust Hall and the next scientist, or would they alter results to cover for CIRP?

And what about Olivia—if she kept tossing out accusations, would she put herself in danger?

“OLIVIA, I’M GOING TO drive you home.”

Olivia shook her head. “I’d like to stay here a while longer.”

Craig’s sharp gaze cataloged the chalk lines outlining the space where her father’s body had fallen. The other cops were leaving, the house dusted and tattooed with the crime scene unit’s handiwork. The spectators and reporters had given up and gone home, too. “Even if I could let you do that—and I can’t,” Craig said, “—it’s not a good idea.” He took her elbow as if to guide her to the door. “You’re wiped out and need some rest.”

Emotionally drained would be the more correct assessment. Dead inside even closer.

But she’d be damned if she’d admit any weakness to the federal agent who’d made her life hell the last few weeks. Even if he did have the sexiest gray eyes she’d ever seen. And even if for a brief moment, his ironclad control had slipped and concern tinged his voice.

“I…I can’t leave,” she whispered, betraying herself as her gaze caught sight of the wedding photo of her father and mother on the end table by the couch. The realization that she was all alone in the world slammed into her with such force that the breath locked in her lungs.

“Is there someone I can call?” he asked quietly. “A family member? Friend? Boyfriend?”

“No…no one.” She swallowed back tears at how pathetic it all was. Just like her father, she’d drowned herself in work at the expense of forming close friendships. And she couldn’t remember the last time she’d had a date.

Emotions suddenly choked her, and she turned away, embarrassed and determined to regain control. “You don’t have to take care of me, Agent Horn.”

“Yes, I do.”

His gruff words hung in the air, thick with concern. Whatever his intention—to spy on her or offer her a semblance of comfort—guilt also riddled his voice.

She didn’t want his guilt or pity.

“I have my car,” she said, swinging back around. “I drove myself here. I can drive myself home.”

“Miss Independent, huh? You never need anyone, right?”

“That’s right.”

His gaze locked with hers, the day’s events traipsing through her mind like a bad headline. Tomorrow, her father’s suicide would be splattered across the papers. She’d need to make plans for the funeral. Think about a burial plot. A memorial service. A casket.

That is, when the medical examiner finally released the body.

It was all too much.

Feeling weak-kneed, she scrounged in her purse for her keys, but Horn placed his hand over hers. “I’m taking you home, Olivia. No arguments. If you want to come back tomorrow, I’ll bring you to get your car. But you’re not driving right now.”

For once in her life, she was too exhausted to argue, so she nodded and followed him to his nondescript sedan. The interior was clean, cool, unwelcoming—just like the man.

She gave him directions to the apartment she rented, one half of an older house that had been converted into duplexes. The night sounds and lights of Savannah passed by in a blur. Blues music floated from Emmet Park where locals often gathered to jam, the rumble of traffic and Saturday-night partygoers and tourists flooding River Street, reminding her that, although she was grieving, life went on.

Down the street, two lovers walked hand in hand, enjoying the moonlight. Another couple laughed as they strolled with their baby.

She fumbled with her keys and climbed out, ignoring Horn when he followed her onto the stoop. Her hand trembled as she inserted the key and opened the door, a well of darkness greeting her from the inside, the happy couples a reminder of a life she might never have.

Craig Horn’s gruff voice broke the quiet. “Olivia, are you going to be all right?”

The heat from the apartment felt like a sweltering oven, the bleak emptiness threatening to swallow her whole.

No, she’d never be okay again.

But she nodded anyway. Just as she started to step inside, Craig caught her arm. She glanced at his fingers where they were pressed into her bare skin, the brief contact sending a tingling up her body that stirred another kind of heat.

God, she was hurting tonight. And she was so alone.

His arms would be so strong around her. If just for the night.

For a brief moment, they simply stood there, the anguish and horror of her father’s suicide a link between them, the guilt and nature of their jobs a barrier that stood in the way.

“I’m sorry,” he finally said in a strained voice.

She swallowed, unable to reply or to force herself inside just yet. He traced his finger down her arm, over the top of her hand. Her breath caught at the tenderness. She nearly opened her fingers and laced them with his to pull him into the darkness with her, to ask him to take away the pain.

Instead, she remained still, her emotions waging a silent battle. She couldn’t get hurt if she didn’t get involved. And she couldn’t ask for help or comfort…

He suddenly released her as if he’d felt the connection and didn’t like it, either. With a grim expression, he reached inside his pocket and withdrew a business card. The Iceman had returned.

“This is my work number, and here’s my home number and cell. Call me if you need anything.” His gaze locked with hers again, his voice husky. “I mean it, Olivia. Any time, day or night.”

She accepted the card, their fingers touching briefly, tempting her again. His masculine scent wafted toward her, teasing, erotic, eliciting images of hands and bodies touching.

But she summoned her courage and walked inside without bothering to reply. After all, they both knew that she wouldn’t call.

Olivia Thornbird couldn’t lean on anyone.

Especially Craig Horn, the man who’d gotten her father killed.

Chapter Three

The anguish in Olivia’s eyes haunted Craig while he drove to the cabin he’d rented on Skidaway Island. He’d wanted to go inside, to hold her, to kiss her, to soothe her pain.

But he couldn’t take advantage of her grief.

Then he’d be an even worse kind of bastard than he already was.

After all, he was responsible for her father’s death.

Frustrated at his weakness for the sexy woman, he opened the windows, welcoming the heat. When Devlin had first asked him to relocate to Savannah a few weeks before to investigate Nighthawk Island, he’d been grateful for the reprieve of the coast and warm sunshine. After years of living in Washington D.C., dealing with politics and the accompanying red tape, along with city traffic, noise and crime, he’d thought the job would be a picnic.

Though the scenery had changed and the pace of the southern town was much slower than the capital city, gaining access to Nighthawk Island’s secretive projects was just as difficult as infiltrating street gangs or corrupt politicians’ offices.

Exhausted, he yanked off his tie, tossed it onto the faded sofa in the den, flipped on the lamp which sprayed the room in a watery dim light, then opened the French doors. The sounds of the ocean crashing against the shore burst into the room, the high tide rising to wash away the remnants of sand castles built earlier.

The first day when he’d arrived he’d noticed the happy families vacationing, the babies in sunbonnets, the toddlers digging in the sand with big plastic shovels, the mothers chasing them to the edge of the water, the fathers tossing their kids into the waves and catching them as they squealed in delight. He’d tried to remember if his own family had ever vacationed like that, spending lazy days strolling on the beach gathering seashells and romping.

His memories consisted of formal dinner parties, being scolded if he tracked dirt on the marble foyer, eating with the housekeeper while his parents campaigned across the state, then later across the country.

And then his sister’s death… It had torn the family even further apart. Especially the family’s refusal to talk about it. It was almost as if his sister had never existed, as if she’d been wiped out like words on a chalk-board that had been erased. At family dinners and holidays no one even bothered to mention her name. Not that there were many family holidays or dinners…

An image of Thornbird’s face, bloody and pale with death, floated back, and he grimaced.

Although he hadn’t spoken to his dad in months, the urge to call him sent Craig to the phone, but he hesitated, his fingers lingering over the handset. His father’s parting words echoed in his mind. “You fool! You let a woman trick you into getting information on me. She nearly ruined my career.”

Just as it was his fault that Olivia’s father had died tonight.

He dropped his hand from the receiver. His father had never forgiven him.

Olivia wouldn’t, either.

Another reason some agents called him the Iceman. The end always justified the means. He’d use anyone he had to in order to get a job done. And if someone died in the process, hell, it was just a loss they had to take.

OLIVIA POURED HERSELF a glass of merlot, slipped on a nightshirt and opened the window in her bedroom, welcoming the sultry heat from the summer air while she desperately tried to banish memories of her father’s lifeless body from her mind.

The phone rang, shrill in the night, and she answered it, hoping it would be Agent Horn with some answers. Or maybe she just wanted to hear his husky voice.

God, she was desperate….

Her boss’s deep baritone boomed instead. “Olivia, it’s Carter. So sorry to hear about your father.”

She cleared her throat. “Thanks, it…was a shock.”

“What happened?”

She hesitated, wondered whether to share her suspicions yet. “I don’t know. He was depressed lately, was agitated, but he hadn’t confided any specifics.”

“Do you think his death is related to the other suicides?”

“I don’t know. I spoke to Agent Horn, but he was closemouthed.”

“He’s a cold one, all right.”

Yes. Except he hadn’t been tonight.

“You’re not giving up, though?”

“No.” She saw her father’s face in her mind. Remembered her resolve about her mother. “Definitely not.”

“Good, I know there’s a story there. I suspect it has to do with Nighthawk Island, too. If you can get it, your career will be made.”

For a fleeting second, she didn’t care about her career. “Lowell, I don’t intend to sensationalize my father’s death for a byline.”

“That’s not what I meant. But everyone is trying to get the truth about the shady research at Nighthawk Island, and you might just be the one to uncover it.”

Right.

She hung up, troubled by the conversation. If Nighthawk Island was keeping secrets about her father’s work and one of those projects was creating public danger, she had an obligation to inform the innocent citizens. She couldn’t sit back and let the truth be buried as it had been when her mother died years ago.

In fact, her father had mentioned her mother at least a half dozen times lately. He’d even claimed that someone might be listening over the phone when they’d last talked.

What if someone had been listening? Someone who hadn’t wanted him to finish researching the virus?

She swirled the red liquid in her glass, willing the rich flavor to dull the pain that coursed through her soul. All these years, she’d hoped for answers. Prayed that one day she and her father would be close again. That he’d wake up and see the daughter he’d forgotten existed. And maybe, in some way, she’d thought by making a name for herself in the paper, by getting bigger headlines, uncovering important stories, putting herself on the line, that he’d take notice.

That dream had died today, as well.

Tears spilled over her cheeks, the black abyss of her sorrow too much to bear, and she finally crawled beneath the covers of her bed, doubled over and released the pent-up emotions she’d been bottling so long. Heartrending sobs escaped her.

She would never be any closer to her father than she had been the day her mother had died. Would never fully understand the reason he’d virtually abandoned her for test tubes and research files.

But she would know the answers to the reason he’d died.

Special Agent Craig Horn’s face drifted into her mind. Sharp chiseled features. A strong jawbone. Black hair that framed a face that had seen hard times. Eyes as gray as a granite sky or the fog that enveloped the island after a storm.

His voice, his expression, his manner—it had always seemed so cold. Distant.

The Iceman. She’d heard the rumors about the other agents thinking he was nothing but a tomb, devoid of emotion.

And she’d understood why.

Yet today, his hand had been gentle when he’d brushed hers. So gentle she’d ached for more. For him to stroke her face, caress her body, touch his lips to hers. Give her comfort in the heat of this sorrowful night.

She hated herself for wanting him.

Another sob erupted from deep inside her throat, and she gave in to it. She was alone. No one would hear. No one would know how weak she really was.

But tomorrow, she’d pull herself together. She’d comb every inch of CIRP, pester Craig Horn and Ian Hall to death, even sneak onto Nighthawk Island if she had to. But she’d find out the truth.

And no one, not the Savannah police or the FBI or Craig Horn, the Iceman, would make her change her mind.

REGARDLESS OF THE LATE HOUR, when Agent Devlin showed up at Craig’s door, they spread the files on the Savannah Suicides on the wooden desk and studied the information collected so far.

Devlin read aloud, “The first victim: Damon Byrd. Twenty-seven. A local banker. Single. Lived alone. Had a girlfriend named Tia. She claimed they broke up three weeks before the man died.”

Craig tapped his pen on the desk, then picked up where Devlin had left off. “Tia said her boyfriend had been exhibiting erratic behavior the last few weeks, had been temperamental, had become physically violent. Co-workers corroborated her story. Normally an easygoing, quiet man who got along with everyone, no one had any clue as to what had caused the change in the man’s behavior. Two days before he died, his boss had ordered him to see a psychiatrist. He’d also given him two weeks leave to deal with his issues. If he didn’t, he’d be fired.”

“Break up with girlfriend. Job problems,” Devlin summarized. “That might lead to suicide. But what caused the behavior change?”

Craig frowned. “Money problems, maybe?” He searched the reports and found financial statements, quickly skimming aloud the man’s net worth, debt and recent credit card statements, but found no significant financial problems.

“Interesting,” Devlin said. “If anything, Damon Byrd was a prime example of solid investments with a sizable savings account and a decent stock portfolio, although his cumulative worth wasn’t significant enough to warrant murder.”

“And all signs point to suicide,” Craig said. “According to the medical examiner’s report, Byrd shot himself in the head at close range with a .38 which had been registered in his name. He’d purchased it a few weeks before.” Craig skimmed further. “Do you think it’s possible the victims belonged to some kind of cult?”

“One that made a suicide pact?” Devlin asked.

Craig nodded.

“I’ll put someone on that angle,” Devlin said, “although there’s no references to either one of them joining any kind of religious or activist type group.”

“Maybe those lab results will help pinpoint the nature of this virus,” Craig said. “Thornbird was probably waiting on those reports as well.”

“There has to be some connection we’re missing.” Devlin scratched his chin. “Victim two. Emmett Grayson, forty years old. Married. Two kids in high school. Worked as a garage mechanic.”

Craig twisted his mouth in thought. “So far, no similarities.”

“Except that his wife, neighbors and co-workers all said his behavior had changed. He seemed angry all the time, had even threatened to hit his son, had slammed his fist through a window at the garage when a disgruntled client accused him of overcharging for services.”

“The erratic behavior change,” Craig said. “It has to be a result of the virus. Maybe it’s spreading through some kind of chemical spill that was absorbed in the water or land,” Craig said.

“Water samples have come back clean.” Devlin shuffled the papers. “Still waiting on the results of the soil samples.”

“There’s another possibility we have to consider,” Devlin said. “The victims might have been targets.”

“You mean someone purposely infected them?” Craig scrubbed a hand over his day’s growth of beard stubble. “What’s the motive?”

“I’m not sure. Thornbird could have been killed to stop the research. As far as a connection, the two vics in Europe were also scientists, but the first two victims here weren’t, so I don’t see a connection between them.” Devlin gathered his notes. “I’m leaving for Germany in the morning to conference with the agents there. You’re in charge here.”

Craig accessed the Internet when Devlin left, then checked for stories with Olivia’s byline. She’d penned a piece about the original director of CIRP who’d died after conducting unethical experiments and trying to sell research to a foreign government. And she’d covered the end of the Savannah serial killings and the attack on Claire Kos.

But so had the other papers, and her piece hadn’t revealed details not also covered in the other papers.

Outside, the tide had begun to break, the resounding echo of the waves fading to a soft lull. Mosquitoes buzzed at the window, a muggy breeze bringing the odor of fish and salt water. His mind shifted back to the families on the beach earlier, and he walked back to the open French doors. The soft halo of the moon bathed the sand, and a lone couple strolled hand in hand along the edge of the water, their soft laughter tinkling in the night.

Olivia Thornbird’s face flashed into his mind. For a brief moment, he allowed himself to forget that he was a trained agent, a man who was supposed to live without feelings, a man who’d spent time overseas in secret military missions that he’d never discuss with anyone. A man who refused to get involved with a woman because emotions interfered with his job.

He let himself imagine he and Olivia walking the beach, lingering in the shadow of the moon with heated touches and erotic kisses. But the sound of her heartrending cries bled into the darkness.

Those cries would stay with him tonight. And probably forever.

HE WAS A GENIUS.

A harsh laugh rumbled deep in his chest as he recalled the stumped looks on the policemen’s faces when they’d stood outside Thornbird’s house and heard that gunshot blast. And when they’d seen the rash…oh, he wished he’d had a camera. They were chasing their tails to discern how he’d accomplished what he had.

But they would never figure out the truth. Not all of it, anyway.

He crushed the seashells in his hand, then scattered the broken pieces across the grass, smiling as blood trickled down his palm. Instead of wincing at the pain, he relished it, had been trained to endure it, in fact. It drove him. Made him the man he was.

He stared at Olivia Thornbird’s dark apartment, wondering about the woman inside. She was beautiful. Tenacious. Smart.

Would Olivia Thornbird be manipulated by the puppet master himself?

Probably. All he wanted was for her to print the story. Stir panic. Do her job.

And she wouldn’t be able to resist.

Yet, he suspected the master might have underestimated her inquisitive nature.

Soundlessly, he moved into the shadows of the live oak as a couple strolled by on the sidewalk. His boss had been watching her father for some time. Wondering if eventually he’d let his ethics and conscience get to him again. And when the feds had enlisted Thornbird’s help, he’d known he had to do something fast before Thornbird unearthed the truth.

The traffic noises in the background jarred the quiet, but he blocked it out as he had learned to do with all sensory intrusions.

A light flickered on in Olivia’s bedroom, and he glanced up at the window, unease tickling his spine when her silhouette appeared in the window. Pain would only cause Olivia Thornbird to push harder, just as it had him.

Though she’d disagree, they were very much alike.

She wouldn’t let things rest. Unfortunately, if she dug too deeply into the past, he’d have to take care of her, too. Just as he had the others.

But not tonight.

The master would tell him when the time was right.

Chapter Four

Olivia awakened the next morning with a heavy ache in her chest. Her father was gone, and there were dozens of arrangements to make for his funeral.

But she lacked the energy for any of them.

Besides, it would take time for the medical examiner to complete the autopsy. Longer than normal, especially if Agent Horn was doing his job. They would conduct a battery of tests on his body that would be extensive, involve sending samples away to various labs for analysis and cross-referencing with other databases for cases that might be similar.

She needed to get into the house and look through her father’s files before Agent Horn returned and confiscated them. If he hadn’t already.

She poured herself a strong cup of coffee, grabbed the morning paper, and nearly choked over the photograph of her father’s limp body lying on the floor.

Her co-worker and competitor, Jerry Renard, had written the piece, slanting the article as she would have, raising questions about the correlation with the other so-called suicides.

Fueled by his comments and knowing that if she didn’t get the real story, someone else would, someone who might paint her father in a poor light, she phoned the Department of Public Safety.

“Miss Thornbird,” the receptionist said in a derisive tone, “Dr. Oberman is not accepting calls from reporters.”

“Tell him that I’m not just any reporter, I’m the daughter of the latest victim of the Savannah Suicides, that I’m not going away until he talks to me, that—”

“One moment please.”

Olivia tapped the table with her fingernails while she waited. It seemed like forever before a man came on the line. “Miss Thornbird, Dr. Oberman.”

“Finally.”

“Listen, young lady, I’m a very busy man—”

“Hopefully trying to find out what’s causing the virus that’s prompting these suicides in Savannah. I want to know what you’re doing to protect the public.”

He coughed, obviously surprised at her boldness. “First of all, I have spoken with the federal agents working the case, and they’ve assured me everything possible is being done to get to the bottom of these suicides. There is no proof that a virus has anything to do with the cases.”

“That’s bull and you know it. My father was a scientist who worked for CIRP. He was consulting with Special Agent Craig Horn about the virus.”

“He told you that?”

Olivia hedged. “Yes. And before his death, my father exhibited the same symptoms as the other victims.”

“Miss Thornbird, I can assure you that if there is some connection, our federal agents will find it. Now, please let the police do their jobs, and don’t create widespread panic by printing unsubstantiated speculations.”

“Dr. Oberman, fifteen years ago, my mother also died of a suspicious virus she contracted while working for the government. When my father asked questions, he hit a dead end because your people covered it up.” Angry, her voice rose an octave. “I don’t intend for my father’s death to be swept under the rug like hers. Both of them were working for you. Now find out what killed them and let me know what you’re doing to protect the public, or when I find out, and I will, I’ll expose all of your dirty little secrets and blow you clean out of office.”

Furious, she slammed down the phone, inhaled her coffee and washed down a chocolate candy bar for breakfast, her vice when she was upset.

The phone rang. Expecting the caller to be Oberman, she picked it up, fuming. “I meant what I said—don’t mess with me.”

“If I were you, I wouldn’t be making threats, or you’ll wind up like your father.”

Olivia froze, the handset clenched between clammy fingers. The caller’s voice was deeper than Oberman’s, maybe even simulated.

“Who is this?”

“I’m warning you, Miss Thornbird, stay out of the way or you’ll regret it.”

She opened her mouth to speak again, but the phone clicked into silence.

“AGENT HORN, I just received a call from Olivia Thornbird.”

Craig silently cursed. Dr. Oberman, head of the DPS, sounded royally pissed.

Damn it. He’d barely gotten out of the shower and there were already more problems. He shook the water from his hair, knotted a towel around his waist and went to the kitchen for more coffee. “I can’t say I’m surprised. The woman is persistent.”

“Persistent? Hell, she’s a bomb ready to explode.” Oberman released a string of expletives. “What’s the situation?”

“So far, all the vics have shown symptoms of a rash, red patchy skin, fever and nosebleeds, prior to death, as well as symptoms of depression. There are too many similarities for the individual cases to be coincidence. We’re trying to find a connection.”

“The bottom line, Horn? Are these suicides?”

“Yes and no. For now, we’re calling them suicides, at least that’s what we’re telling the press.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that, technically, each of the victims took his own life. But we believe that the virus causes psychotic behavior which drives them to kill themselves.”

“That’s the damnedest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“But a perfect front for murder. We’re looking at three possibilities—a cult, a serial killer or a terrorist faction, although if this is a serial killer, we haven’t documented any similar cases before. And we have no evidence showing that any of the victims belonged to a cult.”

Oberman swore.

Craig continued, “We also don’t know how the virus is being contracted, if it’s contagious and why these people have been targeted.”

“Hell, if it is a terrorist group, there may be no rhyme or reason.”

“But if we find out how these folks are getting the virus, we can pinpoint who might be spreading it and if they are being infected intentionally.”

“You’ve checked the water and soil?” Oberman asked.

“Still have some tests pending.”

“Is the virus airborne?”

“No. And so far, samples from the first victim’s home showed no contamination.” Although they hadn’t finished testing Thornbird’s work clothes.

“Well, that’s a relief.”

“Yes. Thornbird was working on isolating the virus when he died. I’m having his research analyzed.”

Oberman groaned. “So Olivia Thornbird was right? Her father was working for you.”

“Yes.” The knot of anxiety in Horn’s chest tightened. “Now we have to start over with a new scientist, Dr. Fred Fulton. Dr. Ian Hall, the director of CIRP, says he’s cooperating. But I’m not certain we can trust either of them.”

“Have duplicate tests run. Samples sent to the CDC in Atlanta. I’ll speak to the higher-ups there and tell them to expect it.”

“Right.” Craig explained about Devlin’s visit to Europe.

Oberman hissed, “I don’t want this story leaked. I’m worried about Olivia Thornbird.”

“I’ll handle her.”

“Good, do whatever it takes,” Oberman barked.

Craig frowned and hung up, wondering what Oberman had meant.

Olivia’s anguished expression returned to haunt him. Could he do whatever it took to keep her quiet?

He’d have to shut her out. Lie to her. Pretend he didn’t give a damn about her old man, that his research hadn’t gotten him killed.

Which they both knew was a lie.

But that would be the easy part. After all, he was FBI. The Iceman. Keeping things undercover and lying were an inherent part of the job.

The hard part would be resisting Olivia’s tempting lips and bewitching eyes.

ALTHOUGH OLIVIA WAS SHAKEN by the phone call, the warning only confirmed what she already suspected—that somebody had intentionally infected her father with the virus.

That his research was the key to the rash of suicides in Savannah, and that technically now the others might be related. That they might not be suicides at all.

Her fingers slid over the card Agent Horn had given her the night before with his invitation to phone if she needed him. Should she tell him about the threat?

Maybe.

But not yet.

After all, what could he do? The caller hadn’t talked long enough for a trace. And he’d been calling from an unlisted number. Besides, if she told Craig, he’d insist she have some protection.

She couldn’t do her job with someone watching over her shoulder.

She phoned for a cab, hurried outside and waited for it, then quickly instructed the driver where to go.

A few minutes later, the driver parked at her father’s house, and turned to her, his bushy eyebrows raised. “Ain’t that the house where that man shot himself yesterday?”

Olivia nodded, unwilling to elaborate.

He smacked his rubbery lips. “Thought that yellow tape meant to stay out.”

She rolled her eyes, her patience thin. “Just let me out.”

He grumbled, then accepted her money, eyeing the tip as if he expected more, so she stuffed an extra five dollars in his hand, hoping he wouldn’t mention his drop-off to anyone.

Feeling jittery but determined, she slipped beneath the tape, hurried around to the back door, unlocked it and dashed inside. She wanted to be alone in the house. Have time to remember her father and to search through his files.

A few minutes later, she sighed in defeat. Of course, the FBI had confiscated his computer and diskettes. They’d also searched his desk.

On the off chance he might have hidden information, she went into his bedroom. The scent of cigarette smoke and her father’s cologne assaulted her, bringing a surge of sadness. Her father’s favorite plaid shirt lay on the floor, and the worn soles of his loafers peeked from beneath the unmade bed. A stack of medical journals were stacked haphazardly on the floor in one corner, a half dozen notepads scattered across the bed.

She thumbed through each one, looking for notes. But the pages were empty. Frustrated, she opened her father’s closet in search of a file box that might hold disks or information, but didn’t find one. Her father’s lab coat lay on the floor, memories of watching him shrug into it filling her head. She picked it up, pressed it to her cheek and inhaled her father’s scent, for a brief moment allowing nostalgia to sweep her back in time.

Seconds later, she fought the grief and forced herself to search the pockets. Inside, she found a small scrap of paper. Curious, she unfolded it, her eyes widening as she read.

Dr. Thornbird, if you don’t back off, you’re dead.

KNOWING OLIVIA WOULD WANT her car back, Craig phoned her, but when she didn’t answer, he assumed she’d already gone to her father’s.

Not a good idea.

The agents had searched the house already, but she would undoubtedly want to do so herself. And there was the possibility that she might know places to look that they didn’t.

He shouldn’t have left her alone for a second. Might even need to put a tail on her.

He jumped in his car and phoned the coroner’s office while he drove toward Thornbird’s.

“We’re starting to work on Thornbird today,” Dr. Rollins said.

“I spoke with Dr. Oberman from the DPS. He wants duplicate samples sent to the CDC in Atlanta for a cross-check. Devlin will also have samples of any cultures taken from the European scientists sent there to compare. And send duplicate samples to CIRP.”

Rollins agreed, and he hung up, then turned down the drive to Thornbird’s. His gut told him Olivia was already here.

And that she’d bypass the yellow tape and go inside.

Not that he could blame her. She was intelligent. The man’s daughter. She had reason to be suspicious.

But she could screw up this investigation badly. And if they discovered there was a serial killer, if this was some kind of terrorist attack or if CIRP was involved, secrecy would be their best defense.

The neighborhood looked different today without the curious neighbors and the police cars parked on the side. Although the immediate threat of violence had dissipated on the surface, had the residents locked their doors last night? Been suspicious of their neighbors? Warned their children not to ride their bikes outside their drives?

Their peace would be destroyed if his suspicions were confirmed or if Olivia printed her own in the paper.

He scanned the exterior of the house. Nothing looked amiss. Her car was still in the same spot. No lights were on inside.

He approached cautiously. Decided to check the back before he went inside.

He walked around the overgrown yard, noticed the tire swing, the area where a garden had once been. Thought of the family that had once lived there. The one that was now gone.

And then he glanced through the back bedroom window and saw Olivia.

Her blond hair spilled around her shoulders, the dark circles beneath her eyes a testament to a grief-spent night.

His gut clenched as he thought about her carrying the burden of her father’s loss all alone.

Do whatever you have to do to keep her quiet, Oberman had ordered.

He braced himself to do just that as he reached for the door.

OLIVIA CLAMPED HER LIP over her teeth at the sight of Craig Horn. Last night outside her apartment door, the air had grown tight around them. The memory of his hands on her, stroking her, holding her, had come unbidden during the night. And with the morning sunlight glinting off his bronzed cheeks, he looked more handsome than any federal agent had a right to be. More like a renegade than FBI.

But he worked for the government. He was the enemy. And gone was any hint of gentleness. The hard-assed, stone-cold Iceman was back.

“Olivia, you know you shouldn’t be in here.”

“I…I need clothes for my father for the funeral.”

He arched a dark brow. “The medical examiner is nowhere near releasing your father’s body.”

“I have to sort through his things.”

His eyes darkened as if he suspected she was lying. “So soon?”

“Yes. I…need to do it.”

“You mean you need to check out his work? Look for some clue as to why he’d take his life?”

“Wouldn’t you if you were in my shoes and your father had died?”

He silently cursed. At one time, he’d have done anything to please his old man. Now, he tried his best to put him out of his mind.

“If there was anything here, the police have already found it.” He moved closer, so close she stepped backward. His size was intimidating, his angry eyes scorching her. “Unless you know some place he might have kept things? Did he have a safe-deposit box? A secret safe somewhere?”

She shook her head. The rich timbre of his voice was so deep it was almost threatening. And titillating, as well.

Craig Horn was the kind of man who could battle the most ruthless of bastards. But he also could bring a woman to climax in record time.

She didn’t know why that thought occurred to her, but she sensed it was true. And her body was tingling just looking at his big hands. Remembering the feel of them on her back, pressing her close, trying to protect her.

He stepped even closer, invading her space so she felt the hint of his breath on her cheek.

“Do you know something you aren’t telling me?”

She shook her head, fighting the urge to run. Olivia Thornbird had never let a man intimidate her, but the Iceman’s sexual prowess was almost more than she could bear.

“If you have information on the case, Olivia, you have to share it with me.” He traced a finger down her shoulder, making her shiver. “You want me to find out what happened, don’t you?”

She stiffened. He was purposely trying to throw her off balance. A tough, brooding, silent type now playing the comforting, caring man to siphon information. She knew the game. Had used it herself.

And he had his technique down pat.

But she couldn’t fall into the trap.

“How do I know that you don’t already have the answers?” she asked. “That you aren’t keeping the truth from me?”

Touché. She could see it in his eyes. He’d planned to lie. “Is that what happened with your mother?”

She swallowed hard. She hadn’t expected that tactic. “What do you know about her?”

He shrugged. “Just that she died while researching a virus years ago.”

“Yes, and the government covered it up.”

“You have proof of this?” Craig asked.

She hesitated, wishing she had. “No.”

“Maybe your father wanted to protect you.”

“Is that what you’re doing, Agent Horn? Trying to protect me like you did my father?”

A muscle twitched in his jaw, a long silence stretching between them before he finally replied, “I’m sorry about your father, Olivia.”

His gruff voice barely hinted at the emotions teetering to the surface. But he squared himself to his full height, ungiving. “I know you want to investigate,” Craig said in a steely voice. “But this might be dangerous, Olivia. Stay out of it.”

“I don’t care if it is dangerous.” She jutted up her chin. “I’ve lost everyone, Horn. The only thing I have to live for is to find out the reason why.”

His eyes darkened, the silence so intense she could have sworn she felt the molecules of air colliding around her. Then his gaze dropped to her hand. She’d forgotten she was still holding the threatening note.

The paper crinkled between her fingers as he slid his hand over hers and pried it from her fingers.

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