Noah stood in the doorway, naked except for a towel slung carelessly around his hips

He affected her in a way that was beyond her control. With him less than two feet away, she couldn’t think. He shifted that dark, hypnotic gaze from her to his bed and back. Heat exploded inside her, sending stream after stream of hot, urgent sensations through her body. She trembled; her heart rate would not slow, her rapid intake of breath belied her composure.

He moved in her direction. “My private space is off-limits.”

He was too gorgeous…too splendid to ignore. Whatever had happened to him five years ago, there was no outward indication that he was anything other than perfect. Even in the low light it was impossible to miss the sexual hunger glittering behind those deep brown eyes. His tone was thick with desire and promise, soft in a way that was lethal to all that made her a woman. “I don’t think you realize just how dangerous it is here for you….”

Guardian of the Night
Debra Webb

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Debra Webb was born in Scottsboro, Alabama, to parents who taught her that anything is possible if you want it badly enough. She began writing at age nine. Eventually she met and married the man of her dreams, and tried some other occupations, including selling vacuum cleaners and working in a factory, a day-care center, a hospital and a department store. When her husband joined the military, they moved to Berlin, Germany, and Debra became a secretary in the commanding general’s office. By 1985 they were back in the States, and they finally moved to Tennessee, to a small town where everyone knows everyone else. With the support of her husband and two beautiful daughters, Debra took up writing again, looking to mystery and movies for inspiration. In 1998 her dream of writing for Harlequin came true. You can write to Debra with your comments at P.O. Box 64, Huntland, Tennessee 37345.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Maggie “Blue” Callahan—A Specialist in a highly covert government organization. Protecting Noah Drake will endanger her heart as well as her life.

Noah Drake—A former military intelligence officer. His past decision to be the first human to field-test a prototype robbed him of a future.

Thomas Casey—The enigmatic director of Mission Recovery.

Lucas Camp—Deputy director of Mission Recovery. He will do whatever is necessary to take care of his Specialists. His people are his number one priority.

Victoria Colby—The head of the Chicago-based Colby Agency. She is intelligent, sophisticated and loyal…but most of all, she is the woman Lucas Camp loves.

Edgar Rothman—A lead research scientist in a secret government organization. The man who developed the prototype that failed, costing Noah Drake his life as he knew it.

Lowell Kline—Noah Drake’s assistant/companion. Lowell takes care of the home that serves as Noah’s prison.

General Regan Bonner—A man who wants only one thing: vengeance.

Chester Parks—The island gossip and errand man.

Leberman—A man who would like nothing better than to see the Colby Agency destroyed.

Things are not always as they seem. These words are especially true of those with special circumstances. Sometimes all we take the time to see is what’s on the outside of a person, never looking deeper, never noticing who they really are. This book is dedicated to a very special person whose life changed mine so profoundly and at the same time so wonderfully that my journey was forever changed. To my daughter, Erica Webb Jeffrey. You are an inspiration to us all. Love, Mom.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter One

Darkness.

His only escape from the prison he called home.

The deserted beach stretched out before him like a vast, uncharted universe. It moved like a shadowy serpent, ever undulating. Waves crashed, slid away, leaving a glittering residue on the sand that captured the sparse light of the cloud-veiled moon. While he stood perfectly still, the breeze whispered through the night, urging him to enjoy the freedom only the too-short hours after the gloaming and before the dawn could offer.

Noah Drake closed his eyes and inhaled deeply of the thick salt air. He burrowed his toes in the sand, smiled and imagined the infinite grains hot from the scorching sun, the heat baking his bare feet. He summoned the memory of how the sunlight felt on his face, warm, like a lover’s kiss. With more slow, deep breaths, he persuaded himself to relax and he could almost feel the golden brilliance touching him, healing him as nothing else could.

He opened his eyes.

It was only a memory.

Noah would never know that invigorating sensation again. This was as close as he would get. The moon peeked from amid the voluminous purple clouds making the sand appear whiter, the water bluer. All else was lost to him. For five endless years he had been sentenced to darkness. The cold, empty truth filled him with an all-consuming rage. Adrenaline surged through his veins, as hot as Hades must surely be and as insistent as the breaking surf that was now as much a part of him as his own heartbeat.

So he tugged on the running shoes that lay at his feet and he ran.

Along the beach then through the dense forest that forged right up to the sand like a battalion of troops ready to conquer. Dense undergrowth closed in around him, and towering trees laden with moss rendered the shadows beneath impenetrable. All traces of the moon disappeared, all that remained was the silent foreboding. But that didn’t stop Noah. His vision had long ago adjusted to this nocturnal existence, as his hearing had grown keener with the silence of his self-imposed exile from the human race.

He was alone, living in the darkness like a vampire but with no bloodlust to compel him to strive for survival.

He simply existed.

Noah ran through the night until he reached a place that no one else on St. Gabriel Island dared visit…even in the bright, unforgiving light of day.

The concerto of cicadas was very nearly deafening. He drew the thick, balmy air into his lungs, exhaled again and again until his respiration had slowed and his skin had ceased to tingle. A slick coat of sweat had dampened his flesh and he felt cleansed by it.

He moved closer to the looming structure that had once reigned proudly in the center of a clearing. That clearing had decades ago been reclaimed by the semi-tropical forest. Ivy shrouded the ancient chapel’s exterior, hiding the timeworn cracks in its sagging walls, disguising its proximity to inevitable collapse. Inside was cavernous and as dark as a tomb, which was fitting since the rumors on the island had pegged him as the walking dead, a distant cousin of Count Dracula, no doubt.

Some species of the local fauna scurried out through the wide door, open and partially unhinged on one side. Probably a raccoon, Noah decided, unafraid. He waded through knee-deep weeds that grew in the loamy soil as he moved past the chapel and to the cemetery beyond it. He had no fear of anything reptilian or otherwise, he was the walking dead, after all. What did Noah Drake have to fear?

Only the light.

And a past that had destroyed his future, and any semblance of a normal present.

Camouflaged by the creeping flora, primitive head-stones, crumbling with age, marked the final resting places of a few of St. Gabriel’s former residents. No one on the island ever came near the place anymore. Not since the ground had been tainted some thirty or so years ago by the burial of one of Savannah’s premier voodoo queens, or so went the gossip. Noah wondered if the woman had felt as alone in her beliefs as he did in his inescapable isolation.

But he was alone, not lonely, he reminded himself. He didn’t need anyone. And there was his work…his private expression of aloneness.

Minutes turned into hours as he wandered with no particular destination. He didn’t often leave the house for this long, or travel this far from its sanctuary. A simple mistake such as falling and injuring himself could mean certain death if he were unable to return before dawn. But he’d needed to escape the demons from his past and this was the only way he’d known how.

They were coming…for him.

All he could do was wait. It was the waiting that got to him, not the fear for his life. Just the waiting.

Acutely attuned to nature’s predawn signals, he eventually moved back toward safety. He slowed as he neared the house. Inside lay reality. Out here, he glanced toward the east and the pink and purple hues already creeping above the horizon, was freedom, hope, possibility.

But his time was up. Going back inside wasn’t a mere alternative, it was a necessity. If he remained outdoors and the sun came up, which it would inevitably do…he would die.

As he trudged through the sand, he studied the details of the prison he’d chosen. The three-story Victorian Gothic-style house had a long ways to go before she would be fully restored to her former glory, but she was impressive still, at once brooding and enchanting if one was predisposed to romance.

Hurricane shutters, now closed at all times, masked the floor-to-ceiling windows. More than a century after the house’s construction, that detail had become an important one for the new owner. Interior shutters and heavy drapes rendered the numerous massive windows—eyes to the outer world—completely sightless. No one saw in, no one saw out and not even so much as a glimmer of light penetrated his large, aboveground dungeon.

When he reached the screened porch that had been added sometime in the last half of the twentieth century, Noah turned around and looked out over the ocean one last time. That had actually been the deciding factor in his choosing this place. The sound of the surf, the immensity of its boundaries were breathtaking even without the aid of the sun.

It was all that kept him sane.

“Noah, you’ve been gone for hours.” The gently scolding voice greeted him the moment he opened the door into the kitchen.

Tamping down the instant irritation, Noah manufactured a smile for his relentless companion, Lowell Kline. Companion, what an odd designation for his mind to conjure, Noah considered abruptly. But it was true. Lowell was paid well to live here, had been for a year now. Did the shopping, the cooking, the laundry, even the cleaning. He fussed over Noah like a grandmother every chance he got. Most of the time Noah avoided him, but sometimes, as now, Lowell would catch Noah off guard and that annoyed him immensely. Lowell wanted to be a true companion in that he wanted to be Noah’s friend. But Noah didn’t want that. He didn’t want anyone to be too close.

“I’m fine, Lowell.” He regarded his dedicated employee, wondering again what made him stay. It definitely wasn’t the pleasure of the company. Lowell Kline was certainly capable of earning a good wage elsewhere. His still-full head of hair was as white as the clouds Noah remembered from a clear summer’s day. Though not a large fellow, at fifty-five Lowell was quite fit. The older man was well-read and deemed himself the resident expert on the island folklore, including the still-secretly-practiced black voodoo and the long-ago days when pirates and smugglers had frequented the place.

“Have you been up all this time?” Noah inquired. He preferred his solitude. Lowell knew that.

Lowell looked flustered. He tried very hard not to let Noah catch him keeping too close tabs. “Well no, but when I awoke and realized you weren’t back I began to worry.”

Noah nodded, suddenly too tired to discuss the issue. This was his life—existence, he amended. “I apologize if I worried you. Your concern is unnecessary, I assure you. I’m heading for the shower.”

“Noah,” Lowell said, stalling his departure. “You’ve received another…letter.”

The last word hung in the air like the steamy July humidity outside, only heavy with an undercurrent of apprehension…of menace.

“Let me see.” It was only then that Noah noticed Lowell held a bundle of mail under one arm, his reading glasses dangling from his hand. He’d obviously been going through the stack Noah had ignored for the past four days. Noah preferred to do it himself, but whenever he got behind, by choice generally, Lowell took the initiative.

Noah looked at the envelope. As before it was nondescript, white in color, business-size with no return address. The postmark was Atlanta. He reached inside and pulled out the single sheet of paper. It was just like all the others. Letters of the alphabet in different fonts and sizes had been cut from magazines or newspapers and arranged into haphazard words then pasted onto the plain white page.

There’s no place to hide.

Noah sighed, crumpled the letter and tossed it across the room. Anger seethed inside him. The letters had been coming once a week for more than two months. The first few had been nothing more than hate mail. That hadn’t really bothered him since he’d been called worse by the locals on occasion. But the last three or four had grown threatening. Last week’s I’m coming for you had sent Lowell over the edge. He’d insisted on informing Edgar Rothman, the only man involved with the government whom Noah even remotely associated with.

Rothman had overreacted as usual.

“There was a call also,” Lowell said hesitantly, obviously weighing the merits of saying more but duty bound to do so.

Noah paused again, his fierce glare cut to Lowell, he flinched. “What call?”

“Mr. Rothman wanted you to know that he was sending someone down to…” Lowell cleared his throat. “To serve as a sort of bodyguard.”

Noah swore, long and loud, like a sailor fresh in from a long stretch at sea finding his wife in bed with one of the local riffraff. If his enemy wanted revenge, why didn’t he take it? These games weren’t his style. Either way, Noah wasn’t running.

“Call Rothman back and tell him to forget it. I don’t want anyone coming here. I will not allow it.”

“But, what if—”

Noah pinned him with a look that he felt certain conveyed the finality of his words. “If you would feel more comfortable taking a leave until this is over, I fully understand. But I do not want a damned bodyguard. Under any circumstances.”

BLUE CALLAHAN surged forward, gaining her second wind as she sprinted into the home stretch of her three-mile run. Her heart pumped hard and steady, forcing the adrenaline-charged blood through her veins and melting the last of the tension from her body.

She’d awakened this morning with a scream trapped in her throat and sweat dampening her skin, nightmares left over from Port Charlotte. The mission had gone smoothly right up until the end. But she’d survived. Vince Ferrelli and Katrina Moore had survived too. The bad guys had been defeated and all was right in the world once more.

Just twenty-four hours had passed and the incident that had shaken her to the core was still fresh in her memory. But it would pass. She knew from experience that it would. Focusing on more pleasant thoughts, she remembered that Lucas Camp had mentioned that he had scheduled a mission where she would be the primary. He’d also warned that there was a short fuse on this one, she should be ready ASAP.

She was ready.

As soon as she had shaken off the lingering effects of the nightmare, she’d started packing in preparation. She didn’t have to know where she was going or for how long; all Specialists were trained on the proper preparations for a mission. Her selections would cover most any situation or climate.

Then she’d pushed, stretching to her physical limits all morning in an effort to dispel the remnants of the nightmares. Glancing at her watch, she realized it was almost noon and she was starved.

If she hurried she could make it to Terry’s Pizza in time for lunch with the usual crew. Blue bounded away from the track, slowing her pace as she approached the gym. This training facility was for Specialists only. Every person here was assigned to the most highly covert organization belonging to the United States government. Blue’s unit, Special Operations, fell under Mission Recovery and was headed by Director Thomas Casey. Lucas Camp, one of her favorite people, served as Deputy Director.

This state-of-the-art training facility made the FBI’s Farm look like an elementary-school playground. Blue smiled at that thought. She’d considered a career at the Bureau first when she graduated from UCLA, but she’d chosen the Secret Service instead. Having hailed from a family of cops, third generation at that, she had definitely wanted to go into law enforcement. But being the only girl in her close-knit family of six siblings, Blue had learned hard and fast that if she didn’t keep one step ahead of the boys, she’d always be two steps behind. So she’d opted for federal service rather than local law enforcement. Being asked for by name by the president himself had made her a legend in the Callahan family as well as envied by her peers.

No one in her family could believe it when she had left the Secret Service for her current duty. Forward Research, the people whose sole responsibility was to scout out talent for Mission Recovery, had noticed her Secret Service exploits and, the moment the president for whom she worked had left office, they’d lured her away from the dark suits and designer sunglasses.

Mission Recovery’s whole cloak-and-dagger routine had seduced her. Now her brothers, all local cops in L.A., were permanently one-upped. Little sister was a secret agent. She always laughed and told them it was nothing nearly so James Bondish as all that. But the truth was, they were closer to the mark than they knew.

Mission Recovery had been created to serve the needs of all other government agencies, CIA, FBI, ATF, DEA. Whenever the usual channels failed, Mission Recovery was called in to “recover” the situation. Blue could vouch for the fact that all the members of this elite group, called Specialists, were highly trained in all areas of anti-terrorism, aggressive infiltration and such. Of course, she couldn’t share any of that with her brothers.

But that was okay with Blue. She didn’t do any of it for the notoriety, she did it because she loved the job. Most of the time anyway.

She slowed to a walk as she entered the gym and made the journey to the women’s locker rooms. The place was deserted. There weren’t that many females in Mission Recovery, but their facilities were every bit as elaborate as their male counterparts’.

Peeling off her T-shirt, she toed off her sneakers, then reached for the door to her locker. Her cellular telephone rang. She flipped down the mouthpiece and said a breathless, “Callahan.”

“Blue, this is Joan at the gallery.”

Blue’s heart did a somersault. “Hey, Joan.” She tried to stay calm and not jump the gun here, but adrenaline was already soaring through her.

“I’ve located another painting by that obscure artist.”

“So I can purchase the one I’ve been admiring?” she asked quickly. She had to know! She’d mooned—obsessed really—over that painting for months now. She’d even dreamed of the enigmatic artist behind the work. Too bad no one, not even the gallery owner, knew his name. The work was simply signed N.D.D. All transactions were conducted through his agent. N.D.D. was a complete mystery. One Blue would like nothing better than to solve. Since his work was so hard to come by, the gallery owner was reluctant to let it go.

Joan laughed softly. “Drop by at your convenience. I’ll be holding it for you.”

Blue tossed the phone back into the locker and did a little victory dance. The painting was hers. Thoughts of the dark, sensual images of the almost Gothic-looking forest scene made her shiver. And now it was hers!

She snagged her towel. Maybe she’d have time to pick it up today. Clad only in her sports bra and running shorts, she closed her locker and turned to head toward the showers.

She inhaled sharply at the sight of Lucas Camp sitting on a bench at the end of the row of lockers, a briefcase at his feet.

“Afternoon, Callahan.” He propped his hands on his cane and eyed her unapologetically. “I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

“No, sir.” Growing up with five brothers made a girl pretty damned unflappable. She threw the towel over her shoulder and moved to the bench. “Your timing is perfect. I’ve been thinking about you and that assignment you mentioned.” She sat down next to him.

Though the last place she’d expected to receive a mission briefing was in the women’s locker room at the training facility, she’d waited a long time to be the primary on an assignment. She’d take it any way it came. No matter that her record with the Secret Service was stellar, all Specialists started out on the same level and had to earn their way in Mission Recovery. Impressing the likes of Lucas Camp and Thomas Casey was no easy feat.

Lucas reached into his briefcase and brought out a large unmarked manila envelope. “Here’s the profile on your principal, Noah Drake. You’ll serve as his personal bodyguard until further notice.”

Blue nodded. “I look forward to the opportunity.”

Those wise gray eyes studied her for several seconds before he continued. “Mr. Drake has special circumstances.” Lucas nodded toward the envelope. “The necessary details are there. To cut to the chase, before forced retirement as a major in military intelligence he was instrumental in numerous high-level missions. It would be pointless to tell you the branch he served since our government continues to deny its existence, it suffices to say that its chief focus is research and development and Major Drake was one of their best-kept secrets.”

Blue listened intently, her heart surging into a brisk pace once more. This sounded like a choice assignment.

“Five years ago Drake volunteered to test their newest prototype.” Lucas drew in a deep breath, then let it go as if taking the time to consider his next words more carefully. “The new technology appeared successful and was used in an operation that brought down a ring of traitors within our own government.

“Unfortunately two things went wrong,” Lucas resumed after a moment’s pause. “There was a serious discrepancy in a piece of crucial evidence and the ring leader, General Regan Bonner, got off with a mere slap on the hand, four years in a minimum-security institution. Club Med, if you get my drift.”

A frown worried Blue’s brow as she waited for the rest. When his pause lengthened, she prompted, “You said two things went wrong.”

Lucas nodded, his expression solemn. “The experimental technology had an adverse effect on Noah Drake’s physical health. He had to give up his career and live like a prisoner in his own home. And that’s where he remains to this day.”

“So Bonner has been released and he represents a threat to Drake?”

“We believe that to be the case. Bonner swore he would have his vengeance on Drake. And since his release six months ago, intel suggests that he has not only behaved suspiciously, but that he has been consorting with known assassins and other anti-American partisans. Then two months ago, Drake started receiving threatening letters.”

Blue unconsciously dragged loose the holder from her ponytail in preparation for that badly needed shower, but her thoughts were on Drake. “Where is Drake now?”

“Are you familiar with St. Gabriel Island?”

She shook her head.

“It’s just off the coast of Georgia,” he explained. “Near Savannah. That’s where you’ll fly into. We’ve chartered a boat to take you to the island. Once there, transportation will be provided.”

Picturing a tropical island, Blue said, “Sounds like a vacation spot.”

“It’s a lovely place, that’s true enough,” Lucas told her as if he had firsthand knowledge. “But it’s small and the locals don’t care much for outsiders. They’ll shun you, probably make you feel completely unwanted. Since you won’t be there to make friends, that won’t really matter. Just don’t expect to be embraced as if you were on a more touristy island.”

“When do I leave?” Adrenaline spiked. She was so ready for this.

“Your flight to Atlanta and then on to Savannah leaves National tomorrow morning. Can you handle that?”

Blue smiled. “I started packing this morning in anticipation of your call.” That still gave her time to pick up the painting.

Though Lucas didn’t smile, she didn’t miss the sparkle of amusement and approval in his eyes. “Very good, Callahan. The other accessories you’ll need will be waiting on St. Gabriel.”

Blue knew what he meant by “other accessories.” When flying commercial it was always best to have the weapons one needed waiting on the other end. It cut down on the hassle and supported anonymity.

“Who’s got my back?” she asked, wondering if it would be someone she had supported before.

Lucas didn’t answer for a moment, just considered her as if trying to decide if she was ready to hear what he had to say. “That’s why I came down here instead of calling you into the office.”

She’d wondered about that, but was so glad to get the assignment she didn’t question the irregularity.

“Edgar Rothman,” Lucas continued, “is a personal friend of Director Casey’s. Rothman feels personally responsible for what happened to Drake since he was the one who created the technology used. He doesn’t want just anyone looking out for Drake. Rothman wants the best. So, I’m sending you. I’ll have your back on this one.”

Blue’s eyes rounded in disbelief. “You’ll be on St. Gabriel?” She’d heard the words clearly enough, it just didn’t seem plausible that she’d heard correctly.

“Don’t worry, Callahan.” Lucas did smile this time. “I might spend most of my time behind a desk, but I know what I’m doing.”

She forced her head into an agreeable up-and-down motion. She didn’t doubt his qualifications or his ability. The idea was just a little unnerving. “Yes, sir.”

Lucas pushed to his feet and reached for his briefcase. “Well, I’ll leave you to carry on, my flight is this afternoon.”

Callahan followed him to the door. “Thanks, Mr. Camp.”

Lucas patted her on the arm the same way her father had done a thousand times. “Don’t worry, Callahan, I don’t bite, and, to the best of my knowledge, neither does Drake. Don’t be afraid to act as you would under any other circumstances. I won’t be there to rate your performance, I’ll be there as the director’s personal representative.”

Callahan didn’t move for a long time after the door closed behind Lucas Camp. Sure it made her a tad uneasy to know that the boss was going to be watching her every step. But as far as being afraid went, she definitely wasn’t.

Blue Callahan wasn’t afraid of anything.

A telling stillness crept through her.

Okay. There was that one itsy-bitsy matter but it didn’t really count. And no one except Ferrelli knew about it.

Her entire life she had been utterly terrified of one thing and one thing only—the dark.

Chapter Two

Unfortunately the stifling humidity she’d encountered the moment she stepped off the plane in Atlanta hadn’t abated as Blue made the boat ride to St. Gabriel Island late that evening. The view, even in the coming twilight, she had to admit, was nothing short of spectacular. She’d have been here hours ago had it not been for baggage-check delays in Atlanta.

As they cut through the water’s sleek surface, she inhaled more deeply of the salty wind caressing her face. It was rich with scents, nothing like the kind she was accustomed to in the big city. Admittedly, there was a vague hint of decaying vegetation and fish, but it wasn’t an overpowering smell, more a dash of aroma one would expect in the vicinity of a sea island.

As the boat slowed near the landing, Blue studied the small island. Near the aging dock, which served as a primitive marina, she could see what looked like a small commercial district. Very small, she decided on second look and commercial applied only in the most obscure sense of the word. Towering trees dripping Spanish moss from their arching limbs lined the sandy shore, sentinels guarding the forest beyond, a forest that looked incredibly deep and dark. She resisted the urge to shiver. And yet, it felt oddly familiar. She frowned, wondering at the sensation. She’d certainly never been here before.

It wasn’t what Blue had expected at all. When Lucas had said island, she’d thought of palm trees and other tropical plants, beaches filled with sunbathers and at least a few tourist hangouts. Not for a moment had she expected evergreens, live oaks and other deciduous trees with gnarled branches. And she definitely hadn’t anticipated the apparently sparse population.

In spite of her best efforts that shiver she’d put off tap-danced up her spine. She was being ridiculous, she knew. But all things considered, the whole mission was a little eerie even without the seemingly deserted island setting.

She’d studied the profile on Noah Drake. He was thirty-five, former military and highly decorated. Five years ago he’d field-tested some sort of experimental technology that was not explained since it was highly classified and explanations were doled out on a need-to-know basis only. The brass had apparently decided she didn’t need to know specifically what the technology was or what exactly were the resulting effects as applied to Mr. Drake. Nothing like going in blind.

She did know, however, that Drake had suffered extreme side effects. There was no mention of a physical disability, but that didn’t rule it out. He was confined to his home and had to avoid exposure to bright light, especially sunlight, at all costs. She decided that his eyes were likely the problem. Maybe his skin. Whatever the case, she would soon know.

The bottom line—and her only real concern at this point—was that he needed protection. And she was here to provide it. Noah Drake would be safe on her watch.

The boat sidled up alongside the rustic dock and Blue climbed out. She was glad now she’d dressed in jeans and walking shoes. The jeans were faded and comfortable and the black button-up blouse was her favorite.

The pilot plopped the two duffel bags she’d packed onto the worn planks. Blue thanked him and turned toward the shore. She shaded her eyes from the setting sun with her hand and searched the landing for the transportation Lucas had told her would be waiting.

An ancient pickup truck was parked about fifty feet back from the beach. At one time the vehicle appeared to have been some shade of green, though it was hard to say for sure now. Blue grabbed up her bags and started in that direction.

As she neared him, the thin man standing next to the truck pushed back his cap and scratched his balding head. “Miss Callahan?”

“At your service,” she responded, smiling a greeting in hopes of getting off on the right foot with the locals.

“Chester Parks.” He spat tobacco juice onto the ground, then squinted at her. “I’m s’posed to take you to the old Hatfield place.”

“That would be Mr. Drake’s residence?” she asked for clarification.

Reaching for one of her bags, Chester spat again and said, “Yeah. Long time ago it was a sugar plantation run by the Hatfields. Guess the name just stuck.”

Blue nodded her understanding and handed him the other bag once he’d tossed the first one into the back of his truck. Maybe the islanders weren’t as standoffish as Lucas thought. This guy seemed friendly enough.

“I’m eager to meet Mr. Drake,” she told him.

The second bag plopped down next to the first. Chester eyed her skeptically. “I imagine you’d be the only one eager for his company around here.”

Keeping the frown out of her expression, she prodded, “Why is that?”

“Well, I don’t mean to speak ill of nobody, specially if he’s your kin, but he’s an odd sort.” Chester rounded the tailgate to the driver’s side and opened the door, but hesitated before getting in. “He roams around all hours of the night like some kinda vampire. He don’t have no visitors ’cept that Mr. Kline. And—” Chester looked at her as if this was the gravest part of all “—he goes places God-fearing folks don’t go. Guess you’ll have to see for yourself.”

Blue slid into the passenger seat and wondered if Chester’s sentiments toward Mr. Drake were common among the residents. She supposed they didn’t understand his condition or the reclusiveness it dictated. It wasn’t her place to explain the circumstances. Drake might prefer his privacy.

Now that she’d had a chance to take a closer look, she noted that the “commercial district” offerings were as scarce as the population around here appeared to be. A bar, BullDog’s, and a large metal warehouse that advertised bicycle and what looked like golf cart rentals by the hour or day was just about the extent of it.

“There ain’t that many vehicles on the island,” Chester said when he followed her gaze to the golf carts. “Most folks walk or ride bicycles. Since I’ve got ol’ Bessy here, I run errands for Mr. Kline and a few of the other shut-ins. Been doing it ever since I came back from the navy in ’59.”

Blue acknowledged his chitchat with noncommittal sounds and nods at the appropriate times. She’d learned long ago that one gleaned far more by listening. Chester would know the island gossip, so she allowed him to ramble on without interruption. There was no more talk about vampires, but pirates and smugglers appeared to be a big part of the island lore.

He’d mentioned Mr. Kline. Lowell Kline had been Noah Drake’s sole associate for the past year. That much had been in the report. No one else was allowed in the house. Chester had called him a shut-in. That led Blue to wonder if Mr. Kline ever left the house either. Blue couldn’t bear that kind of lonely existence. She loved feeling the wind in her hair and the sun on her face too well. She was a California girl through and through.

Chester shifted into reverse, the transmission grinding in loud protest, and turned around so that the truck pointed toward the one road.

Blue blinked, thinking she had to be wrong, then looked again. Yep, just one road.

“Most visitors rent a cart,” Chester rattled on. “They’re right handy for getting you where you’re going around here. Not that there’s that much to do or see. Most tourists flock to St. Simons or Tybee Island. We don’t see many of ’em here. Just a few curious Georges now and again wanting to see some of the old caves the smugglers once used.”

Forcing interest into her expression and uneasiness out of it, she nodded. “I guess it’s always this quiet around here then.”

“We like it that way.” He glanced in her direction as he shifted into second. “You’ll get used to it.”

Not wanting to hurt his feelings, she smiled and kept her thoughts on the matter to herself: not in this lifetime.

Jimmy Buffet’s “Cheeseburger in Paradise” emanated from somewhere, the bar maybe. She studied the joint as they chugged past it. To a degree it defied description, the kind term would be quaint. In Blue’s estimation it was a dump. A shack with a rusty corrugated tin roof and a couple of windows that had been boarded shut at one time or another. There was no way to tell if the damage had been caused by a storm or by rowdy patrons. Beer logos and a crude hand-painted sign displaying the hours of business decorated the weathered batten-board siding. One truck, a relative of the one Chester drove no doubt, two bicycles and a moped were parked in front of the establishment. Things were jumping at BullDog’s, she mused.

At the edge of “downtown” was a small general store, its dusty parking area empty. The building wasn’t large, but it was well-maintained, clean even. As they drove by, an elderly man stepped onto the stoop, broom in hand, and vigorously swept off the steps.

“That’s where most folks get the little things they run out of now and again.” Chester nodded toward Weber’s Grocery. “Gotta go to the mainland to get your staples though. O’Mally, the fella who hauled you over, makes two runs a day from the mainland, once in the morning, once in the evening. Otherwise you gotta hire some local to run you back and forth.”

Blue had lived in one major city or the other her whole life. This was definitely a big change. No carry-out pizza, no taco stands, no Chinese takeout, no nothing.

She shook her head and amended her thinking. No, this wasn’t a big change. This was a whole different planet. Lucas had failed to mention that little detail.

The woods bordered the narrow island road for as far as Blue could see in the enveloping gloom. And, as far as she could tell, there really was only the one road, which was as bumpy as all get out. Alongside the cramped road, undergrowth was thick, the massive canopy of the trees stretching over it blocking the sun’s waning light.

She didn’t like the dark. She stiffened her spine and tamped down the budding fear. It wasn’t completely dark, she reminded herself, just gloomy. She’d be at her destination before darkness completely descended.

But one thing was a given, she wouldn’t want to be out in these woods at night. No way. She couldn’t shake the sensation of recognition, though she knew it was not feasible.

Occasionally she noticed what looked like a side road, but the foliage worked as such good camouflage that she couldn’t be sure if she’d seen anything at all. She hadn’t noticed a single house or person except for the handful of patrons at the bar and general store, and, of course, Chester.

“Here we go.”

Chester turned right, bouncing down a lane that was one pothole after the other. The woods closed in on Blue now, dark, silent and subliminally threatening. Her uneasiness escalated in spite of her conscious efforts to keep it in check.

Get a grip, she chastised herself. She might be a fish out of water in these surroundings, but she could adapt. Give her a flashlight and a nine-millimeter and she could kick anybody’s butt, even in the dark.

Finally the near-nonexistent road widened slightly. A tall wrought-iron gate crossed their path. Hinged on brick pillars that stood on either side of the lane, one side of the ornate gate was open, allowing their passage. Beyond the apparently decorative feature the compact undergrowth and the dense forest opened up into a clearing. A lush green lawn stretched for half an acre and stopped abruptly at the foundation of a towering three-story house. Blue wasn’t that up to speed on this particular architecture, but it looked old, as in antique-old—mid-1800s, if she had to guess. And a little like something from an Emily Brontë novel with its perception of beauty marred by a distinct air of evil, especially in the fading light.

Ivy carpeted a great deal of the brick exterior. Here and there resurrection fern sprouted from a crack in the centuries-old mortar. Window after window—long, wide windows—were shut tight with hurricane shutters. A crenelated tower and a parapet along the tin-shingled roofline lent a castle-like feel to the place. Wooden icicles of fretwork and other intricately carved ornamentation softened the hard exterior.

A wide verandah sprawled across the front of the house, twilight casting it in long shadows. A smaller balcony centered on the second floor. The third floor of the structure, the tower, could have been a fairy-tale turret had it been round instead of square. A tower room, she decided, feeling suddenly better. Okay, she could live with that. When she’d been a little girl she’d dreamed of being a princess and living in a castle. Her fantasy chamber had been at the very top of the spiral stairs. The tower room. She smiled faintly at the memory. She wasn’t a little girl anymore and she darned sure wasn’t a princess. Far from it. But this was nice. A little too far away from civilization, but doable on a temporary basis.

The house looked in fairly good condition, maintenancewise. But there was something unsettling about it, she decided the moment Chester turned off the truck’s engine. It was so quiet. The shutters were closed tight over the numerous windows. Another shameful waste of architectural beauty. She supposed it was Drake’s condition that necessitated the closed shutters. She swiped at her damp brow with the back of her hand and hoped there was air-conditioning. It was still hot and sticky and the sun was all but gone from sight.

As she emerged from the truck, bottles hanging from a nearby tree captured her attention. “What’re those?” she asked, closing the door behind her and pointing to the bottles in question.

Chester flicked a glance toward the tree. “Spirit bottles,” he said. “They keep the evil spirits away.”

The breeze shifted the bottles, stirring to life a clanging noise that made her shiver all over again.

“Way I hear it, they don’t do much good around here.” Chester reached for her bags and led the way up the eight steps that divided the house from the lawn.

She opted not to pursue the subject of the spirit bottles. Blue had never been superstitious, nor did she believe in any of the related mumbo-jumbo. She wasn’t about to start now.

Before they’d crossed the verandah, the intricately carved mahogany door opened wide.

“Thank you, Chester,” the man standing in the doorway, Mr. Kline, she presumed, said as he stepped back for Chester to place her bags just inside the house.

Chester touched the tip of his hat. “See you on Friday.” As he turned to leave, his gaze caught Blue’s and held for just one second. She couldn’t decipher the look in his eyes, sympathy maybe, before he walked away.

“Miss Callahan, I’m glad you’re here.”

Blue turned her attention back to the older, white-haired man waiting at the door. He had the same drawl as Chester, only a bit more distinguished. He was dressed in khaki slacks and a crisp white shirt and reminded her of a professor she’d once had. “Mr. Kline?”

He thrust out his hand. “Call me Lowell, please.” He gave her hand a quick, polite shake, then gestured inside. “Won’t you come in?”

To her immense relief, climate-controlled air greeted her as Blue crossed the threshold. Lowell closed the door behind her and—

It was dark.

She stopped dead in her tracks, her heart jolted into a faster rhythm.

“Why are the lights so low?” There was no way to miss the edge of panic in her voice. She swallowed at the rising sensation, and blinked rapidly to force her eyes to adjust.

“I’m afraid it’s something you’ll need to get used to, Miss Callahan. With Mr. Drake’s condition, the wattage allowed in any room is minimal.”

She peered at Kline in the dim light and hoped he couldn’t see the level of her disbelief as she pointed to the fixture. “This is hardly more than a beefed-up night-light.”

He sighed. “I’m afraid so. Didn’t anyone tell you?”

“Sure.” She plastered a smile into place. All she needed was for this guy to report back that she was uncomfortable with the conditions. “I guess it’s just a little…” She shrugged. “A little darker than I expected.” A lot darker than she’d expected.

“Your vision will adjust.” He picked up her bags before she could protest and moved toward the graceful stairs that ascended from the middle of the center hall to the second-story landing. “We’ll take your things up to your room so you can get settled.”

Forcing herself to relax, Blue’s gaze moved appreciatively over the elegant staircase. The details were obscured but looked impressive by any standards. A red or burgundy carpet runner on the wooden treads kept their footfalls silent as she followed Lowell up the stairs. He led her to the first room on the right. There were three other doors that she could see. She peered toward the far end of the hall where a second smaller staircase led to the third floor. A dozen questions about the house as well as its owner sprang to mind, but they could wait.

After depositing her bags onto the bed, Lowell indicated a door across the room. A bathroom probably. “When you’ve settled in and freshened up, come downstairs and I’ll serve your dinner.”

“That would be nice.” She hadn’t bothered with lunch at the crowded airport. She’d been too psyched and ready to begin her assignment.

“Before I forget.” Lowell reached into the pocket of his trousers and produced a key. He looked at it for a long moment, as if hesitant, then offered it to Blue. “This is the key to the house.”

She took it, glanced at it briefly, then lifted her gaze back to his as he added, “The exterior doors and windows are locked at all times. Never,” he pressed her with a gaze at once intense and beseeching, “ever leave one open or unlocked.” He cleared his throat. “The drapes and shutters are to remain closed at all times and no other light, not even a flashlight, is allowed. The third floor is off limits.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

His gaze was relentless now. He reminded Blue of a bear guarding her only surviving cub. He apparently needed to be absolutely certain she understood. “I don’t know how much you’ve been told about Mr. Drake’s condition, but mere minutes in bright light would kill him. For that reason, no one is allowed in the house other than myself and now you.”

“There’s no need for concern, Mr. Kli—Lowell,” she amended. “Though I don’t know all the specifics, I can assure you that I won’t do anything that will jeopardize Mr. Drake in any way.” This was her first big assignment, she had every intention of impressing the brass. But it would certainly help if she knew more particulars about Drake. She’d have to bide her time it seemed.

Lowell nodded, looking contrite. “Of course. If you have any other questions, don’t hesitate to ask.” He paused at the door. “I almost forgot. There’s a case for you on the bureau.” He gestured to a massive piece of furniture near the heavily draped windows. “It was delivered yesterday.” He said it as if knowing what the case contained and finding it more than a little distasteful.

“One question.” Blue stopped him before he could get out the door. “When can I meet Mr. Drake?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Callahan.” His posture grew more rigid.

“Call me Blue,” she echoed his earlier words, hoping to penetrate the wall he’d suddenly thrown up.

“Blue,” he acquiesced, “I’m afraid Mr. Drake usually doesn’t leave his room until well after sunset. Even then he prefers his solitude. But I’m sure he’ll want to meet with you in time. Is there anything else I can do for you?”

In time? Blue pushed the disappointment away. She liked to get the feel of her assignment as quickly as possible, but pushing the subject wouldn’t help. She had to gain trust here. She needed to know Drake’s routine, his likes and dislikes. What he expected of her.

“No.” She shrugged as if considering her other options. “I can’t think of anything else I need at the moment. I’ll get settled and maybe do a little exploring before it gets too dark.”

“Very good.” He hesitated once more before leaving. “There is one other thing.”

She looked at him expectantly, waiting for yet another revelation that would hinder her ability to do her job.

“Mr. Drake isn’t pleased about this. He didn’t want protection. The fact of the matter is I’ve gone directly against his wishes allowing you here. I’m not sure your first meeting with him will be pleasant.”

Perfect. Blue smiled in hopes of relieving his evident anxiety and not giving away her own. “Not to worry. I have five ornery older brothers at home. I’m pretty good at handling that kind of macho male mentality.”

Lowell’s uncertain expression remained in place, but, to his credit, he attempted a smile. “Well, I’ll see you in a bit then.”

Blue watched him go, then slowly surveyed the spacious room with its high ceilings and period furnishings. Plain, drab, and what she decided had to be beige walls and beige bed coverings. It was hard to say for certain in the low light. No pictures or other decorating items. Judging by the room’s size, she thought it might be what was considered the master suite. A quick look into the adjoining bathroom and she was sure of it.

She exhaled a weary breath and wondered how the heck she was supposed to do her job if Drake didn’t want her here? She lifted her chin and folded her arms over her chest. Easy, she decided. She’d just have to change his mind. She had a lifetime of experience charming the male of the species.

It only took Blue a few minutes to unpack her things and check out the weapons Lucas had arranged for her use. She strapped on the ankle holster, pulled her jeans leg down over it, then shrugged into her shoulder holster before going downstairs. She always felt naked without her gun. Throughout her whole life, the people she loved most had accessorized with weapons. Well, except for her mother, who’d crossed herself every time one of them walked in or out of a room carrying a gun. Though she had little tolerance for violence, Margaret Callahan was as tough as nails. She’d had to be to survive in the same house with that many cop egos.

Blue checked out the other three rooms on the second floor. All were bedrooms, one looked to be Lowell’s. Each room was as large as hers and had its own private bath. And all were dull-as-dirt beige. Lowell had hung a few pictures, of family or friends, she supposed, and on one wall was a large Georgia Bull Dogs banner. A small television set occupied the far corner. She wondered if the island had cable. Probably not.

She resisted the urge to check out the third floor. It was off limits, Lowell had said. Judging by its size, as seen from outside, Mr. Drake’s suite most likely made up the entire floor. He was probably sleeping up there right now. She shook off the vampirish images that formed in her head as she recalled Chester’s remark about the reclusive man. Time to get the lay of the land.

Her hand glided along the curved banister as she slowly descended the staircase. For the first time she noticed the finer details of the huge chandelier that hung above the center hall. It was lovely, dimly lit, but lovely just the same.

She wondered vaguely if the electrical wiring had been modified or if the lights themselves had been changed in some way to ensure that the light wattage remained so low. Though her eyes were already beginning to adjust as Lowell had said they would, it was still too dark for her liking.

But she’d deal with it.

The main parlor was just as plain and beige as the rest of the rooms. Not that she had anything against beige, mind you. But this beige monotony was unbroken by anything other than wood floors and wood trim, all the color of rich, dark coffee, like the mahogany door on the front of the house. She considered that maybe white was too reflective and most other colors too dark, thus the selection of beige. Maybe she’d ask about that. Eventually.

Thankfully the parlor’s furnishings were more contemporary and slightly more colorful. There was another television set and a stereo system. Someone liked classical music, she decided, noting the stack of CDs. A desk and computer along with row after row of book-filled shelves occupied one side of the room. Like the rest of the house, the windows were shrouded in thick draperies—even they were beige. But at least this room looked used. The brown leather sofa looked worn and comfortable and was flanked by two plaid overstuffed side chairs.

As she strayed back into the hall a whiff of something absolutely heavenly enticed her nose and made her stomach rumble. She followed the delicious scent to the kitchen at the rear of the house.

“Whatever that is, it smells great,” she commented aloud.

Lowell glanced up from the oven. “Ten more minutes and you’ll find out.” He closed the door and laid the oven mitt aside. “It’s my own secret recipe.”

Blue smiled at the note of camaraderie in his tone. “Can’t wait.” She took in the kitchen in one sweep. Modern, but not so much that it took away from the house’s overall feel of a bygone era. “I think I’ll take a walk and get my bearings,” she announced, feeling restless and with a definite need to see the sun one last time before it disappeared for the day, leaving her to this gloom.

He nodded absently. “Don’t be long.”

Blue was careful to lock the front door behind her just as Lowell had instructed. Taking her time, she surveyed the grounds around the front of the house. The spirit bottles jangled as the breeze kicked up, drawing her attention or maybe warning her of some impending doom. She grinned and wondered if Lowell had done that, or maybe Mr. Drake under the cover of darkness just to spook the locals. But surely neither of them would be the superstitious type.

As she strolled around the house she was caught off guard again by the dark, foreboding forest that closed in on the yard from both sides. Trees, centuries old and laden with moss, towered over the thick brambles and undergrowth that cloaked all else. The distant rustle of leaves startled her, sent her backing up several steps. She executed a quick right face and marched to the backyard.

Pete’s sake, she was too old for this kind of childish behavior.

The moment she rounded the corner at the back of the house, her breath caught. The beach flowed right up to the grass, less than twenty yards from the house. The blue surf foamed white, roared and then died on the sand, dragging back only to start the whole process over again. All but a sliver of the sun had melted into the horizon, leaving vivid streaks of gold and orange to color the otherwise royal-blue sky. She closed her eyes and inhaled the salty air.

She wished she was barefoot as she walked through the sand, but she was on the job. She looked back at the house. God, it was beautiful. A wide screened porch had been added for enjoying the view of the Atlantic. A widow’s walk loomed high overhead. She wondered if anxious wives had used it as a lookout for their husbands returning from the sea. Or maybe the pirates and smugglers had benefited from the perfect vantage.

Blue was certain she’d never seen any place more beautiful.

Despite the darkness that lay within those walls, she couldn’t call this place unappealing. It was no wonder Mr. Drake had chosen this island, this house as his refuge.

She turned to look out over the ocean once more, chafing her arms to chase away the tremble that accompanied the knowledge that the sun was now completely gone.

She stalled mid-turn.

A thread of tension tightened inside her.

Someone was watching her.

Chapter Three

Blue stared up at the third-story tower room as the tension erupted into a shiver that raced across her skin. She braced herself against the sensation, but it didn’t help.

Someone was watching her.

Was it him?

Drake?

The last rays of the sun sank beneath the horizon, slinking away with the waning light and leaving nothing but the gray of desolate dusk as she stood on the beach and peered up at the house through the thickening gloom.

“I’m not so easy to spook, Drake,” she muttered. “So don’t be thinking you can be rid of me so simply.” Lowell had warned her that Drake didn’t want her here.

She would change his mind. Surely common sense would prevail. If the man’s life was in danger, he needed protection. His enemy could strike at any moment.

A crack ruptured the silence.

Blue recognized it instantly.

Gunshot. High-powered rifle.

The sand kicked up where the next round pierced it. She dove for cover. There was none.

Simultaneously unholstering her weapon and scrambling toward the edge of the forest, Blue kept her head low as yet another shot rang out and plowed into the ground less than three feet away.

A hunter, she considered.

Not open season if things on the island were consistent with those on the mainland.

The shots hadn’t come from the direction of the house. Not likely from Drake. At least she hoped liked hell it wasn’t him. Then again, he could be over the edge.

As soon as she’d reached the fringes of the forest, she stilled, listening for telltale sounds of the approaching shooter.

Silence.

Long minutes passed as she moved deeper into the concealing shadows of the forest, her ears ever alert for sound, her gaze moving constantly in search of movement. There was no time to think, only to act.

She needed to work her way around to the front of the house and then use the overgrown shrubs for cover to cross the lawn. Getting inside and checking on Drake was top priority.

He could be in danger.

This little game of carnival shooting gallery could be nothing more than a distraction to keep her occupied while the real trouble went down inside.

Lowell kept the house locked. That was good. But it wouldn’t stop an assassin intent on accomplishing his mission.

She kept moving, adrenaline urging her forward. The undergrowth was thick…the brambles unforgiving. She pushed through the brush, trying not to think about what might be hiding within its concealing depths.

As the threat appeared to lessen, she slowly became aware of her surroundings. Complete darkness had closed in around her.

Her heart thundered in reaction, sending the sting of panic rushing through her torso…her limbs. Her hands shook. Sweat dampened her skin. She had to keep going.

…I wouldn’t want to be out in these woods at night. The memory of the very words she’d thought only a couple of hours ago slammed into her head.

And here you are, another little voice taunted.

Blue muttered a curse. She reached beneath her button-up shirt and shook the light stick hanging on her chain. The black color of her shirt kept the glow hidden, but it was there and that’s all that mattered. She could make the dark go away if only a little. Instantly her heart rate dropped to a more normal pace.

Moving cautiously, she was almost to the front of the house. No more shots had been fired and she hadn’t sensed any signs of a tail. Maybe it was some local goofing off with target practice. If that was the case someone needed to instruct him on weapon safety. Those shots had been all too close for comfort. On second thought, Blue decided the guy needed his butt kicked L.A. style.

A twig snapped maybe ten yards behind her.

She stopped. Held her breath. Listened intently. And squinted into the consuming darkness without moving a muscle. There was something…

A whisper of foliage against fabric or maybe skin tingled her auditory senses.

He was closer…almost on top of her.

She darted to her right, then ran like hell, hoping to God she wouldn’t crash into a tree.

The light from the full moon pierced the thick overhead canopy from time to time, just enough to give her some sense of place and direction. A silent mantra trembled on her lips over and over keeping her focused. I’m not afraid of the dark. I’m not afraid of the dark. She had her gun and her light. They were all she needed.

In spite of the blood pounding in her brain and the occasional crashing sounds made by her plunge through the dense vegetation, every now and then she heard a snap or a rustle of underbrush behind her.

He was coming.

Harder, faster she surged forward, low-lying branches snagged at her clothes, her skin, like long bony fingers from the stone-cold hand of death.

Her shoe snagged on a root. She pitched forward and barely caught herself before she hit the ground.

He was almost on top of her now.

She pushed onward. Her lungs were beginning to burn for more oxygen. She couldn’t control her breathing anymore. Had to breathe deeper, faster. Had to have more air. What the hell? She was already making more than enough noise to give herself away.

She burst into a clearing, thigh-deep weeds and brush slapping at her jeans.

A shaft of moonlight glinted off something large…a building.

Blue lunged for it and took cover inside. A dank, musty odor immediately shrouded her. She crouched down, her weapon clenched in one hand as she braced the other on the floor for support while she caught her breath. She didn’t even want to know what the furry stuff under her fingers was. Moss maybe. She could hope.

She held her breath, released it slowly. Willed her heart rate to decrease. Forced her mind to focus on the impending threat…to pinpoint the direction and proximity. He couldn’t be far away.

Listening intently, analyzing each sound, she heard nothing but the resonance of the night bearing down on her.

The constant cry of cicadas.

The wind stirring the leaves.

Damn, it was dark.

She made herself as small as possible, hunkering in the blackness just inside the open doorway, her weapon leveled steadily in her right hand, her left hand now flattened against her chest, feeling for the small light stick beneath her shirt and drawing comfort as her fingers closed around it.

He moved.

She didn’t hear him and certainly didn’t see him, but she sensed the movement.

To her right…five yards away maybe.

She squinted in that direction and saw nothing. He couldn’t be that close. If he’d left the cover of the trees, she should have seen at least a glimpse of him or a glimmer of movement in the moonlight.

…roams around all hours of the night like some kindda vampire… Chester’s words echoed.

Glass jangled, jerking her gaze to the left.

Spirit bottles like the ones back at the house hung from the lowest limb of a nearby live oak. The bottles swayed, banging against each other from time to time, the moonlight glinting from their surfaces. A new kind of uneasiness slid through her and she called herself every kind of fool. She was not superstitious. And she damn sure didn’t believe in vampires.

The deep weeds rustled, yielding beneath a heavy footstep.

She looked right again, her heart jolting back into top speed.

Nothing.

There was nothing there.

Dammit.

There had to be.

“It’s safe to come out now, Maggie Callahan.”

Her heart skidded to a near-stop at the sound of the deep, male voice splitting the darkness, drowning out all other sound with its richness…its seeming oneness with the night.

“Whoever was shooting is gone now. You don’t have to be afraid.”

She blinked, peered as hard as she could in the direction of the voice, but saw nothing. She swore silently.

“Come out, Maggie Callahan,” he said, an underlying amusement in his silky tone now. She could almost see him smiling. “Let me show you the way back to the house before you stumble over something that bites.”

She gritted her teeth against a shudder. Who the hell was this guy? It wasn’t Lowell or Chester. There was a slight, ever so slight, drawl, but the voice was too deep and smooth to belong to either of them. It could be Drake, she considered, but she couldn’t imagine him running out into the darkness like this since his life was in danger already.

Not unless he’d lost his mind anyway.

“Who are you?” she demanded, giving away her position but seeing no way around it. She darted to the other side of the open doorway just to be safe, thankful that the ancient floor didn’t creak under her weight and the suddenness of her move.

“Maybe you’d prefer that I call you Blue.”

She tensed. He hadn’t given her a straightforward answer, but he’d narrowed the possibilities. Besides her family, only her close friends and the people with whom she worked knew the nickname she’d been called all her life—bestowed because of the unusual deep color of her eyes.

She’d told Lowell. This had to be Drake. Or someone he’d hired to scare her off.

“I asked you to identify yourself,” she demanded, impatience and anger searing away any lingering fear. If this guy was yanking her around—

“I’m the man you came all this way to protect.” He laughed softly, the sound shivering across her frazzled nerve endings. “Ironic, isn’t it?”

She shook off the effect his voice had on her and issued yet another demand. “Prove it. Show yourself.”

She didn’t know how much he’d changed in the past five years or what physical scars he’d suffered, but she would surely recognize him to a degree from the picture in the mission profile. The Noah Drake of five years ago had thick, dark hair and even darker brown eyes. He’d been a hell of a good-looking guy with an athletic body to match.

But that had all likely changed.

“You’ll just have to trust me,” he said, that smooth voice containing a challenge now. “Besides, I don’t think you want to risk further exposure to the curse.”

Curse? She wanted to throttle whoever he was. “Just show yourself or some ID and everything will be cool,” she told him flatly. No way was she stepping out into the open until she knew who this guy was. Curse. Yeah, right.

“There’s a small cemetery behind this old chapel,” he went on as if she hadn’t said a word. “They say there’s a voodoo witch buried there and anyone who comes near her grave will die a terrible death. Now you don’t want that, do you, Specialist Callahan?”

It was Drake. He had the kind of high-level clearance to know the organization that had actually sent her. Lowell only knew that Rothman had hired her. She kept to herself the litany of adjectives that tumbled into her mind. Very descriptive adjectives she was certain Drake wouldn’t want to hear since they all accurately expressed what she thought about him at the moment.

“I’m not afraid of any curse.” Blue stepped out into the open, but didn’t put her gun away. She turned slowly, peering into the darkness for any manifestation of Drake. “Nor am I the one receiving the death threats.”

“No one has actually threatened my life,” he argued pointedly and without conviction.

Blue whipped in the direction of the sound, it was closer and from her left this time. Where the hell was he?

“Then why am I here?” she argued. “And why are you being so secretive? Why didn’t you call out to me when I was running like hell through these damned woods?” She was mad now.

“Hmm.” The sound seemed to resonate all around her. She trembled in spite of the anger fueling her courage. “First,” the taunting words went on, “you’re here because Edgar Rothman feels guilty.” Pause. “Secondly, I didn’t call out to you until I was sure.”

Drake was right behind her.

Blue spun around. “Sure of what?”

She blinked. Nothing. Only darkness.

“That there was no one else except you.”

“Where the hell are you?” This had gone far enough.

“Turn around, Specialist Callahan,” he said as if she were a child, “and walk straight ahead. You’ll find the house in that direction.”

“Why can’t I see you?” Frustration made her voice tight and a little high-pitched. She did as he said and turned around slowly, very slowly, but she didn’t like this one bit.

“Straight ahead, Blue,” he ordered.

She stiffened her spine and tightened her grip on her weapon. Whatever his game, she wasn’t playing. Maybe Rothman didn’t know his friend had dropped over the edge, but he was going to find out the minute Blue got back to a phone. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why I can’t see you.”

“Then it’s going to be a long night for you, I fear.”

He was gone.

Though she hadn’t heard a sound and damned sure hadn’t seen him, she knew it as surely as she knew her own name. The air felt suddenly thinner, lighter, as if a presence that diminished all else had abruptly vanished.

Blue shook herself. Maybe the intensity was just her imagination. With the silence coagulating around her, she was beginning to think she’d imagined the whole conversation. This was too damned strange.

Deciding not to take the word of some disembodied voice, she moved slowly around the old building he’d called a chapel and looked for a path of any sort leading away from it. The moon’s light was scarcely any help, but she was glad for it. She stumbled again, this time over a rock. She straightened and glared down at the hindrance in her path.

It wasn’t a rock.

An old headstone stared back at her.

MAGGIE “BLUE” CALLAHAN made her way back to the house much more quickly than Noah had anticipated. She had more guts than he’d given her credit for. He’d stayed close the entire journey just in case. Though she hadn’t heard him and definitely hadn’t seen him, she’d known, or at least suspected, that he was there. She’d stopped and looked directly at him twice. Her perceptiveness was uncanny.

Noah smiled. Unexpected. He enjoyed that aspect of observing her, even if her presence did infuriate him.

He’d watched her on the beach. She didn’t look like a bodyguard. Not only was she female, but she was attractive as well. Long blond hair that she didn’t bother to restrain had drifted over her shoulders and danced playfully at the wind’s invitation. She stood tall and slender, but she didn’t look thin. Rather she appeared fit and strong. But it was the curve of her cheek and the masterfully carved details of her mouth that had held his attention the longest.

Very attractive. Also unexpected.

She’d felt him watching her even then.

The technology that allowed him to view the world in any capacity during daylight hours was best described as high-powered sunglasses or the reverse of night vision, all built into a savvy camera with zoom and wide-angle capabilities. In his room, as in the main parlor, there was a monitor which he could tune to east, west, north or south, and see all angles from the house. This was his only means of self-protection during the day, other than Lowell’s presence. Well, there was the escape tunnel…but that was a last resort. Only he knew of its existence and it held dangers of its own.

She’d walked along that beach, staring out over his ocean as the sun dipped beneath the horizon and he’d grown aroused by the image. He’d longed to taste the length of her slender throat…those lush lips. To trace her body with his hands.

He forced away the frustrating thoughts. For five long years he had disciplined himself against all emotion, all needs that didn’t equate to survival. He would not allow this woman to shake what he’d suffered endless hours, days and months to build.

Blue was at the front door again, unlocking it with trembling fingers. He heard her muttered curses as she tried twice to accomplish her task. Noah moved to the rear of the house where he would prepare before going inside for their first and only face-to-face meeting.

No matter how efficient or attractive Miss Callahan was, he didn’t want her here.

He didn’t need anyone else.

And he definitely couldn’t risk losing control. Firm, relentless control was all that got him through each day.

“I said, I want to see Mr. Drake.”

The sound of Blue’s outrage carried through the house and was now directed at Lowell. She’d stormed into the kitchen and demanded to know where Noah was. Lowell, of course, had no idea.

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure where he is at the moment.” He raised his empty palms, but even that seemingly nonchalant gesture didn’t hide his mounting concern. “When he heard the shots,” Lowell explained, “he rushed out. He hasn’t come back.”

Blue’s furious expression didn’t change. “Does he keep any weapons on the premises?” She glared at Lowell, daring him to avoid the truth. “Say a high-powered rifle, maybe?”

Noah smiled, amused once more by her fierce determination. So she thought he’d been the one doing the shooting to scare her off. Oh, he wanted rid of her right enough, but he wouldn’t go to that extreme.

“What are you suggesting?” Lowell demanded, affronted. He was a loyal friend, even if Noah was loath to admit it.

“I’m suggesting—”

“Good evening, Miss Callahan,” Noah said as he strode into the kitchen before she took her interrogation tactics further. Blue Callahan didn’t give up easily. That had quickly become clear as he’d hesitated, listening, in the small hall that separated the kitchen from the screened porch.

Startled, her intense glower shifted to him. She blinked rapidly as if caught off guard by what she saw. He had no idea what she’d expected.

“The answer to your question is yes.” He moved across the room, stopping only when he was close enough to attempt to intimidate her with his presence. She was tall, but several inches shorter than he was. And he was stronger. Though he doubted he would garner much success at bullying her physically. She looked more than capable of holding her own. “I have several weapons at my disposal and you’re welcome to inspect them all. They are presently locked in a gun cabinet upstairs.”

Blue wasn’t intimidated, startled maybe, but not afraid in the least. He almost smiled as respect bloomed inside him. She appraised him thoroughly, taking her sweet time. He tensed beneath that level of scrutiny. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been looked at so long and carefully by anyone, much less a woman.

Now he was the one intimidated. It was almost laughable. But Noah wasn’t laughing.

“Mr. Drake, I presume?” she said pointedly when at last she’d completed her visual examination. He didn’t miss the flicker of approval amidst the fury in those extraordinary eyes.

He realized now why she was nicknamed Blue. The zoom and detail-distinction capabilities of his equipment weren’t quite good enough to provide the finer details. Her eyes were incredible. The most intense shade of blue he’d ever seen. He wondered if the hue would be as dark when she wasn’t quite so angry.

“You might as well know up front that I don’t want you here,” he said in lieu of acknowledging his identity and forcing away the dangerous thoughts his mind insisted on conjuring. “Since it would be next to impossible to get a boat to take you back to the mainland at this time of the evening, you’re welcome to stay the night.” He pressed her with a look he felt certain spoke volumes about his irrevocable stand on the matter. “But first thing tomorrow morning you will leave this property.”

She didn’t waver in the slightest. “It doesn’t matter that someone was shooting—”

“At you,” he pointed out. “It could have been one of the locals who despises outlanders. Or an unscrupulous hunter who failed to consider where his stray shots might end up.”

She rolled her eyes and shook her head, impatience radiating off her in waves. “Yeah, right. You know that isn’t the case. I know when I’m being shot at.”

“Whatever the case,” he said without hesitation or further consideration. “Tomorrow morning you will leave. Goodnight, Maggie Callahan.” He strode across the room without looking at her. He didn’t need her here. The only thing he needed was to be left alone.

“Don’t get your hopes up.”

The sound of her defiance brought him up short.

He turned around slowly, leveled his gaze on her extraordinary blue one. “What did you say?”

Arms folded over her chest, she strolled up to him and looked him square in the eyes. “I said,” she repeated pointedly, “don’t get your hopes up. I have an assignment.”

She poked him in the chest with her forefinger. He frowned, unaccustomed to human touch after all this time.

“You’re that assignment. I have a problem with failure.” She smiled up at him, the gesture lacking humor but underscoring her determination perfectly. “Good night, Noah Drake.”

She walked out of the room without a backward glance.

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