“Nobody’s watching,” she said.

“Then no one will see if I do this.”

He spun her around in his arms and pulled her against him. Her arms stretched to wrap around his huge torso. She loved the way she fit against him; the way he held her close felt so good. So right.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she murmured. “I’m in charge of the safe house. I should be setting an example.”

His lips silenced her. With his kiss, he exploded the apprehension that had been building inside her. Her defensive wall of propriety crumbled to dust. With a soft moan, she gave herself completely to this fierce, demanding passion.

When he separated from her, she gasped. Her heartbeat throbbed like a big bass drum. It took a big man to sweep her off her feet. Paul was that man.

Murder on the Mountain
Cassie Miles

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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To Kayla and Landon.

And, as always, to Rick.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

For Cassie Miles, the best part about writing a story set in Eagle County near the Vail ski area is the ready-made excuse to head into the mountains for research. Though the winter snows are great for skiing, her favorite season is fall when the aspens turn gold.

The rest of the time, Cassie lives in Denver where she takes urban hikes around Cheesman Park, reads a ton and critiques often. Her current plans include a Vespa and a road trip, despite eye-rolling objections from her adult children.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Julia Last—The FBI Special Agent in charge of the safe house is torn between protecting her secrecy and solving a murder.

Paul Hemmings—The Eagle County deputy sheriff knows something is wrong at the safe house and fears for Julia.

Jennifer and Lily Hemmings—Paul’s daughters, aged seven and nine, want to be ice skating princesses though their father prefers hockey.

John Maser—Also known as Johnny Maserati, he dies in a car wreck.

Harrison Naylor—The four-star marine general dies in uniform in his locked bedroom, an apparent suicide.

Marcus Ashbrook—The senator from Wyoming hopes to use the Homeland Security exercise at the safe house to further his career.

Gil Bradley—The mysterious and muscular CIA agent might have a history as an assassin.

RJ Katz—The FBI Special Agent is an expert in accounting scams.

David Dillard—The FBI computer specialist arranges the simulation exercise for Homeland Security.

Garret Dillard—David’s brother is a hero in the marines.

Roger Flannery—The rookie FBI Special Agent working at th safe house has developed a talent for cooking.

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter One

Deputy Paul Hemmings stood at the edge of the cliff looking down. Far below, a midsized sedan was wedged upside down against a tall pine. Morning sunlight reflected dully on the muddy undercarriage and tires. A bad accident. Not uncommon on these mountain roads. Especially at this time of year, early December.

Yet there were no skid marks. The pavement was dry. Ice wasn’t a hazard. Why, Paul wondered, had this vehicle gone off the road?

The woman who had flagged him down asked, “Can I leave now?”

“I’ve put through a call for assistance, ma’am. The rescue team should be here soon.”

“But I’m supposed to meet my husband at Vail Village in fifteen minutes.”

“Sorry. You have to stay so you can give a report to the investigating officers.”

“There’s really nothing to tell,” she said. “I pulled onto the shoulder to take a picture of that frozen waterfall. I’m an amateur photographer, and it’s a beautiful morning and—”

“Stop.” Paul held up a hand. “I can’t take your statement. I’m off duty.”

He glanced at his Ford Explorer SUV. The faces of his two young daughters, Jennifer and Lily, pressed up against the windows. They’d been on their way to the ice-skating rink for their lesson when this witness signaled him to stop. His girls were going to be plenty ticked off about arriving late to Saturday practice.

And so was this witness who stabbed at the buttons on her cell phone. “I can’t even call my husband. I’ve got no signal.”

“Accidents are inconvenient,” he said. “Especially for the person driving.”

Had that person survived?

Highly unlikely. However, if the driver had survived, it was Paul’s duty to offer assistance until the rescue team arrived. He stepped over the ridge of dirty snow that marked the shoulder of the two-lane mountain road.

The descent was rocky and steep, but this was the sunny side of the valley and much of the snow had melted. So far, this had been a mild winter. Too mild. The workers at the ski resorts were praying for a blizzard.

He sidestepped down the slope. Though he was a big man—over six feet four and weighing more than was good for his cholesterol—Paul moved with sure-footed balance. He’d been born and raised in these mountains; climbing was in his DNA.

As he approached the overturned car, he noted that the earth was torn up from the car’s plummet, but there were no footprints. None leading away from the wreck. None leading toward it.

At the driver’s side, he hunkered down. Though the car rested on the roof, the interior hadn’t been crushed too badly. The driver’s-side window was broken out. There was a man inside. And blood. A lot of blood.

“Sir?” Paul reached inside the car to touch the shoulder of this man. Half of his forehead was a bloody pulp. His complexion had the waxen sheen of a death mask. His lips were blue. He couldn’t still be alive. If his injuries from the accident hadn’t killed him, exposure to the night cold would have finished him off.

Yet, he moved. His eyelids twitched. He whispered one word. “Murder.”

I’M GOING TO MURDER this guy. FBI SpecialAgent Julia Last glared daggers into the broad shoulders of the distinguished, silver-haired man who had started making demands the minute he walked through the door.

After eleven years with the FBI, she didn’t appreciate being treated like a housemaid. Julia was the agent in charge here. The operation of this two-story, nine-bedroom FBI safehouse in Eagle County, Colorado was her responsibility, and she’d managed it well enough to receive several commendations. Dozens of protected witnesses had come under her care. She’d also provided a haven for agents and officers who had been injured in the line of duty and needed recuperation time. Never once, during her two-year tenure at the safehouse, had security been breached.

Her latest guest—the silver-haired jerk—regarded his second-floor bedroom with blatant disdain, then turned to face her. “I’ll take my first cup of coffee at six in the morning. Low-fat milk and one teaspoon of sugar. Not a sugar substitute. Delivered to my room along with The Wall Street Journal.”

“We don’t provide room service,” Julia said through gritted teeth. “All meals are family-style in the dining room.”

“My coffee at six,” he repeated. “And the Journal.”

“You might have noticed that this is a rather remote location.” The safehouse was four miles down a graded gravel road through a heavily forested wilderness area. “Newspaper deliveries are much later than six.”

He glanced around the clean but relatively plain bedroom. “Where’s the television?”

“We have a TV downstairs.”

“Unacceptable. How am I supposed to keep up on the news if I can’t watch CNN?” He tapped his chest. “I need to stay abreast of developments. Do you know who I am?”

“Yes, sir.” Senator Marcus Ashbrook from Wyoming had been mentioned as a possible candidate for president. Needless to say, if Julia had resided in that state, he wouldn’t get her vote.

“I’ll need a television in my room.” He flashed his photogenic smile and held out a five-dollar bill. “That will be all.”

He was offering her a tip? This was too much. Julia snatched the bill from his hand and slammed it down on the knotty pine dresser. “I’m not a concierge, sir. And this is not a hotel.”

“You’re supposed to make me comfortable.”

“It’s my job to keep you safe,” she corrected him. “This FBI safehouse might look like a rustic mountain lodge, but we’re equipped with state-of-the-art security. While you’re here, I will expect you to abide by our rules and to accept our restrictions.”

“Will you now?” He looked surprised; the senator wasn’t accustomed to having underlings tell him what to do.

“If it’s necessary for you to leave the premises, I must be notified. No guests permitted. Three meals a day are served in the dining room. And, of course, tell no one that this is a safehouse.”

“Why not?”

Could he really be that stupid? She didn’t think so. Senator Marcus Ashbrook hadn’t risen through the ranks of national politics by being a moron. “The whole purpose of a safehouse is to provide a covert location to keep the ‘guests’ safe. Security depends on keeping our mission secret from the bad guys.”

“Good answer.” Again, the photogenic smile.

She eyed him suspiciously. “Were you testing me, Senator?”

“I was indeed. I’ve heard that you’re good at your job, Agent Last.”

She dredged up an insincere smile of her own. “Thank you, sir. I prefer to be called Julia.”

“Of course you do.”

She turned on her heel and left his bedroom. This was going to be a long, strenuous, annoying week. The only “guests” at the safehouse were five high-ranking individuals who were involved with a Home-land Security project. In addition to the senator, there was a four-star Marine general, a former Navy SEAL who was now CIA and two senior FBI agents.

Though Julia didn’t know the precise agenda for this group, she was certain that she and her live-in staff of two agents were going to have their hands full. Managing all these egos wouldn’t be easy.

“Excuse me, Julia.”

Now what? She turned and saw Gil Bradley, the CIA agent, standing in the center of the hallway. She could have sworn that the door to his room was closed, and she hadn’t heard it open. Nor did she register the sound of his footsteps on the creaky hardwood floor. He’d just appeared. Like the spook that he was.

Gil Bradley was obviously the muscle in this group. His massive shoulders and well-developed arms suggested that he was capable of bench-pressing a giant redwood. But he was still able to move silently. Spooky, indeed. “What can I do for you, Gil?”

“I’m allergic to shellfish.” His rasping voice made it sound like he was imparting a state secret.

“Thanks for telling me. I don’t think we have shrimp on the menu for this week.” Apparently, he was not allergic to dirt. His jeans were streaked with mud. “Have you been out hiking?”

“I run five miles every day. Rain, shine or snow.”

“Admirable.”

His gaze rested on her full hips. “You should come with me. Lean and mean, Julia. Lean and mean.”

He zipped back into his room. The door closed with an audible click before she had a chance to tell him that she might not look like the Barbie version of GI Jane but would gladly match her physical conditioning and stamina against anyone. Even him.

At the foot of the staircase, she stalked through the great room, past the long oak dining table and into the kitchen. Roger Flannery, a young agent who had been at the safehouse for three months and discovered a talent for cooking, stood at the counter, chopping with the speed and aplomb of a sushi chef.

She should have been pleased with Roger’s dedication to providing a semigourmet dinner every night, but Julia was still cranky after her encounters with Senator Ashbrook and Gil Bradley. When she was in this kind of mood, it was better not to stop and chitchat. She made a beeline through the kitchen toward the back door.

“Hey, Julia,” Roger said.

She growled a response and kept walking. If Roger had any self-preservation instinct at all, he wouldn’t say another word.

“Wait a sec,” he said. “I could use some help with dinner.”

She muttered a negative, but that wasn’t sufficient for peppy Roger-Dodger. “What’s eating you?” he asked. “You look like a grizzly that swallowed a wasp nest.”

Slowly, she turned. “A grizzly?”

Roger chuckled. “Yeah.”

“Is that a reference to my hair?” Her long brown hair was notoriously curly and wild even when pulled back in a ponytail.

“N-n-no.”

“Or maybe you were thinking of my size when you said I look like a grizzly.” Nearly six feet tall in her hiking boots, she had a broad-shouldered, muscular frame that made comparisons to a bear somewhat plausible. “Gil thinks I should step up my exercise program.”

“You look g-great,” Roger said, frantically back-pedaling as his gaze darted, taking in the details of her jeans, white turtleneck and plaid wool shirt. “Nice outfit.”

“Can’t say the same for you.” He’d stripped down to a black T-shirt revealing his shoulder holster. Hadn’t she just lectured the senator about keeping the true purpose of the safehouse a secret? “Put a shirt on. Cover that weapon.”

“But it’s hot in here.”

“Do it.” She shoved open the door that led onto a spacious cedar deck at the rear of the safehouse.

The December air cooled her face as she walked across the deck to the railing. The sight of clear blue skies above a wide valley bordered by forest gave her a momentary surge of pleasure. She loved the rugged majesty of the Colorado mountains, especially at this time of year when swathes of drifted snow gleamed pearly white in the afternoon sunlight. Though the ski areas were open and had a solid snow base, much of the snowfall near the safehouse had already melted into the thirsty earth.

In the midst of all this grandeur, did she still feel annoyance at the way she’d been treated by the senator? Or at the thinly veiled criticism from Gil? Was she still mad? Yes, most definitely. And she needed to lose this attitude before confronting the Homeland Security hotshots over dinner.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t time to run down to the barn, saddle up one of the horses and ride. The next best thing for blowing off steam was chopping wood.

She tromped heavily down the stairs and along a path to a storage shed where several cords of logs were neatly stacked and waiting along with work gloves and a well-honed ax. After pulling on her stiff leather gloves, she carried a couple of fat logs to the outdoor chopping block where she would split them into an appropriate size for the fireplace in the great room.

With the log positioned on the block, she drew back and swung with all her strength. The ax head made contact and the wood split. A satisfying jolt went through her body. Again and again, she attacked the logs. This was a better workout than a heavy punching bag. She imagined the senator’s face before the ax descended in a fierce and graceful arc. Take that, you jerk.

Julia caught a glimpse of movement in her peripheral vision and turned. There was a man watching her with his arms folded across his chest. He wore the brown uniform jacket for the Eagle County Sheriff’s Department.

“I didn’t want to interrupt.” He came closer and held out his hand. “I’m Deputy Paul Hemmings.”

“Julia Last.”

Their gloved hands met. His grip was strong, and she appreciated that he didn’t hold back because she was a woman. Though she’d seen the deputy in town when she shopped for supplies, Julia hadn’t appreciated those broad shoulders and barrel chest until this moment. Paul Hemmings was a very tall, very impressive man.

Despite his extra-large dimensions, he wasn’t hulking or threatening. He had an easygoing smile. His strong white teeth contrasted his tanned complexion. Sunlight glistened in his thick black hair. She wished he’d take off his sunglasses so she could see the color of his eyes. “What brings you here, Deputy?”

“I’ve been wanting to pay a visit,” he said. “A friend of mine, Mac Granger, stayed here a couple of months ago. He liked the place.”

“I remember Mac.” He’d been involved in a sting operation that turned ugly. “Got himself into a bit of trouble.”

“That’s putting it mildly.” He bent and picked up the chunks of wood she’d split. “I’ll help you carry this load inside.”

Which was a subtly clever way of getting an inside peek at the safehouse. She didn’t for one minute believe that Deputy Paul Hemmings had popped in for a casual howdy.

Julia rested her hand on the ax handle. “Why don’t you tell me the real reason you stopped by?”

“You like to get right to the point.”

“I do,” she said. “So?”

“There was a car accident last night. The driver went off the road, flipped his rental car. He was DOA at the hospital.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“He had a note in his wallet with the phone number for your lodge written on it.”

Her protective instincts were immediately aroused. Though the safehouse had a regular phone listing, the message was always the same: Sorry, we’re booked. There were never outside guests. Feigning disinterest, she said, “Maybe he was looking for a place to stay.”

“Or he might have wanted to contact one of your guests. The man who died was from Washington, D.C.”

As were all the people involved in the Homeland Security project. Julia didn’t like where this conversation was headed. “I hate to have you bothering my guests.”

“I promise to be quick, Julia. Is it okay if I call you Julia?”

“If I can call you Paul.”

“You bet.” He glanced down at the logs in his arms. “Where do you want these?”

“We have enough wood inside. Just bring them into the storage shed.”

Inside the dimly lit shed, she watched as Paul methodically placed the logs in a neat stack. Though he seemed like someone who could be trusted with a secret, she didn’t want anybody to know the true purpose of the safehouse. Not even the local law enforcement. If one person knew, then another would and another. Then word would leak. Security would be compromised.

As Paul finished with the woodpile, he took off his sunglasses and turned to her. His eyes were a beautiful chocolate-brown. When she gazed into their depths, Julia felt something inside her begin to melt. For one fleeting second, she imagined what it would be like to be held by those big, strong arms. The broad expanse of his chest would provide ample room for her to snuggle. His flesh would be warm. His lips would be gentle.

She blinked, erasing these inappropriate thoughts. Where did that little burst of wild-eyed lust come from? It had been a long time since she’d been with a man, mostly because her responsibilities at the safehouse made dating difficult. But that was her choice. Her career. And the lack of a meaningful relationship didn’t bother her.

But maybe it did. Maybe that was the real reason why her emotions were all over the place. Maybe she needed more than chopping wood to control her anger. Maybe she needed to get laid.

“What’s wrong?” Paul asked.

“Nothing,” she said quickly.

“I should talk to your guests now.”

When he gave her a broad smile, his cheeks dimpled. He was just too sexy for words. Her repressed imagination again caught fire. She wanted to kiss those dimples, to taste his mouth.

He took a step toward her.

Julia’s breath quickened.

She heard, very clearly, a gunshot.

Chapter Two

Paul charged through the door of the shed with his gun drawn. “Julia, stay back.”

“No way.”

Another gunshot. Paul looked up.

Standing on the cedar deck behind the lodge was an older man, bald with a neatly trimmed fringe of graying hair around his ears. His posture was ramrod straight. He stood with legs apart and one hand behind his back. With the other hand, he aimed a chrome automatic handgun into a nearby stand of trees. What the hell did he think he was doing?

“Freeze.” Paul sighted down the barrel of his gun. “Police.”

The bald man looked down his nose. “Nothing to worry about, young man.”

Paul thought otherwise. Without lowering his gun, he climbed the staircase to the deck. “Drop your weapon.”

“You’re overreacting.” He squatted and carefully placed his gun on the deck floor. “I was just taking target practice, shooting at a rabbit.”

“Hunting season is over.” Paul scooped up the weapon. A Colt Double Eagle. A nice piece. And well cared for.

Julia stepped onto the deck behind him. “Deputy Paul Hemmings, I’d like to introduce General Harrison Naylor.”

The general’s squint and his square jaw seemed familiar. His formal bearing gave Paul the feeling that he was supposed to snap to attention and salute. But he had guns in both hands, so he merely nodded. “Army?”

“Marines,” the general said.

Which still didn’t give him the right to take potshots off the deck. “I’m sure you don’t need a lecture on gun safety, General. In future, if you want to take target practice, choose a less populated location.”

“Away from the barn,” Julia added. “We have several horses, and they’re not accustomed to gunfire.”

Reluctantly, Paul returned the Colt Double Eagle. The general took a white handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the moisture from the gleaming silver gun. Though dressed in a casual cardigan, the man was impeccable. His trousers held a razor crease, and his shirt was buttoned all the way up to the collar.

Paul cleared his throat. “I’m here because of a car accident. The driver was from Washington, D.C., and I have reason to believe he was looking for someone staying here.”

“I’m stationed in D.C.,” the general said.

“The driver’s name was John Maser.”

The general paused for a moment. His lips moved as he silently repeated the name several times. “That’s Maser as in Maserati?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It’s hard to remember all of the men I’ve had under my command. You said there was a car accident. What happened to Maserati?”

“He was killed.”

“A shame.” The general shook his head. “Can’t say that I know the gentleman.”

Paul was dead certain that he’d seen the general before. “Do you come to this area often? Maybe for skiing?”

“This is my first time. I usually ski in Utah.”

“General Naylor, have we met?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“You might have seen the general on television,” Julia said. “He does a lot of expert commentary.”

“You can’t believe everything you see on TV,” the general said. “Nothing they’ve said about me is the truth. Not one damned thing.”

He executed a sharp turn and marched through the door into the lodge.

Paul exchanged glances with Julia, who seemed as puzzled by the general’s statement as he was. “Interesting guest.”

“Very,” she said.

“How many other people are staying here?”

“Four. And I have two full-time guys who help me run the place.”

Since it was obvious that she didn’t want to invite him inside, Paul took the initiative. He held open the storm door. “After you.”

As she sauntered past him, her curly ponytail came so close that he could smell the fresh scent of her shampoo. There was no other perfume on Julia. She didn’t seem like the type to fuss with girlie things. And yet, she was all woman.

When he’d seen her chopping wood behind the resort, Paul’s heart had pounded harder than thunder across the valley. He’d been stunned, unable to do anything more than stand and stare as this Amazon raised the ax over her head and swung down with force. She’d been breathing hard from her exertions. Inside her white turtleneck, her full breasts heaved. Damn, but she had a fine figure. An hourglass shape.

She reminded him of the early settlers in these mountains—women who were strong, resourceful and brave. And beautiful. Her complexion flushed with abundant health. Her eyes were blue—the color of a winter sky after a snowfall had washed the heavens clean.

Unfortunately, it seemed that she didn’t particularly want him around. Not that she was rude. Just standoffish. He wondered if one of the men who helped her run the lodge was her boyfriend.

In the kitchen, she introduced him to a young man who was doing the cooking for dinner. Though Paul was pleased to see that their relationship fell into the category of boss and employee, there was something disturbing about this guy. Young Roger Flannery had the bulge of a shoulder holster under his flannel shirt. Not illegal. But worrying.

A small, sleek woman entered the kitchen, and Julia introduced her. “Another of our guests. This is RJ Katz.”

She looked like a cat with a button nose, a tiny mouth and wide, suspicious eyes. As Paul shook her thin hand, he asked, “Where are you from?”

“I travel a lot.”

That was an evasive answer if he’d ever heard one. “Business or pleasure?”

“Both.”

Just like a cat. Snooty, cool and independent. When RJ Katz sidled toward the fridge, he half expected to see her take out a bowl of cream and lap it up with her tongue.

If the car crash of John Maser turned out to be something more than an accident, Paul would put RJ at the head of his suspect list. “I need to see your driver’s license, Ms. Katz.”

“It’s in my purse. In my room.” She popped the tab on a cola and took a sip. “What’s this about?”

Paul explained about the car accident and the victim from Washington, D.C. He watched for her reaction when he mentioned the name John Maser.

She was unruffled. “Don’t know him.”

“I’d still like to see your license.”

“I suppose you’re wondering if I live near D.C. Well, I do. My address is Alexandria, Virginia. But I assure you, Deputy, I don’t know your victim.”

There was a lot more he wanted to ask, but Paul had promised Julia that he wouldn’t harass her guests. “Enjoy your stay.”

Before they left the kitchen, Julia directed a question toward RJ Katz. “Do you know if David is in his room?”

“He’s in the basement,” she said, “playing with his precious computer.”

“I’d appreciate if you asked him to come up here and speak with the deputy. So we don’t have to go downstairs.”

An unspoken communication passed between the two women, but Paul couldn’t guess why. He was beginning to think that something strange was going on at this rustic little resort. There was the cook with a shoulder holster. And the feline Ms. Katz who seemed determined to hide her identity. And, of course, a general who gunned down jackrabbits from the porch.

When Paul first arrived, he had noticed three satellite dishes that might be for extra-fine television reception or for some other kind of communication. Clearly, he needed more information about Julia and the lodge.

She led him through the dining room to the front area where a cheery fire burned in the moss rock fireplace. Comfortable was the first word that popped into his head. The sturdy leather sofas and chairs looked big enough to sink into and relax. “Nice,” he said. “I could see myself sitting in that big chair on a Sunday afternoon watching the football game.”

“How about those Broncos?”

“Are you a fan?”

“Actually, I prefer hockey.”

“Me, too.”

Damn, he liked this woman. He really hoped there was nothing sinister going on here.

She stepped in front of him and looked him directly in the eye. “I want to level with you, Paul.”

“Go ahead.”

“All five of my guests are from the Washington, D.C., area. They’re here for a retreat and meetings.”

The presence of the high-profile general who appeared on talk shows suggested a topic for those meetings. “Something political.”

“I really shouldn’t say.”

“What you’re telling me is that any one of your guests might be acquainted with the man who was killed.”

“Yes,” she said.

Paul was sure that if they knew anything about the death of John Maser, these people wouldn’t be forthcoming with information. More in-depth questioning and investigation was necessary. He needed to verify their alibis and arrival times.

On the other hand, he might be bothering these people for no reason at all. John Maser might have died as a result of careless driving. Nothing more.

After the autopsy, Paul would have a better indi-cation of foul play. Right now, his only evidence was the whispered word of the dying man who might have been out of his head. Murder.

“I have a thought,” Julia said. “It’s almost time for dinner, and everybody will be gathered in one place. You can talk to all of them at the same time.”

Not a great idea from the aspect of police procedure. One-on-one questioning was a more effective tool. But this wasn’t really an investigation. Not yet anyway. “Fine with me.”

This time Julia held the front door open for him. “After you.”

He stepped onto the covered porch that stretched all the way across the front of the lodge. From this vantage point, there was a clear view of the gravel drive leading up to the lodge and the vehicles that were parked in the front, including a Hummer that probably belonged to the general.

He sat in one of the rocking chairs, and Julia climbed onto the porch swing. She didn’t speak right away, but the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. He liked her self-assurance—a maturity that didn’t require the constant chatter that filled his house when his girls got revved. “How do you feel about kids, Julia?”

“Love them.” Her face lit up. “My one regret about living here is that I don’t get to spend more time with my niece and nephew back in Wisconsin. They’re practically teenagers now.”

“I have two daughters. Seven and nine.”

“They must keep your wife busy.”

“Not so you’d notice. My ex-wife left a long time ago. I guess we didn’t have much in common.” Not like you and me, he wanted to add.

“Raising two little girls on your own must be hard.”

The way she looked at him, giving him her full attention, made Paul feel like spilling his guts. He wanted to tell her about how frustrated he got when the girls burst into tears for no reason he could understand. Or how confused he was when they changed clothes five times before walking out the door. He wanted to tell Julia about the feeling of sheer happiness when one of the girls hopped onto his lap and told him he was the best daddy in the world.

Julia’s smile encouraged him, and he wanted to tell her everything, wanted to hear her laugh. Or maybe he just wanted to sit here on the porch and watch as the last rays of sunset tangled in her thick, curly hair. His gaze stuck on her lips, and his thoughts turned toward kisses. Caresses. Making love in the afternoon.

“What are their names?” she asked.

“Who?”

“Your kids.”

“Jennifer and Lily.” His thoughts had moved far beyond the kids. “Maybe sometime when you’re not busy, you’d go out to dinner with me.”

Those beautiful lips pinched, and he was pretty sure she was going to tell him to take a hike. Instead, she said, “Next week?”

“It’s a date.”

He leaned back in the rocking chair and grinned. A date with Julia. Damn, this was going to be good.

A glint of sunlight caught his eye. When he looked toward the roof of the covered porch, he spotted the camouflaged lens of a surveillance camera. Again, he wondered what was really going on here.

SHE SHOULDN’T HAVE agreed to go out with him. Alone in the kitchen, Julia loaded the last of the dinner dishes into the washer. And she thought about her date with Paul Hemmings. The pros and the cons. Her mind seesawed.

A chirpy little voice whispered in one ear, “Go on the date. Paul’s a good-looking man. Have some fun for a change.”

In the other ear was a stern professional tone. “Paul is too smart. He’ll figure out that this is a safe-house. Your career will be ruined.”

She couldn’t take that chance. Julia had worked too hard to get to this level. Her FBI career was her whole life.

“That’s pathetic,” said the chirpy voice that sounded a little bit like her mother. “You’re thirty-two years old. Don’t you want to have a family? Children of your own?”

Paul already had a family. Two girls.

Julia shook her head. She was getting way ahead of herself. He hadn’t asked her to marry him, after all. It was only a date.

David Dillard, the FBI computer specialist, saun-tered into the kitchen. “Any coffee left? I’m going to be up late.”

“I was just about to make a fresh pot.” Julia and the other two agents at the safehouse would be staying up all night in shifts to monitor the surveillance cameras that were posted in the hallways and outside. To stay alert, caffeine was a necessary evil.

David pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose and took a seat at the kitchen table. Of all the Homeland Security specialists who were staying here, she liked David best. He was an average looking guy—pleasant and unassuming. “This is a excellent facility,” he said.

“You’ve hardly been outside.”

“I was talking about the lower level.”

“The basement? But it’s all white and sterile.”

“For a computer geek like me, that’s heaven.”

To each his own. Julia spent as little time as possible in the basement where the charming, rustic lodge transformed into a high-tech operation with computers, communication devices and surveillance monitors. Most of the meetings for the Homeland Security group would take place in a bland windowless room on the lower level.

“I thought you brought your own computer with you,” Julia said. “And that collapsible screen thing.”

“Tools of the trade.” He gave her a weary grin. “I’m setting up a series of simulations over the next several days.”

“Simulating what?”

“Our project is to establish a protocol for first response teams handling crisis situations. We want to set up five-person teams of experts who can step in and run things in the chaos following a disaster. They would be the ultimate authority.”

Thus far, no one else had bothered to explain the purpose of this meeting. Though Julia had been curious, she was accustomed to FBI people who played it close to the vest. Apparently, David didn’t have reservations about talking.

“Isn’t there already a chain of command?” she asked as she ground the fresh beans for coffee.

“Too many commanders,” he said. “That’s the problem. The people who are here represent various authorities. The senator to handle political issues. The general for military. RJ is a financial specialist. I’m a communications person. And, of course, there’s Gil representing the CIA.”

“What’s Gil’s specialty?”

David shrugged. “He looks like an assassin to me.”

A charming thought. But she suspected David was correct. The sneaky but muscle-bound Gil Bradley looked like the kind of guy who could be dropped behind enemy lines to take out the opposition.

“What kind of crisis would you deal with?” she asked.

“There’s the obvious big stuff, like a terrorist bombing. I have that simulation set up for the last day, and it’s got really amazing effects. But there are smaller issues. Attacks on a high-profile target, like the Golden Gate bridge. A siege at a survivalist compound. Hostage-taking.”

Julia shuddered as she watched the coffee slowly drip through the filter into the pot. “That’s the worst,” she said. “Hostages.”

When it came to her own personal safety, she was fearless. But a threat to someone she loved? To her mother and father? She remembered the horror and pain she’d felt when she learned of her older brother’s death three years ago. He’d been a Marine. In harm’s way.

“Setting up an official response team is an exciting project,” David said. “On paper, it looks like a snap. The problems come in dealing with all these authoritative personalities. Like the general, for example. His plan is always the same—Send in the Marines.”

“Like my brother,” she said. “He was a Marine.”

“No kidding,” David said. “Mine, too.”

“So you know that the Marines are well trained for crisis.”

“If it’s a military crisis, yes. But there’s so much more to consider. RJ with her financial expertise brings a whole different perspective.”

The aroma of brewing coffee filled the kitchen. “What do finances have to do with homeland security?”

“If you close down the money spigot, the terrorists are left high and dry.”

The coffee was done, and she poured a mug for David. “Thanks for the explanation. It’s nice to have some idea about what’s going on.”

“Simulations are only half of what we’re doing. There’s also going to be team-building stuff.”

“So you’ll all learn to like one another?”

“That’s too much to hope for,” he said with a wry grin. “We’ll be doing well if we don’t all kill one another by the end of the week.”

He grabbed his coffee and disappeared into the lower level. Julia probably should have followed him. There were daily reports she needed to file, but they weren’t due until morning and that computer work would give her something to do while watching the monitors.

In spite of the coffee, it was nine o’clock when she fell into bed exhausted. Her alarm was set for three, when she was scheduled to take her shift at the monitors.

When she closed her eyes, her thoughts immediately flashed on Paul Hemmings. In her mind, she saw his chocolate eyes and the deep dimples in his cheeks. And his body. His large muscular body.

Her arms wrapped tightly around her pillow, and she imagined what it would be like to embrace him. It would take at least three pillows for that simulation.

It wasn’t safe to feel this way. If only he hadn’t asked her out, she could dream about Paul without regret. But he wanted to see her again, and that might be her undoing.

THE NEXT MORNING, everyone was up early except for the general, which seemed odd for a military man who ought to be accustomed to morning exercises. Julia was a bit worried when she stood outside the locked door of the general’s bedroom and knocked. “Sir? Are you awake?”

She pressed her ear against the door and listened. There was no sound from inside.

Though she hated to disturb his privacy, Julia unlocked the door to the general’s bedroom.

He was flat on his bed, dressed in his uniform with medals and ribbons arrayed across his chest. In his right hand was his Colt Double Eagle handgun. General Harrison Naylor had shot himself in the head.

Chapter Three

Early Sunday morning, Paul had the girls loaded in the Explorer and on their way to another practice session at the ice-skating rink near Vail. The kids had a performance tonight, and their coach wanted to use every possible minute on the ice for practice.

When they passed the spot on the highway where they had been flagged down yesterday, both girls stared in silence through the car windows. Though Paul had gotten them away from the scene of the accident before the emergency rescue team went into action, they knew what had happened. Word spread fast in their community. Though they were close to Vail, they were separate. Redding was the kind of town where everybody knew everything.

“Daddy?” Jennifer, his nine-year-old, sounded subdued. “That man in the crashed-up car died, didn’t he?”

Like every parent, he wished to shield his kids from death and tragedy. There was no easy way to talk about these things. “Yes, Jennifer. The man died.”

“But you tried to rescue him.”

“I tried, but I was too late. It was a very bad accident.”

From the back seat, seven-year-old Lily piped up, “It’s okay, Daddy. I love you.”

“Me, too.” Jennifer reached over and patted his arm.

“I love you back.” Apparently, they’d decided that he needed comforting, and he appreciated their effort. His daughters weren’t always so sweet and sensitive. These two adorable, black-haired girls with porcelain complexions could be hell on wheels. “Have I ever mentioned that you kids are pretty amazing?”

“Yes,” Lily said firmly. “I’m very pretty.”

Jennifer groaned. “That’s not what he meant, dorkface.”

“Is too.”

“Is not.”

So much for sweet and sensitive.

“Daddy,” Jennifer whined, “you’ve got to make Lily change clothes before we get to the rink. Nobody wears their performance outfits to practice.”

“I do,” said Lily. “I look like a figure-skater princess.”

“You’re a cow!” Jennifer leaned around the seat to snarl. “I don’t even want to be your sister.”

“Daddy, make her stop.”

Jennifer went louder. “She’s sooo embarrassing.”

Paul pulled onto the shoulder of the road and slammed the car into Park. He took a sip of black coffee from a thermal mug that never managed to keep the liquid hotter than tepid. From the CD player came the music that Jennifer was using for her latest figure-skating routine. “I Enjoy Being a Girl.”

“We can’t stop here,” Jennifer said desperately. “We’re going to be late. Again.”

“We got to hurry,” Lily echoed. “I have to practice my double axel.”

“You wish! You can’t do a double.”

“Can too.”

“Not. Not. Not.”

Not for the first time, Paul wished his daughters had been interested in a sport he could get excited about. Skiing or rock climbing or mountain biking. If they had to strap on ice skates, why the hell couldn’t they play hockey?

He waited until the car was quiet except for the perky music from the CD, then aimed a stern look at Jennifer, whose rosebud mouth pulled down in a frown. “Don’t ever say that you don’t want to be Lily’s sister.”

“But she’s—”

“Never say it. We’re family. You. Me. And Lily.”

“And Mommy,” Jennifer added.

“Right.” Wherever Mommy was. His ex-wife had taken off before Lily was out of diapers and didn’t stay in touch. “We’re family. Understand?”

“I guess.” She flung herself against the seat and stared straight ahead through the windshield.

He peered into the rear where Lily, the self-proclaimed princess, plucked at the silver spangles on the leotard she wore under her parka. “Why are you wearing your fancy outfit to practice?”

“Coach Megan wanted to see it before tonight.”

“Show it to her, then change into your other clothes. I don’t want those sparkles to get ruined.” That scrap of fabric had cost a pretty penny. “Promise you’ll do that.”

“Yes, Daddy.”

He nodded. “Both of you. No more fighting.”

“Daddy?” Jennifer was still scowling. “Is Mommy coming to our performance tonight?”

“She lives in Texas, honey. That’s a long way from here. Besides, I’ll be there.” His presence felt insufficient.

“Who’s going to help me put on my makeup?”

“You’re wearing makeup?”

The girls exchanged a glance and rolled their eyes. “Everybody wears makeup for performance,” Jennifer informed him.

“I’ll take care of it,” Paul said as he merged back onto the road and drove the last couple of miles to the new indoor ice-skating rink. He waited until the girls had scampered inside. After skating practice, they were scheduled for an all-day play date with a friend, another little ice-skating princess.

Paul had to work today. And, apparently, he also had to figure out a way to get lipstick and mascara on his girls. He shuddered at the thought.

Wheeling around in the parking lot, he headed back toward home. There was just enough time to grab a shower, change into his uniform and report for duty. After he checked in, his first order of business would be filling out reports on the five people he’d interviewed at Julia’s place—a waste of time. All five came from the Washington, D.C., area, but none of them recognized John Maser’s name.

Though Paul had suspicions about these people, he’d have to wait for more evidence before pursuing this investigation further. John Maser’s accident could have been just that—an unfortunate vehicular accident.

Still, that single dying word kept repeating in Paul’s brain. Murder.

As he pulled up in front of his house, his cell phone rang, and he picked up. Immediately, he recognized Julia’s rich, alto voice. She sounded agitated.

“Paul, I need for you to come here. Right away.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t explain. Just come. Please.”

If she’d been anybody else, he would have insisted on more details. But he liked that she’d called him. He wanted to be the knight in shining armor who could solve all her problems. “I’ll be there in twenty-five minutes.”

JULIA HAD NEVER BEEN in such a complicated situation. The general was dead. He was in his locked bedroom, all alone with the gun in his hand. He’d left a suicide note.

Yet, she knew in her heart that his death was murder.

Her duty as a federal agent was to encourage an investigation. But if the local law enforcement got involved, her safehouse would be exposed. She’d have no choice but to recommend closing down the entire operation, and she didn’t want that to happen. She was proud of her work here and loved the mountains. The safehouse felt more like home than anywhere she’d ever lived, and she’d do anything to protect it. Even if it meant misleading Paul.

When she opened the front door for him, she forced herself to look him in the eye. Inside her rib cage her heart was jumping like a jackrabbit, but she kept her voice steady, “Thank you for coming.”

“No problem.” As he stepped across the threshold, his gaze flicked around the room, taking in every detail. “What’s up?”

“Come with me.”

She led the way up the staircase to the second-floor bedrooms. Their boot heels echoed on the hard-wood floor. She and Paul were almost alone in the house. Her so-called guests—the Homeland Security experts—were horseback riding as a team-building exercise. Julia had suggested that everybody lay low while the police were here.

Using her key, she opened the door to General Harrison Naylor’s bedroom. The death scene was carefully arranged. Wearing his Marine dress blues, the general lay stretched out on the bed. In his right hand, he gripped his silver Colt Double Eagle pistol with sound suppressor attached. The fatal bullet had gone through the back of his skull, leaving his face unmarked. His eyes were closed. His lifeblood stained the pillows and the linens.

On a small desk, his laptop was open but not turned on. A note rested beside it.

As Paul stepped gingerly into the scene, Julia told her first lie. “I found him like this.”

When she first discovered the body, she had closed and relocked the bedroom door behind her. Standing over the body of the general, her FBI training kicked into high gear. Her brain cleared. Her priorities sorted. Much to her shame, her first thoughts centered on the security of the safehouse.

She forced herself to focus. A man was dead. A heroic military man. A man who led other brave Marines, like her brother, into battle. There were procedures to be followed.

Her trained gaze had gone to the rows of medals on this fallen soldier’s chest. At that moment, she realized that the general had not committed suicide. The medals were not in proper order.

A Marine would never be so careless. When her brother was laid out in his coffin, she had studied the Marine Corps Manual to make sure his ribbons and medals were in correct alignment. The general would never make such a mistake. Therefore, she could assume that someone else had pinned those medals to his chest. This wasn’t a suicide.

However, if the general was murdered, it meant a prolonged investigation by local authorities. A simple suicide would be an open-and-shut case. She could carefully escort the local lawmen through their duties without revealing the real business of the safehouse.

And so, she had decided to change the medals, putting them in proper order. As if this tampering with the crime scene wasn’t bad enough, she’d done more.

Under the sink in the general’s bathroom, she found a pair of latex gloves, slipped them on and returned to the body.

The general’s shoes had been scuffed. A true Marine would never consider himself to be fully in uniform with dirty shoes. She’d removed the shoes from the general’s feet, polished them and put them back on.

Guilt coursed through her veins like poison. How could she have done such a thing? Her life was dedicated to fighting crime, and she was no better than any other criminal, hiding evidence. How could she allow the general’s family to believe that he’d killed himself?

She watched as Paul prowled around the bedroom, being careful not to touch anything. He leaned over the general’s body for a closer look. “This is strange.”

“What?” She halfway hoped that he’d see through her tampering and confront her. “What’s strange?”

“He’s wearing his hearing aid,” Paul said. “If I was going to shoot myself in the head, that would be the first thing to go.”

Her lips pinched together, holding back an urge to confess to him. Not only was she guilty of rearrang-ing a crime scene but she was also betraying Paul, deliberately misleading him.

He asked, “Was his bedroom door locked?”

“Yes.” That much was true. “And we have a security camera in the hallway. I’ve already checked the tape. There was no one who came into or out of his room.”

“A security camera?” He turned toward her. “Why?”

“Security,” she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Julia knew that most people in nearby Redding didn’t even bother locking their doors. “There was already a lot of security equipment when I moved here.”

“And you still keep it running?” he said. “Have you been bothered by theft? Vandalism?”

There wasn’t much likelihood of anyone sneaking up on the safehouse. If they came within a hundred feet of the property, they’d be met by armed agents.

“I’ve never had any problems,” she said, trying to shrug off his questioning gaze. “The camera came in handy this time, right?”

Paul circled the bed, went to the window and glanced out at the eaves. Julia knew it was possible for the murderer to have come across the roof and entered the general’s room through this window. Such an action would require the expert skill of a rock climber who was accustomed to clinging to tiny ledges. She’d immediately thought of Gil Bradley, the former Navy SEAL who had the look and the manner of an assassin.

If Gil had murdered the general, she didn’t want to shield him from justice. But she had to keep her secret; she couldn’t let people know this was an FBI safehouse.

Paul inspected the double-paned window. The lower half was designed to be pulled up over the upper half in summer to let in the fresh air. “This window doesn’t have a lock.”

“There’s no way to open it from the outside without prying it loose.”

“After the sheriff gets here, I’ll need to check it out.”

“Surely, you don’t think someone crept in here during the night and murdered the general.”

She held her breath, waiting for his response.

“I doubt it,” he said. “There are no signs of a struggle. It appears that the general was shot where he lies because there aren’t blood spatters in the rest of the room.”

“So it’s suicide,” she said.

“Apparent suicide,” Paul corrected her. “We still need to go through the drill. Taking fingerprints. Checking the room for fibers, hairs and tiny spots of blood. I’ll need to interview your guests to see if any of them heard or saw anything unusual.”

“I’d really appreciate if this could be handled with as little fuss as possible. It’s bad for business and—” She paused midsentence. Her gaze turned to the dead man. How could she be scheming in his presence? “God, I sound cold. I shouldn’t be thinking about business.”

“I understand,” Paul said.

“My other guests knew the general. I don’t want to upset them any more than necessary.”

“They’ll probably call off their meeting,” Paul said.

That was what she had expected. But the senator had been adamant about moving forward with their mission; he had no other free time in his schedule. “They’ve decided to carry on.”

Clearly taken aback, Paul said, “Doesn’t sound like your other guests are concerned about the general’s suicide.”

“They’re task-oriented people from Washington. It’s not up to me to approve or disapprove of their decision.”

Her job was to keep them safe. And she’d failed miserably. As she glanced at the lifeless body stretched out on the bed, her heart ached with the weight of her guilty secrets. I’m sorry, General. So horribly sorry. He deserved to have his death investigated. Suicide was looked upon as the coward’s way out. A Marine deserved better.

She felt Paul’s arm encircle her shoulders. Gently, he guided her toward the bedroom door. “Don’t worry, Julia. I’ll take care of everything. We’ll be as discreet as possible.”

Standing in the hallway outside the bedroom, she allowed herself to accept his comforting embrace, leaning her head into the crook of his neck. Her arms wrapped around his huge torso. He was so big and solid.

Though his touch was in no way inappropriate and he patted her shoulders in an almost impersonal manner, she felt a surge of erotic tension. Her breasts rubbed against his chest. She inhaled his masculine scent. Gazing up, she noticed that his chin was marked with morning stubble. Though he was in his deputy uniform, he had to have come here immediately without even stopping to shave.

He was anxious to help, and she repaid him with lies, using him for her own purposes. Julia stepped away from his embrace. There was a depth of meaning in her voice when she whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“No need for you to be sorry. This isn’t your fault.”

If only he knew what she’d done. In his warm brown eyes, she saw the glow of kindness. She didn’t merit his friendship. “What happens next?”

“I’ll call the sheriff. He’s not going to be happy. Two fatalities in two days.”

“Is that unusual?”

“Not for a city,” Paul said. “But we’re a fairly quiet little county.”

“I hate to bring this up,” she said, “but there will be media attention. General Naylor was well known. He did commentary on a lot of news programs.”

“Which means the sheriff is going to be talking to the press,” Paul said. “He can handle it.”

She envisioned television trucks with satellite dishes and reporters with microphones. A nightmare! “I really don’t want my lodge to be the backdrop for those interviews.”

“No problem. We’ll evacuate the body to the hos-pital before autopsy. The sheriff can make his statement to the press from that location.”

For that, she was endlessly grateful. The last thing she needed was a mob of curious interviewers crawling all over the safehouse.

“Yesterday,” Paul said, “the general reacted strangely when you mentioned his television commentaries. What did he say? Something about not believing everything you hear. It was like he thought he was being unfairly criticized.”

“Paranoid,” she said. “That fits with suicide, doesn’t it?”

“Did you notice anything else unusual about his state of mind?”

“Other than shooting at rabbits off the deck behind the lodge?”

“Strange behavior,” he said.

“But not typical. The general kept to himself. He got here a day ahead of the others and spent most of that time in his room.”

Paul glanced down at his boots, then looked up at her again. “How much do you know about makeup? You know, lipstick and stuff.”

That question came out of the blue. “On occasion, I’ve been known to use cosmetics.”

“You don’t need that stuff,” he said quickly. “I like the way you look. Healthy. And your eyes…well, your blue eyes are beautiful.”

His gruff compliment took her off guard. Had he really said that she was beautiful? Her eyes were beautiful? Self-consciously, she glanced away. “Thank you.”

“This is about my two daughters. They have an ice-skating performance tonight at the rink near Vail, and they need to put on makeup. That happens to be a topic I don’t know much about.”

She peeked up at him. Though he was trying to scowl, the dimples in his cheeks deepened. Adorable. “I’d like to help you, Paul.”

He waved his hand back and forth as if to erase his words. “Forget it. You have enough to worry about.”

“Tell you what. I’ll put together a little makeup kit for you to take with you.”

“Thanks a lot, Julia.”

His gratitude was utterly sincere. The sheepish expression on his face almost brought her to tears. For the first time in her life, Julia had purposely done wrong. She was lying to this terrific guy, and it was tearing her apart.

Unable to look in Paul’s trusting eyes for one more second, she pivoted and headed down the staircase.

In the kitchen, they found Craig Lennox, the other FBI agent who worked with her at the safehouse. Craig, a computer expert, was nearly as concerned as Julia about the true purpose of the safehouse being discovered. The office on the basement floor—filled with high-tech surveillance and computer equip-ment—was his domain, and he didn’t want anybody touching anything.

His dark eyes darted nervously in his thin face. He nodded to Paul, who he’d met yesterday. “Is there anything I should be doing?”

“Sit tight,” Julia said. “The police will be here soon.”

He held up a videocassette. “I made copies of the surveillance tapes that show the hallway outside the general’s room.”

“For all night?” Paul asked.

“From eleven o’clock when the general went to bed until this morning when Julia opened his door.”

“Nobody entered the room?”

“Nobody,” Craig said. “These tapes are time coded on the bottom. There’s not one second missing.”

Paul took a cell phone from his utility belt and punched in a number on his cell phone. “Jurisdiction can be complicated up here, but your resort is well outside Vail’s city limits so the Eagle County sheriff will be handling this incident. There’s no need to call in the state investigators for a suicide.”

A suicide. Paul seemed convinced. She could only hope that the other county officials would also be satisfied by that explanation.

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