“I should go.”

“You don’t have to.” His pale blue eyes glittered with unmistakable intensity.

“Yes.” Her voice was shakier than she’d like to admit, matching her resolve. “I do.”

They stared at each other for an instant, the moment awkward, thick with tension. There was a wild and reckless beating in her pulse, one that tempted even as it alarmed. If it had been due solely to animal attraction there would be no choice. She’d be in his bed, wrapped around him, and use him to quench the heat in her blood.

But it wasn’t that simple. He wasn’t that simple.

She took plenty of risks, but only when she could control the situation.

Jake Tarrance didn’t appear to be a man easily controlled.

The Business of Strangers
Kylie Brant

www.millsandboon.co.uk

KYLIE BRANT

lives with her husband and children. Besides being a writer, this mother of five works full-time teaching learning-disabled students. Much of her free time is spent in her role as professional spectator at her kids’ sporting events.

An avid reader, Kylie enjoys stories of love, mystery and suspense—and she insists on happy endings. She claims she was inspired to write by all the wonderful authors she’s read over the years. Now most weekends and all summer she can be found at the computer, spinning her own tales of romance and happily-ever-afters.

She invites readers to check out her online read in the reading room at eHarlequin.com. Readers can write to Kylie at P.O. Box 231, Charles City, IA 50616, or e-mail her at kyliebrant@hotmail.com. Her Web site address is www.kyliebrant.com.

For Alison, my favorite only daughter. I just knew holding out for a girl would pay off in the end!

Acknowledgments

Special thanks goes to Candace Irvin for all the great military information and for pointing me, not so gently, toward the army! And another huge thank-you to Ben Swank, for your time and patience with my endless questions about the Army Rangers. Your generous assistance is appreciated more than you can know.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Epilogue

Prologue

The tropical blue-green waters of the Atlantic beat in lazy rhythm against the pebbled sand beach of Santa Cristo. The simple lullaby of the flow and ebb of the foamy waves was deceptive, for the constant pattern brought both life and death to the myriad of creatures dependent on it for survival. Each new wash of waves ended existence for some. Each new pull back to the sea gave new life to others.

To the woman in the wet suit, the ocean gave both.

Her unconscious body rode the waves into shore and was deposited on the sand as the water went about its business of tides and lunar cycles. She’d survived, barely, all the dangers the ocean had to offer. The natural buoyancy of her body had helped her elude the churning currents that had tried to pull her under and provide her with a final resting place. The predators of the sea had taken no notice of the black-clad body being tossed from wave to wave, like the rest of the flotsam, after last night’s storm.

Perhaps they knew somehow that human predators had already done their worst.

She might have died there, face pressed into the sand, lungs filled with saltwater. Might have slipped from unconsciousness to death in a gradual descent into total darkness that would hold a not unwelcome finality. But dawn had spilled over the nearby mountains and was even now painting the horizon. And on an island gripped by unrest, people rose early, eager to shake off the heavy mantle of darkness that held increasingly ominous threats.

It would be easier to seek oblivion, if it weren’t for the never-ending noise above her.

A voice. She identified the sound finally, if not the words. It took awhile longer to recognize the language as Spanish, the voice as belonging to a female. She couldn’t explain why both those facts eased a measure of the fear welling up inside her.

“Wake up, Angel. I did not go to all the work of saving you to have you sleep your life away. Wake up now and speak to me.”

A soft blanket of darkness summoned, offering to wrap her once again in sweet oblivion. Then she was rolled from her side to her stomach, and white-hot shards of pain stabbed through her, ripping open the cloak of unconsciousness and wrenching a guttural groan from her.

“Estoy apesadumbrado.”

The apology didn’t register, nor did the deliberate gentling of hands. The pain was gleefully gnawing through muscle, tendon, bone. Unconsciousness shimmered tantalizingly, just out of reach, and she clawed toward it, wanting to dive beneath its cloak again and escape the torment.

“I call you Angel because surely God is smiling on you.” A wet cloth, blessedly cool, was laid across her forehead. “How else could you survive two bullets in your back and hours in the ocean during one of the worst storms this year?”

Bullets? Ocean? She waited, but the words summoned no answering memory, and panic began to circle through the pain.

“You must have been on a boat. Were you diving? When my daughter and I found you on the beach, you wore a wet suit. I had to cut it off you to get at your wounds.”

Wet suit. Diving. She understood the words. She waited for a mental association to form. None did. The panic surged through the agony.

“I can do little for the pain, I am sorry. When you are well enough I will go for the doctor. He can bring the police.”

“No.” The woman lunged upward from the bed to grasp her rescuer’s hand with surprising strength, given her injuries. All the command, all the urgency she could muster was in her voice. “No doctor. No police.”

Luz frowned, her free hand rising to replace the cloth that had been dislodged. “I can do no more than I already have. Luckily for you, I am a nursing assistant. Yours were the first bullets I’ve ever removed, though, and I have nothing to give you to prevent infection.”

“Tell no one.” The woman she’d saved clutched at her with burning fingers.

“But this must be reported. I cannot…” Luz began helplessly, then stopped when the woman she called Angel went limp, her eyes sliding closed.

“Is she dead, Mama?” Maria, her eight-year-old daughter, gazed at the stranger with rounded eyes.

“No.” Not yet. Luz stared down at the unconscious form on the bed, dread rearing. Logic dictated she summon help as soon as she dared leave her patient. Last week the guerillas had overthrown the government in Puerto de Ponce, less than sixty miles away. And with refugees flooding across the porous borders to her country, it seemed almost a given that Angel was one of them.

Except…she was Caucasian, and she hadn’t come over the border. How could Luz in good conscience have her shipped back to a country torn apart by fighting, when she’d already come so close to death?

Luz slipped her arm around her daughter’s shoulders and hugged her close. She could afford to wait a little longer. Just long enough for Angel to give her some answers.

As the days passed, Angel grew steadily stronger. She insisted on walking on the beach each night, in an effort to regain her stamina. With Luz’s help, she cut her hair to the approximate length and style of the other woman’s. They were close enough in height and weight for them to pass for each other in the dark, especially with her wearing Luz’s clothes. It didn’t seem to matter. Angel never saw another person.

She’d begun to think of herself by that name, even as she burrowed deep into her mind for any threads of personal information, without success. She could converse with Luz in Spanish with ease, and the other woman had marveled at her fluency. French, Japanese, Arabic and German came as easily, but her thoughts were in English.

She was almost certain she was an American. She had no accent that she could detect, but education could eradicate that, and so could deliberation. She knew as much about recent events in any number of countries, but her knowledge of American popular culture was by far the greatest.

The mirror told her she must be close to Luz’s age, around twenty-four. But the reflection of the woman with tawny hair and wide-set golden eyes sparked no sense of recognition. Her nose was short and straight, her mouth small and full. Other than her injuries, she was in excellent physical shape. She had no identifying marks except for the intricate winged horse she had tattooed on her left ankle. It was small, no more than two inches in diameter, but the detail was remarkable. Had the symbol meant something to her at one time, or had she gotten stupidly drunk one night and awakened with a personal adornment she couldn’t recall selecting?

The answer to that question was as elusive as any other she’d asked herself, including her instinctive urge to lie to the woman who’d saved her life. She’d received Luz’s promise of secrecy by weaving an elaborate tale of wealth, power and corruption, and an older husband’s zeal to guard his political reputation. She didn’t question her certainty that going to the authorities would be disastrous—just as she didn’t question the knowledge she recalled of this island and both its countries, their cultures, climates and governments. She could recall the name of every high-ranking government official on the island.

What she couldn’t do was guess at her own. When it came to personal history, it was as if a sponge had scrubbed her mind clean. She could recall nothing—no name, no country, no family. She had no idea who she was, who had wanted her dead, or why.

All she could be sure of was that they were still out there somewhere. And, if they had even the slimmest suspicion that she was alive, they’d be back to finish the job.

Angel prowled the interior of the small hut, testing her endurance. Luz and the child had been gone for hours. They’d taken to spending their afternoons on the beach. Luz worked at one of the resorts at the nearby town of Cuidad de la Playa, and her two weeks off were nearing an end. She’d go back to work another two months straight, while Maria stayed with her grandparents, who lived a mile away.

Night was falling. To give herself something to do, she lit the candles. The mother and daughter lived simply, without electricity or running water. The roof was thatched, the floor packed dirt, the walls some sort of stucco material. There were rolled up shades above the open windows that were probably only used when it rained. A few miles away, the luxury hotels where Luz worked had every modern amenity, but when she returned home it was to a place bordering on squalor.

Crossing to the door, Angel opened it, stepped outside. The area was secluded, ocean on one side and jungle on the other. A balmy breeze rustled the leaves and she could hear waves lapping against the shore. Despite the simple existence, the place was idyllic.

She stood staring out at the moonlit darkness. Maybe Luz had gone to visit her parents, staying later than expected. At any rate, if Angel went for her evening walk, they’d probably be back by the time she returned.

She headed out at a brisk pace, determined to cover more ground than she had the evening before. But it wasn’t long before the same burning question dominated her thoughts.

Who had tried to kill her? A husband, as she’d fabricated for Luz? A lover? Had it been a stranger or someone she’d trusted? She’d seen the wet suit Luz had cut off her. It wouldn’t be the type favored by local hotels. The material was insulated, too expensive for the wear and tear it would undergo from a constant stream of tourists. Beneath it she’d worn a simple one-piece bathing suit. Like the outerwear, it was obviously high quality. And like the other article, there was no way to identify it. Neither boasted logos or tags of any kind. An attempt to trace them would likely result in failure. And she couldn’t help wondering if that was by design.

Pushing herself, she began to jog. The slugs that Luz had taken from her back had come from a 9 mm cartridge. She found her ability to recognize that fact a bit chilling.

So she knew guns. Her bare feet slapped against the smooth sand as she ran. Trying to retrieve the slightest personal detail resulted in blinding headaches, but facts like that—and her knowledge of languages—were just there, unsummoned.

She needed to get someplace where she could research amnesia, but wouldn’t be seeking her answers in a hospital. Her rejection of that idea was as strong as her reluctance to involve local law enforcement. With no memory to work with, she was going to have to trust her intuition. At least for now.

Turning, she started back toward the house. She’d come farther than she’d expected, and slowed to a brisk walk. After an initial wave of exhaustion her body had rebounded with renewed energy. She was well enough to make her way off the island. She just wasn’t certain of her destination.

She could make out the hut in the distance, its shape shrouded in shadows. Her scalp prickled. Instinct brought her to a halt, even before comprehension filtered through her.

The house was dark.

The candles she’d lit should have been flickering inside, easily seen through the windows. The light breeze could have extinguished one, perhaps. But not all of them.

She scanned the area, but saw no one. Even so, she made her way to the jungle, took the time to search for something that could be used as a weapon. Her options were limited.

Contenting herself with a stout branch she found on the ground, she quickly stripped it of leaves and twigs. Perhaps she was growing alarmed for nothing. But the absence of Luz and the child began to take on an ominous implication.

She looked down, froze. Two feet away were twin furrows in the sand, leading to the jungle. Adrenaline kicked through her. She raised the stick, prepared to wield it as she followed the marks deeper into the brush. She stopped, barely daring to breathe, and pushed aside a tangle of vines to reveal a body.

Bile pooled in her throat as the smell of fresh death permeated the air. Luz’s eyes were open, the gaping wound in her throat resembling a hideous smile.

No! The vehement denial shrieked through Angel, a pitiful shield against reality. It was emotion rather than logic that made her sink to the ground, searching for a pulse that she already knew would be absent. Whoever had slit her throat had done so with minimal fuss. She’d been murdered on the beach and dragged out of sight.

And Luz had died because of her.

Guilt swamped her—if she hadn’t washed ashore on this particular stretch of beach, Luz would still be alive. Maria would still have a mother.

The thought had her taking a breath. Where was the child? Had she suffered her mother’s fate, or run away to hide deeper in the jungle?

She prayed it was the latter, but there was no time now for a search—she had to concentrate on survival. Whoever was out there wouldn’t be claiming another victim tonight.

Angel circled the hut from the cover of the jungle and wondered how long the killer would wait inside. Because he was in there. His only hope of taking her by surprise was to ambush her inside.

The thought was so chilling that she didn’t consider the ease with which she’d slipped into the killer’s mind-set. She thought only of taking him out before he could strike again.

She’d have to advance on the hut diagonally from one corner, the only blind spot. Still grasping the club, she crept forward an inch at a time, dropping to all fours once leaving the protection of the jungle. She stopped beneath one of the windows, flattening herself against the cool stucco. Should anyone lean out the opening and look down she’d be completely exposed, but she doubted the stranger would be willing to show himself.

Minutes ticked by. There was a slight sound, then a shadow moved across the window. Angel had her answer. He was in there. Now she just needed to draw him out.

If he carried only the knife, she had a chance. A gun would prove more difficult to defend against. Either way, the element of surprise would be her most effective weapon. If she could disarm him, she could neutralize him just as effectively in hand-to-hand combat.

The automatic thought made her pause, a distant part of her now noting the natural way she plotted engaging the man, perhaps killing him. There was a sense of shock at this glimpse into what she was. What she may have been. But the rest of her was grim, focused. And utterly intent on staying alive.

She stood carefully and listened. Hearing nothing, she scooped up some damp sand, squeezed it then threw it up on the roof. She repeated the action a few more times and then rounded the corner, sliding along the wall until she could peer around to the front.

A black clad figure hoisted himself onto the window ledge and straightened. He was about a half foot taller than her, she estimated, around six-three. And the blade of the knife he carried gleamed in the darkness.

He sheathed it at his waist before reaching up to where the wall of the hut met the thatched roof. She figured he’d used the gap there to pull himself up and check out what the person on the roof was planning.

Except no one was there.

She moved swiftly, racing forward with the club raised. Swinging hard, she caught him in the knees just as he turned his head toward her, causing him to fall from the ledge. Her next blow was to his wrist. She wanted to debilitate his grip before he could pull the knife. But while the blow found its target, in the next instant he was rolling away and getting nimbly to his feet. He pulled the weapon with his other hand.

He grinned, a macabre show of teeth against the black cloth of the face mask he wore. “Did you enjoy your swim the other night?” Both of them were crouched, eyeing each other for the best angle of approach. “I was kind of hoping sharks would finish you off, but you always did have the devil’s own luck.”

He was American, she was almost certain. But she was given little time to reflect on that fact. He feinted toward her with a series of short jabs that she easily deflected with the club. Rather than falling back, she drew nearer to him. By pinning him against the side of the house, she could control his movements to some extent. But he wouldn’t be so easily trapped. He lunged toward her, swiping downward with the knife, catching her shoulder.

Red-hot pain sliced through her as she brought the club down on his exposed forearm and heard the sickening crunch of bone breaking. The knife dropped to the ground and she kicked it away. With his injury, the field had leveled somewhat, but she wasn’t foolish enough to believe that this was over.

It would be a fight to the death.

As if in recognition of that, he aimed a lethal kick at her femoral nerve. Whirling away, she grabbed the club in both hands and rammed it at his groin. He caught it in one fist and moved sharply backward to pull her off balance. He pounced, spinning her around and pressing the club against her neck in a choke-hold. Angel could see gray spots forming before her eyes.

“By the way, Sammy sends his regards.” His voice was a poison-laced hiss in her ear. She balled her fist and punched repeatedly at the broken bone in his arm while stomping on his foot. Then she drove her elbow back into his solar plexus and finally felt his grip on the club loosen a little.

He tried a hip shot that threw her to the ground. She rolled with it and lashed out to kick him in the face, scrabbling for the knife while he dived down on top of her.

And as his hands went to her neck, no doubt intent on snapping it and ending the fight, she brought the blade up and rammed it in his heart.

For a moment his hands tightened, his eyes behind the mask going wide. Then his shoulders relaxed, his fingers leaving her to go to the knife hilt. She pushed him off her and, seeing his black and shiny blood in the darkness, kneeled beside him.

“Who are you? Who’s Sammy?” she asked urgently.

But he just smiled, a dreadful stretching of the lips that was more of a grimace. “He’ll…just send…one of the others. You’ll…die…” He released a shuddering breath, the sound rattling out of him. “Traitor…bitch.”

“Who am I?” Her hands clutched his shoulders and she shook him violently, emotionally. But her efforts were in vain. His body went limp and his eyes stared blankly, mocking her even in death.

She rose, swaying a bit, her breath sawing like razors out of her lungs. Then she stumbled toward the hut, aware of the pain in her shoulder. Touching it, her fingers came away sticky with blood.

Inside, she wet a towel with a bottle of water and jammed it against the wound. Then she lit a candle. Carrying it back to the body, she dropped to her knees and reached out to remove the man’s hood.

Angel waited for a glimmer of recognition, but there was nothing. He was blond, square jawed and his sightless eyes were blue. And he’d known her—his words attested to that. She’d thought that perhaps the sight of something, or someone, familiar would spark her memory, but it remained blank. He might as well have been a stranger.

His clothing had been stripped of tags. A search of his pockets yielded nothing, but the empty knife sheath secured to his belt hung beside a narrow pouch, eight inches long.

She took it off and emptied it. There was a large roll of bills in a sealed clear plastic bag, and a small vial of liquid and a syringe.

With quick movements she undressed him. Holding the candle close, she surveyed his body, looking for any marks that might help identify him later.

She almost missed it. The blood from the knife wound had smeared across his upper chest, leaving only a hint of white showing through the stain. Angel took his shirt and wiped away the blood to discover a small tattoo.

There was a roaring in her ears, and a wave of dizziness hit her. It was a small winged horse, identical to the one on her ankle.

A rumble of thunder reminded her that time was precious. From the little the stranger had said, it was obvious that there were others working with him. There was no way to be sure how long she had before they followed. Grabbing the man’s pouch, she rose and made her way back into the jungle, hoping that she’d find Maria.

After several minutes of calling, a bush stirred, and the child crawled out from beneath it. Relief—then grief— swamped Angel. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. But it’s over now,” she said in Spanish as the child approached. “Come. I’ll take you to your grandparents’ home.”

Maria refused to grasp Angel’s outstretched hand. “I don’t need you to take me. I know the way.”

“I’ll go with you to make sure you’re safe.”

Tears poured from the girl’s eyes, but the venom in her voice was surprisingly adult. “Like Mama was safe? It’s your fault she’s dead!” The girl turned and raced out of the jungle toward the beach.

Angel’s answer was nearly silent, but it etched a guilt-filled scar through her heart. “I know.”

Chapter 1

Six Years Later

Sheriff Kingsley motioned for attention from the deputies and raised a hand to begin the signal. On the count of three, the deputy in front used the entry device to blast the door twice, then stood aside as the sheriff raised a booted foot to send it crashing against the opposite wall. The four people inside were already scrambling.

“Freeze!”

Kingsley went into the farmhouse, followed by Deputies Cook and Ralston. The scene inside was chaotic, the shouted orders mingling with the cries of the suspects. One went for his weapon and the sheriff brought up a rifle, sighted and shot with one fluid movement. The man slumped against the wall, hand clamped to his wounded shoulder. Another was attempting to flee through an open window, and Kingsley let him go. Deputies were stationed all around the house. He wouldn’t get far.

“Hands in the air. In the air! Don’t make a move toward that weapon!” Three other officers raced by to secure the rest of the house. Kingsley kept the rifle trained on the drug dealers they’d surprised, as Deputies Simpson, Cook and Ralston cuffed them. Only then was the weapon lowered and handed to another deputy.

“Need some help there, Ralston?” Kingsley asked.

The hulking man the deputy was attempting to pat down was huge, over six and a half feet tall, and even in restraints he wasn’t proving cooperative. It had taken two officers to put cuffs on him, and he was still actively resisting. Kingsley started forward to assist.

“I got him.” Ralston’s sullen, barely civil tone was familiar, as it was the one he’d used to address the newly appointed sheriff for the last six weeks.

Because it appeared that the deputy had subdued the man, Kingsley drew on some latex gloves and approached the coffee table. Amid piles of bills was a clear bag containing what looked like shards of glass. Picking it up, the sheriff gave a low whistle. “This just might turn out to be a major bust.”

Simpson craned his neck to look. “What is it? Coke?”

“Looks like crystal meth to me.” Kingsley dropped it into the evidence bag another deputy produced, while the wounded suspect snarled, “It ain’t ours. You planted it. We’ll all testify to that.” He looked around at his companions, as if for support.

“Better hope none of your prints is on it then, genius.” To the deputies, Kingsley said, “Get them in the cars. Simpson, once the medic has your prisoner stabilized, take him to the ER.”

One by one the officers led each cuffed man outside. But when Ralston passed by the sheriff with his prisoner, the deputy seemed to stumble a little, loosening his hold. The suspect used the opportunity to pull away, lowering his head and then swinging it hard, connecting with Kingsley’s face.

Two deputies leaped to assist, but it wasn’t necessary. Kingsley grabbed the man’s shirt, using his forward motion to flip him to the floor, and placed a foot on the back of his neck to keep him there. It usually wasn’t all that difficult to ignore Ralston’s attitude, but the smirk on the deputy’s face, coupled with the pain from the blow the suspect had landed, had the sheriff calling, “Meyer. Backstrom. Take over for Ralston here.”

The order brought a familiar glower to the deputy’s face. “That’s not necessary, Sheriff. I’ve got him under control.”

“No, Deputy, I’ve got him under control. Back away.” Reluctantly, Ralston stepped aside to allow the other two officers to accompany the suspect to the car. Only after all the cuffed men had been taken outside did Kingsley turn to the deputy.

A hand on his arm stopped Ralston as he started to shove by. “No harm done this time, but making mistakes like that with suspects can get other officers injured or killed. Don’t let it happen again.”

The deputy wheeled around, his thin face flushed and his eyes narrowed. “Is that what you big city hotshots call a mistake? Reading your press, I figured a cocky dyke like you could take this whole crew single-handedly.”

Kingsley nodded. “If I had taken them on, one of the first things I would have done with a large struggling opponent would be to incapacitate him completely. Sort of like this.” A stiff-fingered jab to a neural pressure point at the base of Ralston’s throat had the man sinking to his knees, both hands clasped to his neck, his breathing strangled.

Sheriff Rianna Kingsley stepped around him. “I wonder which will bother you the most now, Ralston. That you’re working for a dyke sheriff or that she just kicked your ass?”

It was hours before the arrest and booking procedures were completed. There were reports to be filed, evidence to be labeled and bagged and phone calls to dodge. All of those calls had come from Eldon Croat, local county commissioner and primary reason Ria had been appointed to fill out the prior sheriff’s term. She was in no mood to listen to the commissioner’s jubilant crowing at this latest bust, or about his own brilliance—even when that “brilliance” had to do with his hiring of her.

Her cheek throbbed where the suspect had nailed her, and the ongoing hostility from Ralston hadn’t improved her mood. The man had been a major pain since she’d taken the job six weeks ago, and ignoring him hadn’t helped. She doubted she’d improved matters any by embarrassing him in front of some of the others, but it had been completely satisfying for her, so that was something.

She glanced at the clock. It was after six. Saving the report she was typing at the computer, she stood and hung up the navy SHERIFF windbreaker she’d discarded earlier, along with the body armor. Grabbing her purse, she headed out. What she needed right now was a thick steak, two fingers of Scotch and the privacy to enjoy both. That meant traveling beyond the confines of Tripolo, Alabama. And probably even outside Fenton County.

Marlyss, the big blond secretary/dispatcher, looked up from her paperwork as Rianna walked by. “Leaving for the night, Sheriff?”

“Going out for a bite. Where’s the best steak to be found around here?” She’d already learned that Marlyss considered herself a culinary connoisseur. From her talk on Mondays it appeared she and her husband’s primary socializing on the weekends centered around discovering new restaurants. Her girth was testament to the success of her search.

“Shakers is about ten minutes from here, and they do a decent fillet. Things can get pretty rowdy there on the weekends, though.”

Ria recalled the name. She’d sent a couple deputies on a call there last weekend. “What about outside the county?”

Marlyss reached forward and opened a side drawer on her desk. “If you want to drive on over to Phenix City or even Columbus, Georgia, I’ve got a few menus from places we’ve enjoyed. You’re welcome to take them with you and decide. Bring them back when you’re done though, won’t you?”

Recognizing the gesture for what it was, Ria took the menus. She wasn’t about to turn aside one of the few offers of genuine friendliness she’d encountered since coming here. “I’ll do that, Marlyss. Thanks.”

Once she’d showered, changed and got in her car, Ria was in the mood to drive. Glancing through the menus the dispatcher had given her, she decided to bypass Phenix City and cross the Chattahoochee River to Columbus. After six weeks on the job, she knew few people in Fenton County and the vicinity, but many would recognize her, thanks to the local news stories announcing her appointment. Columbus represented relative anonymity, and tonight that was what she craved.

She slowed at the first address Marlyss had suggested, but the place looked too crowded and pretentious for her taste. The second, with the dubious name Hoochees, was more her style, and located on what had to be prime riverfront property. Once inside, she congratulated herself on her selection. The noise level was muted, the tables were set far enough away from each other to give a semblance of privacy, and the bar looked well stocked.

The service was quick and discreet. Within just a few minutes she’d been seated near a large bank of windows overlooking the river, and had placed her order. Nursing her first Scotch, she let her gaze drift across the room, taking unconscious mental note of its occupants, before she found her attention snared by a man behind the bar speaking to the bartender.

A jolt of pure sexual lust sizzled through her. Surprised, she assessed him more carefully. It had been a long time, perhaps too long, since she’d responded to a man on any level. This one was dressed in black trousers and shirt, the sleeves rolled up to show powerful forearms. He was just a couple of inches taller than her own height of five-nine, with longish, well-cut black hair swept back from a face that was all chiseled hollows and carved angles. It was an interesting face, rather than a handsome one, made more so by the old scar that ran from the corner of one eye halfway across his cheek.

Although it was his bone structure that drew attention, it was his eyes that kept it. A pale ice blue, the look in them was as formidable as his expression.

Some would find it difficult to meet that demanding stare. It turned on her now, just for a moment, and she recognized the male speculation there.

Deliberately, she returned her gaze to her drink. She didn’t do long-term relationships, not ever. And when sexual energy demanded that she hook up with a man for a brief explosive sexual encounter, she chose men who were safe and shallow. This one didn’t appear to meet either criterion.

Picking up her glass, she swirled the amber liquid pensively. Today could be considered her birthday, in a way. It had been six years since she’d washed up on the shores of Santa Cristo. Six years since her appearance there had signed another woman’s death warrant.

Ria drank, the Scotch scorching a path down her throat. If she hadn’t already been determined to discover her identity, Luz’s death would have convinced her to do so. She may have deserved her fate. It was a hard possibility to contemplate, if a realistic one. But Luz had died because she’d gone out of her way to help a stranger, and the act had robbed her child of a mother, Luz’s parents of their child.

And someone was going to pay for that.

After making sure Maria was safe at her grandparents still-empty house, Ria had taken up residence at one of the hotels nearby, casing its clients until she found one who resembled her enough for her to steal the woman’s ID and return ticket, and pass them off as her own. The plane had taken her to San Diego, but innate caution had had her purchasing a bus ticket to L.A. There had been every reason to fear she would be followed. She’d made sure the trail wouldn’t be an easy one. Once in L.A. she’d found a modest room in a questionable neighborhood and spent her days haunting the computer labs on the UCLA campus.

The waitress delivered some steaming plates of food to the next table, and Ria’s stomach responded with a growl of interest. She caught the woman’s eye on her way by and raised her empty glass slightly. Smiling, the waitress nodded and continued back to the bar.

The Internet was a well of information for people who knew what they were looking for. Ria never had been able to recall any personal information about herself, but she’d known there were sites on the Net where people could obtain realistic looking documents for making false pieces of identification, and books that detailed how to create a past for herself. She’d had both delivered to a mail drop site she’d opened, and then started the real search.

For who had wanted her dead, and why.

Her nape prickled now and she turned to see the man she’d noticed behind the bar approaching her with a bottle of Chivas Regal. Silently, she watched as he stopped at her table and tipped the bottle to her glass, filling it, his gaze never leaving her.

That skitter was back, an electric current that shimmied down her spine and up again. The man’s magnetism was even more apparent up close, those ice-blue eyes even more compelling.

“Was the waitress busy?” she asked blandly, after he’d finished pouring.

His well-formed brows lifted. “No, she would have brought you a refill. I decided to bring you a drink and an invitation to share dinner.”

His voice was low, smoky, but she discerned a layer of steel beneath the surface charm. She reached out and raised the glass to her lips, still watching him. When she set it back on the table, she inquired, “And if I just want the drink?”

“Then I’d accept your offer to join you for a Scotch and be grateful for that.” Smoothly, he reached over and drew out the chair facing hers, sitting down as he motioned to the waitress to bring another glass.

Ria’s lips quirked at the obvious manipulation, but she let it pass. There were worse ways to spend a few minutes than conversing with a fascinating man. And perhaps, upon proximity, she’d discovered he wasn’t nearly as intriguing as he appeared.

Even as her mind jeered at the idea, she asked, “Are you the manager here, or something?”

“The owner. Are you a tourist?”

“No, I moved nearby recently.” She kept her answer purposefully vague, as much from habit as innate caution. She’d spent the last six years living below the radar. Her current identity had been carefully chosen. It would, and had, withstood law enforcement scrutiny and background checks. But no adopted identity was flawless. She had become adept at giving away as little personal information as possible.

Those pale blue eyes surveyed her as the waitress delivered a glass and poured a serving from the bottle. Their color was made even more startling by the dark lashes surrounding them. His was a rugged face, lined from at least thirty-five years, all of them hard. Most people would believe the scar responsible for the air of danger he carried, but Ria knew better. The danger went deeper. This was a man who had handled trouble and delivered more than his share of it.

“You’re not from around here.” He swirled the liquor in his glass and aimed a smile at her. His mouth was his best feature, its full, sensuous bottom lip providing an intriguing contrast to the chiseled lines of his face.

Her pulse stuttered, shocking her. It had been a long time since she’d responded to a man this strongly. It had been since…well, never. At least not that she could remember.

“You’ve got no accent, even though folks ’round here like to claim that it’s everyone else who talks differently.”

Dodging the question couched in his statement, she brought her glass up, sipped. “You don’t have an accent.”

One side of that well-formed mouth kicked up. “That’s because I’m from New York originally. But I’ve been in Georgia for about eleven years. Another fifty and they might consider me a native Southerner.”

Ria smiled. She’d already encountered that distant civility that clearly stated she was considered an outsider, and probably always would be. That was fine with her. She didn’t intend to stay in Alabama forever. Just long enough to finish the quest that had driven her for six long years. “You don’t look like a restaurateur.”

“No?” He leaned back in his chair, took a drink, pausing as if to enjoy the flavor of the aged Scotch. “Well, maybe that’s because I have multiple holdings. This place is just one of my businesses. And as of about ten minutes ago, it’s my favorite.”

The words might have sounded flirtatious coming from another man. But there was nothing lighthearted about him, or about the heat in his eyes. He was taking no pains to hide the fact that his interest in her was immediate, and frankly sexual. More heady than the Scotch, recognition of that fact fired her blood. One of the things she’d come to know about herself was that she wasn’t a woman who appreciated games.

She toyed with the idea of taking him up on the carnal invitation in his gaze. Sexual confidence shimmered off him like heat waves from a scorching tarmac. A quick bout of mind-shattering sex would be far more effective than Scotch and a steak to relieve a little of the stress from the last few days.

But in the next moment she rejected the thought, with no little regret. Although he didn’t look like the type to be averse to a no-strings, one-night stand, something about him kept her wary. The man had complication written all over him. And her life was already fraught with far too many complications.

There was a slight sound, and he withdrew a small beeper from his trouser pocket, looked at it and frowned. Glancing at her as he slipped it away again, he said, “I have business to attend to. Are you planning on staying long?”

She was already shaking her head. “Just long enough to devour that steak I ordered.”

“Maybe you’ll change your mind.” He made no attempt to disguise the dual meaning in his words. This wouldn’t be a man used to having women turn away from his interest in them. But neither would he be one to brood overmuch when one did. He wouldn’t lack female companionship—either from those women too dim to be cautious about the slight menace he emanated, or those, like her, who were attracted despite it.

“I don’t think so.”

He rose. “Your meal will be on the house tonight.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“No. But maybe it will convince you to come back sometime, give us another try.”

“Maybe.” The word slipped out before she could prevent it, and a look of satisfaction flickered across his face.

He nodded once more. “Until then.”

She didn’t turn to watch him leave, although a part of her wanted to. Though she doubted their paths would cross again, fantasizing about a possible next time was harmless enough. There was very little room in her life for foolish wistfulness.

Most of her fantasies involved deadly daydreams of revenge.

Although the owner—they’d never gotten around to exchanging names—had left the bottle on her table, she wouldn’t be drinking any more once her glass was empty. She knew her limits, all of them, and stayed scrupulously within them. It had been a reeducation of sorts, every bit of knowledge that she’d learned about herself a prize that could be pieced together with others to get a sense of the whole.

Some had appeared at odd times, disconcerting bits that had formed an undeniably disturbing picture of whom she’d been. She’d had very little trouble devising a plan for getting out of Santa Cristo. She thought it might prove more difficult post 9/11, with all the heightened security. But at the time, she’d never missed a beat, whether it was fighting a masked assailant to the death, breaking into a safe in a resort room or assuming a new identity.

Though her personal recollections had never reappeared, there were plenty of things that she did remember, and those memories were troublesome. How many amnesia victims could claim to recall exactly how to beat a polygraph? She’d been confident in her ability to do so, and had succeeded in the course of her recruitment to the police academy.

It was second nature for her to enter a new place and make immediate note of the exits, while sizing up the occupants with a speed that spoke of training or practice. From just a few glances she knew the bartender here would be as adept with a weapon as he was at mixing drinks; that the couple in the far corner were probably engaged in an extramarital affair; the guy to her right would fold in the face of trouble, but the one sitting at the bar could handle himself in a fight; and that the man on her left was screwing up the courage to approach her.

She no longer questioned where these skills stemmed from. They were merely tools, to be used in her search for answers of a far more serious nature. Although there was very little she could be positive of, she was fairly sure that whatever her identity before that fateful night in Santa Cristo, she’d almost certainly been operating outside the law.

It had been a hard realization to swallow, and she’d done her share of dodging the truth. It would have been easier, far easier, had she been able to manufacture another explanation. There was any number of possible scenarios for her ending up shot and left for dead off the shore of the island. But coupled with her familiarity with weapons, Dim-Mak combat and assassination techniques, there were only a few explanations that made sense.

She’d either been a criminal, a mercenary or some sort of operative, military or government sanctioned. While she’d hoped for the latter, she’d long ago resigned herself to discovering the worst.

Because the pang that accompanied that thought was unwelcome, she pushed it aside. Happy, happy birthday to her. Her lips twisted into an expression that should have dissuaded the interest of the man at the next table, before she swallowed some more Scotch, welcoming the fiery path it traced down to her stomach.

Her steak arrived at approximately the same time as the guy beside her, and was much more welcome.

“Looks like you’re dining alone.” His smile was toothpaste ad bright as he rested his folded arms on top of the chair next to her. “Me, too. Not much fun, is it?”

“Can I get you anything else?” the waitress asked.

Ignoring the stranger for the moment, Ria smiled at the woman, shook her head. “No, thank you. This looks great.” The waitress sent a quick glance at the man and moved away.

“It should, for these prices. But they do a decent fillet here. Not as good as Falstead’s. Have you been there?”

“No. I’m looking forward to enjoying this one, though.” As a dismissal, it was more polite than she was feeling. Spreading the napkin on her lap, she picked up her silverware.

“Be more enjoyable with company, wouldn’t it?” The man aimed another smile her way, pulled out the chair next to her. Sinking into it, he continued, “I’m Tyler Stodgill, by the way. I placed my order right after yours. My food should be coming any minute. No reason for us to eat alone.”

Looking at him, she said succinctly, “But I want to eat alone.”

“Bad for the digestion. Believe me, I know. I’m on the road three or four days a week. I’m a pharmaceutical salesman.” He flashed his teeth again. “I hit forty-fifty medical offices a month.”

Deliberately, she set her knife and fork down, before she was tempted to use them on him. He wasn’t bad looking. He was a little stocky, with short-cropped sandy hair, brown eyes and a rounded jaw. His navy blazer jacket and wheat-colored pants were sharply creased, his white shirt spotless. He could have been a lonely traveling salesperson, looking for a little companionship. She might have believed it if it wasn’t for his eyes. This was no dense oaf without the social skills to sense her lack of welcome. This was a man filled with an overinflated sense of self-importance and—a woman’s worst night-mare—a gross overestimation of his own appeal.

She sighed and reached for some rapidly dwindling patience. “Look, I’ve had a hard week. I just want a drink, a steak and silence. I wouldn’t be good company.”

His expression went ugly. “Looked like your company was fine when Jake was here.”

She blinked. “Who?”

“You know. The owner. The guy you were drinking with.”

Jake. The name suited the man somehow, tough and no-nonsense. “I told him basically the same thing I’m telling you.” She aimed a pointed look at him. “He took it with more grace.”

His face had smoothed. “Whatever it is that’s bothering you, I’m just the guy to make you forget about all your troubles.” With a sense of disbelief, she felt his hand on her thigh below the table, caressing her leg suggestively through her white slacks. “I’m staying at a hotel not too far from here. After dinner, maybe we could—” Whatever he had been about to say ended in a yelp as she bent his two middle fingers far enough to nearly touch the back of his hand.

She kept her expression pleasant, but her tone was lethal. “You need to learn to pay attention. I’m not interested. Do you understand now?”

With his teeth clenched, he grasped, “You’re breaking my damn fingers.”

“Not yet. But I could.” She exerted just enough pressure on the joints to back up her words, and a whimper escaped him. A man at a table nearby gave them a cursory glance. Ria wasn’t concerned. The long table linen would hide her actions.

Stodgill’s face was rapidly losing color. She noted the approach of the waitress. “Your food is coming. I want you to take it and ask for a different table. One where I can’t see you. If you don’t, I am really, really going to hurt you.”

“All right! Let go!”

She did, only because the waitress had halted at his table, clearly uncertain about where to set his food. He immediately shoved back his chair, a vicious expression on his face, muttering an obscenity. Ria picked up her silverware again. “I think a table on the other side of the bar might suit your needs best.”

He rose, the chair clattering behind him. “I want a different table,” he told the server in a loud voice. “I don’t like the view from here.”

The young woman said, “But you asked for a view of the river, sir. This is the best—”

“Dammit, I said I want a new table! Something over there.” He lurched off, leaving the waitress to follow with his tray of food.

While a few diners watched the small scene, Ria reached for her Scotch, drained the glass. The bottle was still there, a silent temptation, one she wouldn’t allow herself to succumb to. She couldn’t afford weaknesses in her life. Weaknesses led to mistakes. And even one slip could lead yet another assassin to her doorstep, like the one who’d found her in Santa Cristo.

And the second who’d caught up with her in L.A.

She cut another piece of steak and brought it to her mouth, savoring the taste. A woman who had faced death as often as she had had learned to enjoy life’s small pleasures. Even now she couldn’t pinpoint how the second killer had managed to track her from San Diego to L.A., although she suspected the money she’d taken off the first one had somehow been traced. She hadn’t been in Los Angeles two weeks before a man had been waiting for her one night in the room she’d rented.

He’d been as able as the first killer, his intent just as deadly. But instead of a knife, his weapon of choice had been a garrote—a thin wire used for strangling victims quickly and silently. The savage fight had lasted no more than a few minutes, but in the end it had been the stranger who had ended up dead on the floor, without ever having spoken a word.

He’d been dressed exactly as the first would-be killer, down to the pouch at his waist. Again, it had held only a vial, a syringe and a wad of ten one-hundred-dollar bills.

And the tattoo identical to her own, and that of the first killer, had been found on his right shoulder.

This time she’d taken a few precautions before fleeing. She’d gone to a department store and bought a disposable camera, using one of the bills she’d taken off the man. Then, using city transit, she went from one discount store to the next, buying items she’d need, each time carefully exchanging the man’s money. When she’d gotten back to her room, she’d taken several pictures of the killer and the tattoo before packing quickly and leaving L.A. behind.

Ria stopped devouring the steak long enough to taste the baked potato, drenched in melted butter. She could practically feel her arteries clogging, but she’d work off the calories the next day at the gym. Tripolo had a new YMCA with a very decent weight room. One of the first things she’d done upon moving there was to join it. Staying in shape was as vital for her new occupation as it had been for whatever her former one had been.

She’d purposefully crisscrossed the western United States in a random manner meant to confuse. When she’d gotten low on money, she’d stolen more, and found herself distastefully adept at it. She’d landed on the campus of the University of Iowa, where it had been surprisingly easy to join a group of prospective new students there for orientation, and obtain a photo ID. And then she’d melted in with the other twenty-nine thousand students and gone back to work. Before she could set about discovering her real identity, she’d first had to manufacture a new one.

“Would you like any dessert this evening?” The waitress was back with a practiced smile.

“No, but I will take some coffee.” Ria waited for her to return with it and fill her cup, then had her leave the carafe on the table.

Ria drank pensively, lost in memories that began six years ago. At the U of I she’d haunted the computer labs, careful to use different ones each time, searching for anything that would connect to her.

The discovery of the body she’d left in her L.A. apartment had warranted a three-inch article buried deep in the L.A. Times. She’d hoped that a revelation of the assassin’s identity would provide clues to her own. She’d even called the news desk at the Times on a couple of occasions, talked to the crime reporter who had covered the story. By feeding him some careful details, she was able to whet his interest enough to have him digging further. But the dead man had remained a John Doe, and the case had eventually been shelved as unsolved. The only thing of value she’d learned was that neither of their fingerprints had been on file in the national Automated Fingerprint Identification System. Whoever the would-be killer had been, his death had caused as little stir as had her own disappearance.

Because new identities didn’t come cheap, she’d used almost every dime she had left on establishing hers. And she’d been aided, at first unknowingly, by the one person who’d been allowed to get halfway close to her, Benny Zappa.

Something inside her softened at the thought of Benny, with his gangly scarecrow walk and too large Adam’s apple. His narrow black-rimmed glasses had been meant to be stylish, but they couldn’t disguise what he was—a computer geek through and through, and proud of his abilities, if not of the persona that he could never quite shed. In his awkward, bumbling way he’d offered to help her—in an attempt to hit on her, she’d thought. And at first she’d seen his shy overtures through purely shrewd eyes, as a means to an end. It wasn’t until later that she discovered in the process she’d made an invaluable friend.

His genius with computers was coupled with a hacker’s love of a challenge. No database—university, state or federal—seemed impenetrable with him at the keyboard. With the information he was able to access for her, she’d chosen a new identity and followed every lead she could think of. And what she appreciated most about him, in all this time, was his willingness to use his skills without asking questions she had no intentions of answering.

Although he must have put some details together about what drove her, he didn’t press her about it, and she appreciated his discretion as much as his friendship.

Refilling her cup, she sipped, watching the river churn sluggishly by, as evening turned to dusk. If she headed back now she could get a couple hours of work in. Not at the sheriff’s office, but in the office she’d set up in a spare bedroom in the house she’d bought in Tripolo.

Each lead she’d followed about her identity, every fact she’d discovered, was carefully encrypted and kept on her home computer. After six years she had a substantial file with a copy downloaded to CD monthly and sent to a mail drop across the country for safekeeping. So far she had plenty of dead ends, plenty of threads that apparently went nowhere. But she wasn’t giving up. She’d never give up.

There were some who would consider her existence lonely. But she thought she must be used to being alone, because it had never bothered her overmuch in the last half-dozen years. What had seemed strange was the openhearted generosity of Luz, the puppy-dog friendliness of Benny. The fact that Ria had first regarded both of them with suspicion was surely an indictment of who, or what, she’d been.

Catching the waitress’s attention, she summoned her over, ready to leave. Whatever else she’d learned about herself, she wasn’t one to make the same mistake twice. Benny lived halfway across the country and she was excruciatingly careful on the rare occasions she allowed herself to contact him on an untraceable cell phone. She didn’t think she’d be able to bear it if another person died because of her.

“Oh, there’s no bill, ma’am,” the waitress said. “Jake said it’s on the house.”

Jake. She’d like to pretend she’d already forgotten him, but she wasn’t in the habit of lying to herself. He’d hovered in the back of her mind since he’d left, a haunting reminder of a fascinating man she would never see again. Ria opened her purse, took out some bills. “I told him that wasn’t necessary. I’d like to pay for my own meal. Could you please tell me how much it was?”

But the woman was backing away, a faintly alarmed expression on her face. “Oh, no, ma’am, I couldn’t do that. Jake said specifically, and ’round here, we do what he says.”

With a mental shrug, Ria gave up. She folded the bills and handed them to the server. “Then this is for you.”

The woman gave her a shocked look, but whisked them into a pocket in her apron quickly enough. “Thank you, ma’am. Hope you come back real soon.”

But thoughts of returning were far from Ria’s mind as she made her way to the large parking lot outside, keys in her hand. It was full now, much more crowded than it had been when she’d arrived. Walking purposefully toward her car, she heard her cell phone ring and took it from her purse, checking the caller ID. Eldon Croat. With a grimace, she decided against answering it. Tomorrow would be soon enough to meet with the county commissioner and try to talk him out of the press conference he’d want to call about the latest drug busts. Even after all these years, and the attempts she’d taken to change her appearance, she was leery about getting—

He seemed to come out of nowhere, looming from between two cars and taking quick steps toward her. Her hands were full, slowing her response, and before she could react he was behind her, grabbing her nape and smashing her face into the roof of her car.

It was telling in that instant, with stars bursting behind her eyes, that her first thought was of the assassins. And that they’d finally caught up with her.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.