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Claimed by the Secret Agent
Lyn Stone


COMPASS agent Grant Tyndal had been dispatched to Germany to rescue CIA translator Marie Beauclair from her terrorist captors.But the mission had already been accomplished. The resourceful undercover agent not only escaped, she vowed to go after her kidnappers. Tyndal wouldn't let that happen. One, it was too dangerous. And two–he worked alone. Marie didn't need a bodyguard or a babysitter.What she needed was someone to help her complete a critical mission of her own. But the former Navy SEAL was already shattering her defenses. He awakened passion and tempted her to let down her guard…to risk everything for the promise of forever in his arms….









“I like you, you know that?”


Grant placed a hand over hers and gave it a squeeze. “I like how you stay so positive when it looks as if we’re at a dead end.”

“We are no such thing,” Marie assured him. “Something will pop, you’ll see.”

She leaned over and kissed him. The act surprised her almost as much as it did him.

She felt his lips tense, then relax and welcome hers. Passion flared.

She closed her eyes. He’d find out soon enough she wasn’t all she was advertising, but she did want this kiss and she wanted it badly.

Whatever happened next would just have to happen.




Dear Reader,

Who doesn’t love to travel! Holland is one of my favorite places to vacation. The best I could do this year was to go there vicariously through my hero and heroine and demand a lengthy trip report. It’s a wonderful country full of lovely sights and friendly people. I highly recommend it.

Where do the book ideas come from? All over the place this time. I chose the locations. Research into terrorism in the Netherlands and an abnormal psych book gave me the villains. My granddaughter, who was eager to get me away from the computer to play, suggested “a kidnapping with a really mean bad guy and lots of love stuff since it is a romance.” (Thanks, hon, you might have a future in this business.)

I love writing about strong women who can take care of themselves. I love overprotective heroes, bless their great big macho hearts. And I really love it when the two claim each other against their better judgment and the rules of the game.

Go romance!

Lyn Stone




Claimed by the Secret Agent

Lyn Stone















www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)




LYN STONE


is a former artist who developed an early and avid interest in criminology while helping her husband study for his degree. His subsequent career in counterintelligence and contacts in the field provided a built-in source for research in writing suspense. Their long and happy marriage provided firsthand knowledge of happily-ever-afters.


This book is dedicated to Rebecca Renae Clair.


Thank you so much for your time and

very helpful suggestions.




Contents


Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19




Prologue


McLean, Virginia—July 11

“The Embassy Kidnapper struck another consulate yesterday, but he grabbed the wrong Yank this time,” Jack Mercier declared. “Marie Beauclair is CIA, working out of the consulate in Munich as a translator.” He sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “The Company won’t be sending anyone after her.”

“Why not? She wouldn’t be marked as one of theirs just because they rescued her,” Grant Tyndal asked.

Mercier was going to send him after the woman. Made sense. Though he worked for COMPASS now, his six years with a navy SEAL team had given him the most experience in hostage extractions. This mission would almost feel like a personal quest, with its similarities to one that had happened when he was a kid. Kidnapping, Germany, young blond victim, family and authorities passing off the responsibility for getting her back. Then, he had been powerless to do anything.

“CIA turned it over to us,” Mercier said, interrupting his thoughts. “We have a better chance of stopping these abductions than the Company does, especially if we get Beauclair back alive. Mainly we’re doing it because I want her,” Mercier stated.

Grant pursed his lips and stifled any further questions. Mercier had a wife, a gorgeous woman with a medical degree and a mesmerizing French accent. What? Was he crazy?

“Not personally,” the boss said with a roll of his eyes. “I had requested her transfer to us. Beauclair has a photographic memory and is a wizard with languages. The consul General sent us her file and suggested she was being underused where she was. She’ll be a valuable asset to COMPASS.”

True. All his fellow agents had their special little gifts. His particular gig was psychometry. He might get a sense of what the young woman had been feeling or thinking if he could hold something she had owned, but that sense wouldn’t help him find her if she hadn’t known where she was going when she’d been taken. “Does she have a locator implant?”

Mercier nodded and nudged a folder across the desk. “Here are her coordinates. The jet’s waiting, and there will be a car available as soon as you land. Get her out and keep it as quiet as possible.”

“And after the extraction?” Grant asked as he lifted the folder and glanced at the photo of the agent. Who smiled that way for an I.D. badge photo? And who ever looked that good in one? He knew how deceiving appearances could be. If she’d made it through CIA training, she was no lightweight, either in smarts or capability. She was twenty-eight and looked eighteen. On purpose, he’d bet.

“First, get her to safety. Then I want you to go after this guy before he snatches somebody else. We should have been called in on this sooner. Beauclair is victim number five. We think he’s using the ransoms to help fund his jihad. Or maybe this is his jihad. Find out if he’s working alone or in concert with some group.”

All the U.S. embassies and consulates were made aware of the kidnappings three weeks ago, since the perp had been skipping all over the globe. If his victim was ransomed, he’d dump her, tied up naked and helpless, in a public park where she would soon be found alive after the money was delivered. The last vic had been tortured and killed when the ransom was denied. “So this one can’t be ransomed.”

“Not officially. You know U.S. policy about dealing with terrorists. And her family doesn’t have the money or any assets to convert.”

The only dead victim had made a point—don’t pay, don’t get them back alive.

Mercier stood and offered his hand. “Report every twenty-four hours or we’ll come looking for you.”

“I know the drill,” Grant replied. He had completed two assignments for COMPASS during the year he’d been with the team and hadn’t needed any help. After six years in the navy, running missions of all descriptions and feeling responsible for every one of his team every hour of the day, Grant reveled in working alone.

This antiterrorist organization was a tightly knit group, but each member was trusted to handle an assignment the way he or she saw fit. Backup was available for the asking, and rescue, if required, was speedy. They didn’t partner up unless the mission called for it.

Mercier motioned him out. He didn’t say goodbye or good luck. That was one of his peculiarities. He must figure encouragement wasn’t needed. Or maybe he feared he would jinx things.

Grant dismissed the thought and began to think ahead about Agent Marie Beauclair of the wide blue eyes and dimples and how best to rescue her.

He welcomed the chance, as he always did, but this one felt almost personal. Finding her couldn’t make up for his inability to save Betty Schonrock when he was thirteen. Nothing could do that. He’d always carry the guilt. But he’d do this in memory of Betty and maybe it would help a little.




Chapter 1


Germany—July 15

Marie Beauclair focused on the narrow field of vision beneath the blindfold. Not a big room, low ceiling, high, narrow window. The air was cave cold, not the result of air-conditioning. It chilled her all over.

The first thing she’d realized when she’d come to was that she was nearly naked. Her wrists and ankles were tied with cord, and she lay on a cot that smelled musty. Her next stage of awareness was absolute fury. She was mad as hell at the jerk who had done this and almost as mad at herself for letting him. How had it happened?

She couldn’t remember a thing after coming home from work on Monday, changing out of her work clothes, pulling on a tank top and going to the fridge for a glass of orange juice. Nothing else, not even falling as she passed out. Drugged, of course, with something really fast acting. Then she dimly recalled someone lifting her head, urging her to drink more. How long had she been here, and how many times had she drank the stuff?

Her head wasn’t clear even now, but she was conscious and thinking. Deep breathing helped shake off the lethargy. She flexed her muscles and stretched her neck as best she could to work out the kinks. Her stomach rumbled, and her mouth felt as dry as dust.

Marie listened to the rising voice in the next room, a one-sided conversation in accented Dutch, obviously a phone call. She recorded the content, storing each word as she tried to work her wrists out of the cord that bound her.

Essentially he was discussing where he should dump her if the ransom wasn’t paid. And it wouldn’t be; Marie knew that much. This had to be the Embassy Kidnapper, and his demand was exorbitant.

She couldn’t lie here and wait for a rescue that might not happen.

When the voice stopped, so did she, knowing it was imperative that she remain motionless except for slow, even breathing and feign unconsciousness. If he knew she was awake, he’d have to deal with her. She was pretty sure who had grabbed her and what the end result would be.

The door creaked open and she sensed him approach. He poked her sharply in the ribs. She didn’t react. He checked her bonds, grunted with satisfaction, then paused as he turned to leave, as if he were thinking about what to do next.

Through the crack in the blindfold, Marie caught a good view of his profile—dark complexion, black hair and full lips. She glimpsed a raised scar on the back of his wrist when he raked a hand through his hair. He looked Middle Eastern, but the accent she had heard didn’t bear that out.

He paced for a moment, then cursed under his breath and left the room. She heard the door click shut and a dead bolt turn, then his footsteps. Another door slammed shut. She listened for further sounds from the next room and heard nothing.

Here was her chance, and it might be the only one she got. Furiously, she worked the cords, curling her thumbs into her palms until one hand slipped free, and then she tore at the cords that bound her ankles.

He had locked the door. No point in bothering with that. She headed straight for the window. It wasn’t barred, only painted black. And painted shut, Marie discovered when she stood on a chair to open it. Quickly, she jumped down, picked up the chair and used it to break the panes.

Great. She couldn’t go through that jagged opening with so much skin exposed. After a quick glance around the room, she grabbed the only fabric she could find, the moth-eaten blanket that had covered the cot.

She padded her hand with the threadbare wool and broke out all the glass she could, then draped the ragged thing over the bottom of the window frame. It took her nearly five minutes, by her reckoning, to squeeze her body through the opening and jump down into the dark alley. Shards cut her feet when she landed, but there was no help for that.

She snatched up the old blanket and wrapped it around her. Then she ran like hell, still weaving from the aftereffects of the drug in her system.

She had no clue where she was, but anywhere was better than back there.

Her feet were bleeding and leaving a trail, but she ran on, ignoring the pain of the cuts. Desperation fueled her, but she didn’t let herself panic. She needed a clear head, time to think, to find out where she was and to plan.

It was either dusk or predawn; she couldn’t tell. Nearly dark, whatever the time. Warehouses. Old ones. Probably no dwellings nearby. Cobblestones. Old town. Had to have a center. She needed people. Crowds.

The end of the long alley lay just ahead. She sucked in a deep breath and slowed her pace. Suddenly a hand clapped over her mouth and a strong arm clamped her waist, yanking her backward into a hard body.

She went limp, hands behind her, and when the hold on her relaxed, she struck. Her fingers dug into his most vulnerable part, twisting as hard as she could.

He let go and she took off, seeking the faint light of the street, praying there would be help there.

But he snatched her again, this time by her upper arms, and dragged her back. “Dammit! Don’t fight me! I’m here to help!”

It took a few seconds for his words to register. His lack of accent. His Americaness. “Thank God,” she muttered, and collapsed.

“Wake up, Beauclair!” She heard the command before her eyes opened and groaned her assent. He had her sitting on his lap against the wall of the alley and was tapping her face with his hand.

She reached up, batted it away and struggled to get up. “Who sent you?”

He stood, lifting her with him as he did. “Later. Right now, we should get out of here before he realizes you’re gone.”

“Aren’t you armed?” she demanded, reaching for the blanket that had slipped away. Modesty was not her primary concern at the moment, but she was cold.

“Yeah, but I need to get you safely situated before I go after him.” He put his palm on her waist.

She knocked his hand away. “Like hell. I want a piece of that—”

“Whoa, tiger!” She heard his chuckle. “Serve him right if I did turn you loose on him. You nearly killed me.”

“Sorry. Sneak up on a girl, expect that.”

“Makes me wonder how he grabbed you in the first place.”

“Drugged me,” she explained defensively as she tucked the blanket snugly around her like a sarong. “He’s the Embassy Kidnapper, right?”

“The M.O. sure fits. The car’s half a block down. Can you walk?” He held out a hand to assist, but she avoided it.

“I can run if I have to. I just did.”

“Good for you. Let me check the street first. Watch the alley behind us.”

Dawn had broken now. The street was deserted except for the two of them hurriedly making their way to his vehicle.

As soon as she was inside, Marie leaned her head back on the headrest and released a heavy sigh of relief.

When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her. “You okay?” he asked, real concern in his voice. “He didn’t—”

Marie interrupted the question and met his worried gaze dead on. “I heard him talking in the next room when I woke up. He’s not working this alone.”

“I didn’t see him leave, but there’s a door at the front of the building, too.”

He started the car, and soon they were bumping down a narrow street. The ancient structures that abutted it were shuttered and looked abandoned. She fiddled with the seat belt and finally got it fastened. “Where are we and what time is it?”

“A little village, Bad Nutzbach or something. It’s barely 5:00 a.m. and it’s Sunday, in case you don’t know.”

“Thanks. Now who the hell are you, and where are we going?”

He made a right turn and sped up. “Grant Tyndal. I’m with COMPASS. You familiar with it?”

She nodded but didn’t elaborate. So the Company hadn’t seen fit to come after her. She hadn’t expected her family to do anything to help her, even if they had been rolling in money, but she had thought the CIA might. Instead this guy shows up from the antiterrorist team that had recently offered her a position. “Am I supposed to feel obligated now to accept the job offer?”

He glanced at her and smiled. “Of course. This is how we always recruit. As to your other question, we’re going to the hospital in Landstuhl and get you checked out. You’ll be flying stateside before you know it.”

“I’m not leaving until I catch him.”

Tyndal’s laugh annoyed her. “Don’t think so. I work alone.” His words annoyed her even more.

“Go to work, then. Just don’t get in my way.”

“Not exactly dressed for action, are you?” He had them flying down the autobahn by this time, doing at least ninety.

Marie pulled the blanket closer around her neck. She reluctantly admitted to herself that she needed his help. He wouldn’t take her to her apartment. That was probably a designated crime scene by now.

She didn’t have her creds or her weapon or any pockets to put them in. He could get all that for her if she played her cards right. And he surely had more information on the abductions than she could get on her own. She’d have to make it worth his while to partner up on this.

“Tell you what,” she said, abandoning her defensive attitude for a conciliatory tone. “I can pull my weight. Let me in on this, and maybe I’ll come on board with COMPASS when we’re done. I have information you can use. Get me something to wear, a gun and I.D., and let’s go after him together. Now.”

She wasn’t above using coercion. She put a tentative hand on his arm and squeezed. “Please?”

He glanced at her hand and then at her smile. But he didn’t look as if he’d give an inch. “You’re going to the hospital, Beauclair. You need an exam, a drug test and a rape kit.”

Yes, well, there was that. She had bruises in all the right places, and that made her even madder. That bastard had raped the victim he’d killed. Not the others, though. If the reports could be believed.

She didn’t think she’d been raped, but the fact that she’d been drugged, manhandled and made helpless was reason enough to want her kidnapper’s head on a plate. Right along with whoever was giving him orders. She quickly dismissed that line of thinking so she wouldn’t give herself away to Tyndal.

“After the exam?” she asked.

“I’ll officially debrief you and call in the results. Then you go home. To the States. You’re from Atlanta?”

She ignored the query. Since he’d been sent after her, he’d know that. “Look, I’m okay and perfectly capable of helping you catch this guy. I’ve actually seen him, and I know his voice. Will you at least consider it? Maybe request my help officially?” she asked, trying to suppress her anger and sound sweet. “Because if you don’t, I might not have anything else to say to you.”

“Obstruction of justice. Familiar with that phrase? It can send you to jail,” he warned. Then her earlier statement seemed to register. “You can identify him?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’ll get an artist to work with you, but that’s as far as you can go on this.”

Marie retreated, but she didn’t surrender. She never surrendered. There was always a way. She’d simply take another tack. “How far are we from Landstuhl?”

“About thirty miles.”

She could see pretty well now even though it was going to be a gray day and would probably rain soon. “Take me to the nearest krankenhaus instead. My feet are bleeding and I’m dehydrated.”

Stealing a vehicle might be necessary to get away from him, and that would be easier in a small hospital not peopled with soldiers.

He immediately moved to the far right lane and took the next exit. For a few minutes she thought she was getting her way, but he pulled off on a side road and stopped the car.

She watched him reach into the backseat and retrieve a gray plastic box. “First-aid kit. Brought it in case we needed it when I found you.”

He pushed his seat back all the way and then unhooked his seat belt and hers. “Turn sideways and put your feet in my lap.”

“No!”

“I’m a qualified medic. Worst foot, please.”

Marie’s muscles were almost too tense to move, but she managed to turn. He helped her lift her legs and took her left foot in both his hands. She barely managed not to jerk it out of his grasp.

His glance raked her thighs before she could cover them with the blanket. Was it prurient, or was he checking for damage? Hard to tell. He didn’t look all that salacious, but the old paranoia had kicked in.

“There’s no telling what you stepped on in that alley,” said, his tone gentle, almost a drawl.

She noticed his accent for the first time. It was faint but still there. Probably hadn’t registered before because it was so close to her own. “You’re from the South. Where?”

“Alabama. Anniston, originally. Army brat, though, so I lived all over the place.” His hands were gentle as he continued examining her feet. “We’d better get these cuts cleaned up a little and wrapped before we go any farther. Uh-huh, that one might need a few stitches. Don’t want a nasty infection.”

He opened his door and slid out from under her feet. A moment later he returned with two bottles of water, one of which he handed her to drink. Setting the other on the ground, he then ripped the plastic off a roll of paper towels.

“Hand me the kit and get as comfortable as you can. I expect this will hurt a little bit,” he warned.

Marie remembered she should sip the water slowly. She shuddered in spite of herself when he uncapped the other bottle of water to pour over her feet.

She sipped again, feeling the coolness slide all the way down to her empty stomach. “Consider it payback…since I hurt you.” She slid down farther in the seat so that her feet were sticking outside the car on his side. “Go ahead.”

His touch was light considering the size of his hands, but she didn’t like to be touched, not by him or anyone else.

He was large all over, she noted, not just his hands. She’d have to stay aware. “Ow…ow…ow!” she yelped.

“There. I doused them with peroxide, too. That ought to do until you get them debrided. Like I said, you might need stitches in the left one.” He proceeded to wrap both her feet in gauze. “Go ahead, sit up and finish the water. I’ll find you something to put on.”

He disappeared and she heard him open the trunk again. In a few minutes he returned and tossed her a pair of socks and black sweats. “These will swallow you whole, but at least you’ll be rid of that scratchy blanket. Don’t take anything off but that. Roll it up and I’ll bag it.”

He shrugged and stuck his hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “I’ll just…wait back there while you dress. Unless you need help?”

“I’ll manage,” she gasped. Marie grabbed the clothes and wrestled them on as quickly as she could.

He was surprisingly thoughtful. Maybe he was softening to the idea of letting her work with him. Or not. He probably thought she was a big baby. She swiped the tears from her face when she realized she’d been crying. Dammit. She never cried.

“All done?” he asked before looking inside.

“Ready,” she said, hating the thickness of tears in her voice.

He got back in and handed her an energy bar to eat. Then he put the old blanket in a paper bag he’d brought. “Evidence,” he explained as if she didn’t know. Then he promptly started the car and drove back onto the autobahn. “Feeling better?”

“I told you I’m fine. Thanks for the clothes.” She fell quiet then, bit into the energy bar and just watched him, really assessing him closely for the first time.

He radiated confidence and was probably very good at his job, judging by his actions thus far. He had taken that painful squeeze and twist she’d given his essentials with the good grace not many men would.

He was unusual in other ways, too. Not lecherous or superior for one thing. Most men saw her as fair game and, at the very least, offered suggestive looks or a condescending attitude. Usually both.

Marie knew how she looked and used it, even enhanced it to the max. That helped in her job as an undercover operative. It was actually difficult to present a different impression than little blond airhead because she stayed in that character so much of the time.

She was short and slightly built. Dainty, some called her. Dimples, baby-doll features and pale blond hair had always caused her more trouble than not, but they also gave her that necessary edge. She had mastered the wide-eyed, vacant-headed smile, complete with a self-deprecating little laugh of incomprehension. She must look pretty rough right now, but that should have piqued his sympathy if nothing else. So far, he’d treated her like a fellow agent who had just been through a rough time. Unusual and, she admitted, very welcome.

People, especially men, never gave her credit for a brain; yet not once had Tyndal talked down to her. So maybe he didn’t make automatic assumptions based on appearance.

Neither did she, but she couldn’t help noticing how he looked. Impossible not to. Maybe she’d seen better-looking guys in her time, but he certainly was no slouch in that department. In fact, he had a commanding presence, sort of rugged and suave at the same time. His voice was a bit gravelly and had that slight Southern drawl. In your face, but with a smile, that was him.

His hair was salt and pepper, obviously graying early, since the rest of him looked early to midthirties. The eyes were light, either gray or blue, and really intense. Good strong nose and his mouth…Well, that mouth…didn’t matter, she told herself firmly and jerked her gaze away from his profile.

Her overall impression was that Agent Tyndal was hot as hell, self-assured with good reason. And as stubborn as mule, she’d bet. A real challenge.

Now then, what would be the best way to appeal to him? How could she persuade him to let her go after these kidnappers without giving him the impression that her reason was personal? It was personal. Nobody yanked her around like a helpless rag doll anymore and got away with it. Nobody! If she let that happen again, it negated all her years of hard work, all that she had become.

She had to devise something before he put her on a plane back to the States. No way would she let that happen. She’d disappear first, and she damn well knew how.




Chapter 2


He wasn’t going to budge. Marie decided that if she disappeared in Landstuhl, she’d be found almost immediately, so she had to go to plan B. She had to play it weak if her plan was to work. She brushed a hand over her face, sighed and shook her head. “Could I ask you a huge favor?”

“What?” He sounded a tad suspicious.

She upped the weak factor a notch. “I really need to go by my apartment when we get to Munich, just for a few minutes. Could we please do that?”

“All your stuff will probably have been packed up by now. I’m sure someone is detailed to bring your clothes and toiletries to the airport. I can call and check.”

Again, she sighed before answering. “No, that won’t do. You see, it’s my grandmother’s ring. I really need to get it, and I know it’s still there. It’s pretty valuable. I keep it hidden away when I’m not wearing it, and whoever cleared my place won’t have found it. Please? I need to have that.”

Marie could feel Tyndal’s gaze on her, assessing the truth of her motive. She looked up at him, eyes wide and pleading, the best little-girl-lost look she could do.

He shrugged. “Well, if we just run in and get it, I guess it would be okay.”

“Thanks so much. It means so much to me.” She hesitated, then added, “Maybe I could just take a quick shower while we’re there?” She offered him a wry little smile and ran a hand through her hair. “I hate to stay this way.”

He looked sympathetic. “Sure. That should be all right.”

Piece of cake. Acting ability intact! Satisfied, she snapped on her seat belt, leaned against the window and settled in to take a nap on the way to the hospital.



Grant took a good, long look at her for the first time as she exited the exam room. It seemed before he’d only taken in bits and pieces of her at the time—dirty face, big round china-blue eyes, messy hair, cut-up feet and a milk-white length of exposed leg.

Now she stood there, eyeing him with a mixture of mistrust and gratitude that defied description. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a woman combine those two expressions while looking at him.

She looked like a little warrior queen, battered but undefeated, absolutely driven to thrive and to seek retribution. That determination would fade, he knew. As soon as the adrenalin rush subsided, and it would, she’d probably collapse in tears and be perfectly willing to get as far away from Germany as was humanly possible.

But right now she was a picture to behold, so tiny in his oversize sweats and socks, one hand on her hip while the other impatiently raked the tousled blond curls back off her brow.

For a minute he saw Betty Schonrock, the first girl he’d ever loved. Beauclair had that same challenging lift of the chin. Aside from both having blond hair and small frames, the resemblance ended there. She wasn’t Betty, but seeing Beauclair safe and knowing he’d had a hand in it caused a little of the weight to lift off his chest.

He had been head over heels for Betty, who’d been almost four years older, a senior at Frankfurt American High School when he was a lowly freshman. She had only spoken to him a few times, smiled at him now and then and rarely gave him a second look, but he’d loved her anyway.

Suddenly she had disappeared without a trace. Everyone thought she was a runaway and the investigation hadn’t lasted even a week. Grant had never believed that Betty, a popular cheerleader and straight-A student about to graduate, would simply take off without a word and leave her charmed life behind. He was convinced she’d been abducted, but no one would listen to a thirteen year old who hadn’t even known her that well.

His limited psychometric ability had failed him then, and so had his nearly nonexistent power of persuasion. But he had found this girl in time, and she was safe now. Wherever you are, Betty, this one’s for you. He felt marginally better.

“How did it go?” he asked Beauclair. Probably not the most tactful question considering she’d just undergone an examination for possible rape, but he needed to know.

“No damage. I’m okay,” she said, defenses up like a nearly visible force field.

He doubted she was anywhere near okay but nodded his approval anyway. “Great, I’m glad to hear it. I guess we can go, then.”

Grant knew he had to debrief her, ask for all the details of her abduction and captivity and get all he could on the kidnapper before sending her home. But he’d have to do that somewhere else and later, when she’d calmed down a little. Maybe after her meltdown.

Who knew when that would happen? Soon, he expected. He knew from experience that the higher the adrenalin level, the harder one fell. The inquisition could wait awhile.

He hated debriefing. Extraction of a hostage or victim was his thing; the rest of the job package, a necessary evil.

Grant had to smile. Marie Beauclair hadn’t waited for a rescue. Spunky little devil had really saved herself. If he hadn’t been there, poised to make entry when he saw her coming out of that window, she’d probably have found help somewhere in the village and gotten back to Munich on her own.

Unless she’d been caught in the back alleys or on a deserted street. The thought sent a chill up his spine. At least he’d quickly gotten her away from the scene, as ordered.

That probably accounted for the smidgeon of thankfulness he saw in her eyes. The mistrust—he couldn’t figure it, unless she now feared men in general. Not that unusual, he supposed, given what she’d just been through.

He should reassure her that he was only there to take care of her and keep her safe. “You’ll be all right now,” he said, reaching out to take her arm.

She moved back before he could touch her. “I know. And I don’t need babying, so knock it off.”

“Your feet…” he reminded her.

“My feet are just fine. If I fall down, you can pick me up, okay?”

“Okay,” he agreed with a sigh, “Miss Independent.”

She shot him a glare that would curdle milk and stalked out the doors ahead of him. Testy little thing, but he chalked that up to her ordeal and didn’t blame her a bit.

That made him wonder what she was like before. Soft as silk, he’d bet. He knew her type. He could almost picture her attending consulate functions in a slinky little black dress, that cloud of hair done up on top of her head, natural-looking makeup that took hours to apply. And killer stilettos on those pretty little feet.

He glanced at her hands. She had the badly chipped remnants of a French manicure, and her wrists looked raw. His lips tightened in anger at the bastard who’d tied her up and scared her to death.

“Don’t be afraid he’ll find you,” Grant told her. “We’ll see that you’re safe.”

She gave a short cough of disbelief as she stopped in her tracks and narrowed those wide blue eyes. “He damn well better be afraid I’ll find him!”

Grant shook his head and suppressed a smile. “Get in the car, tiger.”

He couldn’t help feeling sorry for Marie. She’d had a horrible experience, and he thought the exam at the hospital hadn’t been any fun, either. Even though she hadn’t been raped, he knew how violated she felt.

He had believed her determined bravado was beginning to fade when she’d gotten a bit teary and pleaded with him to go by her apartment. He was afraid just being where she was abducted would set her off, but she seemed to need that ring she mentioned. Maybe that symbolized some small victory over the kidnapper, that he hadn’t found it or taken it from her.



When they arrived in Munich, Marie gave Grant directions to her apartment, a second-floor walk-up in a German neighborhood near the consulate.

They stopped at the super’s flat and got a key. The old man was inordinately glad to see her, apologizing profusely for the fact that someone might have copied his keys and stolen access to her flat from him.

Grant noted that Beauclair spoke excellent Deutsch and conversed easily with the man as she reassured him he’d done nothing wrong. She looked to Grant for backup.

“The report said the lock showed signs of tampering,” Grant told him. “The man was a professional. No one’s holding you responsible, Herr Horst.”

Marie thanked Grant with a perfunctory nod and a smile, shook the super’s hand and headed upstairs. No hesitation, he noted. She didn’t seem afraid to return to the kidnap scene.

“Where’d you learn German?” Grant asked as they climbed the stairs.

“A retired teacher, a neighbor and friend. She was fluent in several languages and began teaching me early on. She said it might help me land a job when I grew up, and she was right. I had an ear for it, my memory made it easy, and we both enjoyed it.”

“Lucky you. I lived over here for several years and still had to suffer through language school to get it right.”

“Defense Language Institute at the Presidio?”

“Yeah. You ever been there?” he asked.

“Nope, just heard about it. I haven’t traveled much yet, even over here. I planned to. That’s one of the primary reasons I volunteered for the position, but they’ve kept me too busy since I arrived.”

She stood back as he unlocked the door for her and went in first to check things out.

He liked that she was prudent enough to let him do that. However, she didn’t seem at all leery about entering the apartment. Brave of her, or else she was a damn good actress.

Lights worked, so the utilities were still on. Investigators had obviously finished with the place. A few boxes were stacked in the middle of the room. Someone had packed her personal items but hadn’t shipped them yet. It didn’t appear that she had very much.

He continued into the bedroom, and there were a few more boxes. The bathroom was empty of her toiletries and towels and shone from a recent cleaning.

“All clear,” he said, then realized as he turned that she was standing right behind him. She looked like a lost little waif, so tiny in his sweats and socks, hands clasped in front of her.

Her expression had altered considerably, and he figured this wide-eyed trepidation was her real reaction to the place. “It’s okay,” he said, gently touching her shoulder. “There’s no one here but us.”

“Thank goodness.” Her words were breathy, almost a whisper, as if she uttered them reluctantly.

“Hey, why don’t you call your family and talk to them? Mercier will have notified them by now that you’re safe, but maybe you’d like to tell them yourself. A familiar voice might make you feel better.”

She bit her bottom lip and avoided his questioning gaze. “Maybe later. After a shower.”

She stepped past him, approached the boxes and peeled the packing tape off one. “Towel,” she muttered, withdrew one and draped it over her shoulder. He watched as she opened another container and fished out a pair of jeans and a pullover. And undies. Beige lace. Brief.

He cleared his throat and looked away. “I’ll, uh, just leave you to take your shower.”

“Thanks…Grant,” she replied, using his given name for the first time. Why that seemed significant puzzled him. She wasn’t flirting, more as if she was earnestly reaching out, needing a friend.

He could understand why she felt friendless. Her people hadn’t sent anyone to save her. Her family couldn’t ransom her. He wondered if she had a significant other who was just sitting on his butt back there in the States, waiting for a miracle or word of her death.

Well, that wasn’t his problem, Grant thought. He would take good care of her as long as she was in his custody, of course, and until he saw her off, he’d be her friend if she needed one. No risk there.

There had been a time when he did consider making friends a risk. For one thing, they had always moved away or he had. A lasting relationship of any kind had been his greatest wish when he was young, but he soon learned that short-term was his best bet. No gut-wrenching goodbyes to suffer.

Whenever he did get involved with people, he felt responsible for them, compelled to look after them, fix what was wrong with them, ease their way in life however he could. And then they would have to move on, or he would, leaving behind a feeling of distress on his part that they were going off on their own and might be unable to cope. Yeah, it was definitely better not to let himself care all that much.

Because he soon realized that was a cold attitude to live with, he had adopted a smiling, good-ol’-boy warmth that put people at ease. That way, they’d be less aware that he kept a safe emotional distance. He’d had to do that with the people under his command or he would have gone crazy.

He did much better with this civilian job. Working alone sure had its advantages. In this particular case, he was relieved that his association with Marie Beauclair would be temporary.

Grant went into the living room and clicked on the television to cover the sound of her shower. He didn’t want to imagine her wet and naked. It just didn’t feel right to do that. But he couldn’t seem to help it.

Given what she had endured, his response filled him with guilt. He concentrated on pity, a much safer reaction to her and a lot more appropriate. Poor little thing.

Twenty minutes into a boring old movie, Grant began to get worried. The shower was still running. The water should be stone-cold by this time.

Was she in there, crying? Had she gone to sleep? Drowned herself? He’d better check.

“Ms. Beauclair?” He knocked several times. “You okay?” He knocked again. “Marie? Answer me right now or I’m coming in.”

Nothing.

Grant tried the handle. Locked. Well, there was no window in the bathroom, so he knew she hadn’t climbed out. Either she had passed out or was unable to speak for some reason. He backed up and ran against the door. And promptly bounced off. Dammit, he’d break his shoulder. He shouted again. No answer.




Chapter 3


Grant reached in his pocket and pulled out his pick tools. It took a minute or so to slip the mechanism on the bathroom door and unlock it. The room was filled with steam, but a quick scan showed it was empty.

She had thumbed the lock and pulled it shut to buy some time. But how had she gotten past him?

Grant turned off the water and went back into the bedroom. He raked back the draperies and cursed. The window at the back of the building was open. The thin line of a rappelling rope anchored to the bed frame snaked out one edge of the window and dangled nearly to the ground. Probably kept as a means of fire escape. Why hadn’t he thought of that?

He ran a hand through his hair and gave it a tug. Tricked like the greenest recruit, but how the hell was he to guess she’d even want to take off on her own? Where the hell did she think she was going?

After her kidnapper, of course. And the logical place for her to start would be back at that little burg where she’d been held.

A foot-long section of baseboard near the closet lay loose on the floor. The cavity that had lain behind it was the hidey-hole for the grandmother’s ring, if there had even been one, and whatever else she’d felt compelled to conceal so carefully.

He knew exactly what that would be. If he were her, working undercover, he would have his real I.D. and creds stashed somewhere safe. That, and cash.

Always have a back door. Her fire-escape rope verified she’d had that. He was a little paranoid himself about any abode with only one exit, so he couldn’t fault her for that. He could, however, curse her for using it in this instance.

He pulled out his phone and called Mercier. Embarrassing as it was, he would have to report this snafu to control and take his lumps for it. He was mad as hell with the sneaky little devil. And sort of impressed in spite of that.

Mercier wasn’t impressed at all, especially with him. Grant could almost see the boss rolling his eyes.

“I know where she went,” Grant declared. “She tried to convince me to let her help catch her abductor. Since I said no, in no uncertain terms, she’s gone off on her own. I’ll have her on the plane within twenty-four hours.”

“No,” Mercier said. “If she’s that gung ho and that quick on her feet, let her help. You say she’s seen him and heard him. Catch up with her and see how she does.”

“Jack, she’ll just slow me down. I’d rather do this by myself.”

“Noted, but indulge me.” An order, not a request.

“All right, but if she gets in the way, I’m sending her back, cuffed if necessary!”

“If you have to,” Mercier agreed. “Give her a chance, though. She’s been a real asset to the Company, had as much training as you and obviously has had real initiative. No reason to treat her as a novice.”

Yeah. No reason at all. Except that Grant really didn’t think she was up to this. He realized his take on it was colored by his personal opinions. As politically incorrect and chauvinistic as those might be, they were grounded in experience.

His mother had given every outward appearance of strength and courage. Everyone had always commented on how well she coped. Only Grant had known her to break down when no one else could see or hear. One of his first memories was that of sitting in the hallway outside her bedroom door, holding the little stuffed dog she had made for him, feeling her fright and wondering how to comfort her. His dad was overseas where they couldn’t go that time, and his mom couldn’t handle it. Her pretense left a lasting impression on him.

And so had Betty Schonrock, the girl who had everything. Everything but someone to watch out for her and care what happened to her. God, would he live with that failure forever? Twenty years had passed and it still troubled him. It hadn’t been his place to protect her and what else could he have done? He ought to let it go.

He fully understood that women wanted and truly tried to be as strong as men. Maybe some were. He just didn’t think this one was as self-sufficient as she thought she was.

Marie Beauclair looked incredibly fragile and downright helpless at times. Okay, but while he knew that part of that had been an act to throw him off guard, her tears had been real enough. Her fear, the trembling and pain hadn’t been faked. At least he didn’t think so. Had they?

He had never worked with a female partner. He’d even caught himself worrying about the female agents employed by COMPASS. They seemed capable and got the job done, so he heard. But in his opinion, women were just more sensitive, more vulnerable, and they should be protected, not thrown into situations where they might be hurt.

They were physically weaker, a proven fact. And while they were probably more tolerant to pain than men were, he couldn’t see any justification for exposing them to it intentionally. Participating in an investigation of her own abduction and imprisonment surely qualified as painful where Marie was concerned. Dangerous, too.

Grant pocketed his phone and started after her. Maybe if he hurried, he could beat her there.



Marie sailed down the autobahn, grinning at the speed of her little Audi roadster. She loved the convertible, the one fancy she did love about her cover as an eager young admin assistant with her first international job. She had to admit she liked the clothes, too. Had to dress to impress!

No need for that today, though. Her small duffel was packed with only practical stuff, not the froufrou. She wore dark jeans, a black knit shirt and black running shoes with thick socks to cushion her cuts. Her braid kept her still-wet hair slicked back for the most part, but as it dried the wind grabbed at tendrils around her face.

The little Glock 27 lay on the seat beside her, ready to tuck into her belt when she got back to the scene. Dressed to kill, she thought with a smile.

Hopefully the kidnapper would be out looking for her in the village still, thinking he’d find her wandering around the streets half naked, begging for help or curled up in an alley nearby, hiding. With any luck, she’d find him first.

She imagined trussing him up, strapping him to the hood of her car like a hunting kill and hauling him to the nearest Polizei station. He had definitely picked the wrong victim this time.

Was Grant Tyndal still sitting in front of her television, or had he caught on by now? Poor guy, never had a clue. Eyelash fluttering and lip trembling went a long way with him. Pity it had taken her so many years to discover the power of that—she might have saved herself a boatload of angst early on.

She felt sorry for Tyndal, but he could have cut her a little slack and agreed to let her assist. Despite his periodic gruffness, he had been a real softie and easy to dupe. He seemed an all right guy, at least on the surface, so she hoped he didn’t get into too much trouble for losing her.

This probably canceled any chance of her working for COMPASS, but so what? She liked the job she had.

She had been procrastinating on a response to the offer anyway. It would be an excellent move professionally, she was flattered they wanted her and she probably would have accepted. But the European assignment had been really exciting so far and she hated to give it up so soon.

The Company would reassign her to another post, and she’d carry on, attending parties, searching, listening and mentally recording, playing the featherbrained innocent overawed by the powerful who surrounded her.

In what seemed no time at all, Marie reached the exit leading to the village where she’d been stashed. When she got to the town, she slowed and parked on the sidewalk in front of a small row of shops.

She slipped her weapon into the back of her belt, pulled her shirttail down over it and got out to join them.

The village was a bit larger than she reckoned, and it took a while to locate the building from which she’d escaped.

The alley adjacent to the building was deserted. Marie walked around to the entrance. The door was unlocked, even standing open a little. She pulled her weapon, hesitated, listened and heard nothing. Quietly, she edged it open a little more and slipped inside.

It was fairly dark, dank smelling and apparently empty. There was a chair, a bare cot and a table near a door to what she figured must be her former cell. That door, too, was cracked open a few inches.

Carefully, she approached, gun out and off safety. She kicked it fully open and shouted, “Polizei!”

“Bang. You’re dead,” a quiet voice declared in English. He sat, hands linked over his stomach, leaning back against the wall in the same straight chair she’d used to break the window.

“Dammit, Tyndal! I almost shot you!” She lowered her weapon and shook her head. “How’d you get here before I did?”

“Shortcut,” he drawled. “What took you so long?”

“What do you mean? I flew!”

He rocked forward and got up. “Not fast enough, either of us. Our boy’s gone already. I just found this in the other room, though.” He held out a scrap of paper with a few words scribbled on it. “It’s in Dutch, I think.”

She examined the paper. “Yeah, it’s a supply list. So he’s probably either from the Netherlands or had Dutch parents. That must be his mother tongue. He used it to make a list, and I heard him curse in it. Not much of a clue to his whereabouts now, though.”

“It’s all we have so far.”

Marie looked up at him and grinned. “Did you just say we?”

He shrugged and nodded, looking resigned.

“Not your decision, I take it?”

He shook his head. “Mercier said to watch you. So, show me what you got. If it’s good enough, I guess you get the job.”

“I have a job right now—getting this guy. One thing bothers me. If he intended for me to escape, maybe he meant for the authorities to find that,” she said, staring at the paper as she spoke.

“You think he let you go?”

“Sure made it easy enough. And he let me overhear him speaking in Dutch.”

“Let you, huh? Maybe he thought you were still out from the drugs. I don’t think we can assume—”

Marie interrupted. “So what do you think? False leads?”

“I don’t know. I found the paper right before I heard you coming and haven’t had time to examine it. Give me a minute.” He turned away, holding the scrap between his palms.

It was a full minute before he answered. “No. He took something out of his pocket, dropped this accidentally.”

Marie didn’t appreciate the humor, but she laughed anyway. “Thanks, oh, great swami. Did you divine anything else?”

Oddly enough, he didn’t laugh with her. “I’m psychic.”

“Well, excuse me for not recognizing that. Your ears aren’t pointy like Mr. Spock’s.”

“A skeptic. Well, at least my luck’s consistent today.”

“You’re serious,” she guessed. “You really think you can…”

“I really know I can, and I don’t intend to debate it with you right now. I thought maybe since you have a photographic memory—something very few people possess and some consider strange—that you’d at least have an open mind about it.”

“That’s why COMPASS wants me? So all that stuff about the team having unique powers isn’t just some outlandish rumor?”

“Hardly. But it’s not up to me to convince you. Mercier can do that if you come on board. If not, it’s just as well you retain your disbelief. We don’t need it advertised.”

She cocked her head and pursed her lips. “So, how’s it work? Your gift, I mean. And how well does it work?”

If she expected defensiveness, she didn’t get it. He pocketed the paper and answered matter-of-factly, “Only works with touching things, not people, which we figure might be an early developed defense mechanism on my part. Or it could simply be a limitation. Accuracy’s about 80 percent in my case.”

“Oh, so you admit that sometimes it doesn’t work?” she asked politely.

He nodded. “It depends on how much energy was expended on the object that was held or used and for how long it was exposed. Our boy obviously put some thought into making the list. Got more than I figured from it.”

“Okay, let’s hear it. What did you get?” She asked, humoring him while trying not to view him as a crazy she ought to run from.

After a pause, Tyndal added almost reluctantly, “He’s working for somebody else.”

Marie avoided his eyes and gave a succinct nod, not wanting to make him angry by questioning this ability. Psychic mumbo jumbo aside, he had access to a number of enforcement agencies and therefore more resources for investigating this than she had.

She needed him, crazy or not. Now how could she make him need her?




Chapter 4


“If I give you a picture of him,” Marie offered, “you could have it run through Interpol?”

“Sure, but how—”

“Art major. Worked my way through LSU doing sidewalk portraits around Jackson Square.”

“That’s not in your file.”

“Don’t tell the IRS. I worked for cash only. I’ll need charcoal and a sketch pad.”

She pushed past him and returned to the outer room. Have you checked out the rest of this place. Maybe he dropped something else.”

He followed. “Because of you, we have breaks in the case now, you furnishing that likeness of the perp and this, the location where he held you. None of the others that lived have been able to provide any information. They were drugged the entire time, then dumped in a public park, either alive or dead. Forensics hasn’t gotten anything, either, but this time, we’ve lucked out.

“I got a partial print off the bed frame.”

Marie smiled her approval. “You brought a print kit?”

“Boy Scout. Always prepared.” He held up the salute.

“Hey, I hear they give badges for that!”

“Funny girl.” He ushered her through the door to the street. “You aren’t always this perky, are you? I hope this is another guise to throw me off the real you. Perky just irritates the hell out of me.”

“And condescension annoys me, just so you know. Your car or mine?”

“Mine. All my gear is in it and your ride isn’t exactly low profile. Is that hot little number part of your fluffy persona, or are you naturally a show-off?”

“You saw my car? When?”

“No, I haven’t seen it, but I did read your file. Except for your art and erstwhile tax evasion, I know just about everything there is to know about you.”

She raised her eyebrows and gave him a tight-lipped smile. “Believe that at your own risk.”

He guided her to the same gray sedan they’d used earlier. The car looked as if it had seen its better days in the last century. It wasn’t a pretty ride like hers, but it had made great time this morning and had beaten her here on the return trip. Hidden power beneath the hood. Like the driver, maybe?

Marie made a face as he opened the passenger door for her. She stepped away from his touch when he tried to usher her inside. “You really are a Boy Scout, Tyndal. Help little old ladies across the street, too?”

“Whether they want to go or not,” he said, making her laugh.

She liked the man in spite of herself. He didn’t like her much, though. Thought she was deceptive, impulsive and too aggressive. She didn’t have to be psychic to get that. She also didn’t need extrasensory perception to know he was physically interested, though he hid it pretty well. She could use that. Sometimes it was the most valuable tool available, but it was risky and she seldom employed it.

Her touch-me-not attitude was for real, but most men saw it only as a come on. It must intrigue them or something. With Tyndal, that would probably work very well. She needed him on her side, helping her but not coming on to her. That last part bothered her.

Unless she had misjudged him, he wouldn’t make any sexual demands, because of his ethics. Not that she trusted any man’s ethics very far. There was a price to pay for following through with a calculated flirtation, a very heavy price she was not willing to pay again.

But fantasies didn’t cost anything, she thought with a sigh. Fantasy was always better than the reality anyway.

“Pull around to the main drag,” she ordered as he got behind the wheel. “There’s a stationer, where they might sell art supplies. If not, I can make do with plain paper and a pencil. While I shop for that, you can call for somebody to pick up my vehicle and store it.”

He did precisely as she instructed, which Marie took as a sign that he was prudent. She didn’t, however, mistake it for submission on his part. He still thought he was running this show and she would let him think it. For now.

She worked best on her own and resented the fact that she needed him. She didn’t like needing anyone for anything. Surviving on her own was a way of life for her. Lonely at times, but that was no excuse for abandoning what worked best. But partnering on this mission was necessary.



Grant cast sideways glances at the sketchbook as he drove. She was damn good. “We have another artist on the team, Renee Alexander. You’ll like her.”

“Assuming I ever meet her. Is this all she does?”

“No,” he said. “She’s an agent.”

“That’s not what I meant. Can she do what you said you could do? You know, psychic stuff?”

“Some.” He didn’t expound on it, since Marie wasn’t on board with the team yet. He’d probably volunteered more than he ought to already.

She got the message and didn’t ask anything else about it. Grant liked that she sensed when to drop things without being told.

Her drawing looked almost finished when he pulled off the autobahn an hour later to fill the gas tank and get some food. She hadn’t eaten a decent meal yet and it was already three o’clock.

“You must be starved,” he commented. “What would you like?”

“Fast food. Hamburger,” she muttered, still intent on her drawing.

“C’mon. That stuff will kill you. Let’s get a schnitzel.”

“Oh, yeah, like that will keep your arteries clear. Humor me and find some Golden Arches, will you? And a beer. I want beer and a burger.” She rubbed the picture with one finger, smudging in a shadow. “Make that two. Two burgers. One beer, unless you’re driving all the way. Then I’ll have two of each.”

Grant clicked his tongue, exasperated. “How do you keep that figure?”

“I only indulge when I’ve been kidnapped,” she said with a smile that looked forced. “Buy me some comfort?”

He bought her some comfort, watching her with no little fascination as she consumed two quarter-pounders with cheese, fries with mayonnaise and two cups of draft.

“Isn’t it wild that you can buy beer everywhere? Even here?” she asked.

“I see you’re still going through culture shock. Do you even like beer?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Unfortunately, I do. German beer anyway.”

“Apple pie?” he asked, nudging one toward her side of the table and wondering just how much she could hold in that tiny frame before exploding.

She took the pie and simply looked at the cardboard container longingly. “Maybe later.”

“Maybe? No maybe about it, you eat like a lumberjack,” he said with a laugh.

“I haven’t had a hamburger or pie since I was a kid,” she admitted. “I had to give ’em up.” She shook her head as if she couldn’t believe what she’d just eaten. Her gaze met his. “Aren’t you going to ask me why?”

“Okay, why?”

“I was a fat kid.” Her blue eyes widened in that engaging way she had, and she nodded for emphasis. “Really, really fat.”

And now she was really, really tipsy. “Yeah? How long since you had beer?”

“Month or so. I love the taste of it but don’t indulge a lot. I’m not much of a drinker.”

Obviously. Her eyelids were drooping.

The stress was catching up with her, adrenalin crashing right on top of those two little cups of beer. “I think you need a nap. Let’s go and you can sleep on the way.”

“Wait! You have to get the picture to Interpol!”

“Is it finished? Let’s have a look.” He pulled the sketchbook to his side of the table and opened the cover.

The profile was detailed, right down to the mole near the eye and stubble on the jaw and neck. Off in one corner was a man’s left hand with a scar delineated on the wrist. “Man, it’s so realistic! You are good.”

“Photographic. That’s what I do best,” she replied.

He pulled out his cell phone, caught the images on his screen, then e-mailed them along with a short message to Mercier, who would do the proper distribution. “There. All done.”

Grant smoothed the page down with his hand and almost gasped. The energy radiating from the drawing virtually leaped up his arm. Rage. Determination. And suppressed fear.

Damn. He couldn’t let her go into this with that much emotion. It would wreck the whole mission, not to mention what it might do to her if she ever actually confronted her captor. But now was not the time to discuss it.

She wouldn’t voluntarily rescue herself, not easily anyway. Maybe he could somehow make her see reason before they reached Holland.

He led her to the car and settled her in the backseat, stuffing his folded jacket under her head as a pillow.

Grant had noticed how she shied away from him, but now she accepted his help easily enough. Either she trusted him a bit more or the beer had lowered her defenses. Any woman who had undergone all that she had in the last twenty-four hours probably couldn’t stand any man getting too close. From now on, he’d keep contact to a minimum whenever possible.

A shame, he thought, as his fingers brushed against her braid. She needed hugging in the worst way and didn’t even know it.

“Thanks,” she mumbled, cradling her face in one hand and closing her eyes.

“Fat little kid, huh?” he muttered to himself as he closed the door and went around to the driver’s side and got in. “You sure fixed that problem.”

She was as slender as she could be without looking skinny now, and he suspected the curves she did have were mostly muscle. No doubt she worked out regularly. Excellent shape. His admiration for her kicked up another notch now that he knew she wasn’t just born with lucky genes.

“I was skinny,” he said, his voice hushed in pretend conversation with his sleeping passenger. “Tall and a beanpole. Geeky, to boot. I know what it takes to shape up and how miserable it can be doing it. Good for you, babe.”

He thought he heard a sleepy chuckle from the backseat but decided he must have imagined it. She was dead to the world back there.

Grant smiled to himself, trying to picture Marie as a roly-poly adolescent. All he could see in his mind were those remarkably expressive delft-blue eyes, bright with enthusiasm, intelligence and all-consuming energy.

He hated to disappoint her by sending her home. Maybe Mercier would know what to do with her, because he sure as hell didn’t.

They were already halfway to Holland from Munich, and Frankfurt was out of the way. He’d take her on to Amsterdam and put her on a plane. Then he could get down to business with no distractions.



Marie sensed that in her temporarily vulnerable state she’d given away too much about herself in her effort to befriend Tyndal. He had identified with her childhood problem. She’d figured he would do that. Didn’t all kids have socialization problems of one kind or another? But she had laid it out all wrong, and now he probably saw her as defensive, compensatory and a little out of control. He would dump her if she gave him the chance.

She wasn’t drunk on two beers—not by a long stretch—but the beer had loosened her up while she was winding down from the high of all the excitement and exhaustion.

No use regretting her dietary lapse or trying to get too close to him too soon. She made it a point never to second-guess her decisions or actions. Counterproductive.

Doing something was almost always better than doing nothing at all. Her policy was to go for broke, roll with the consequences, good or bad, and try to make them work for her. Right now she needed sleep, but she couldn’t afford to let this slide.

With that in mind, she sat up and leaned on the back of the front seat. “Why do you think he let me get away? I’d like your take on it.”

“You seriously think he let you?” Tyndal glanced at her in the rearview mirror.

“It didn’t occur to me at the time, but in retrospect, it seems he made it pretty easy. He was speaking Dutch and talking pretty loudly. Could be that he was trying to establish that the abductions are not terrorist acts but simple kidnappings. As a witness who got away, I could send the investigation in a different direction. That would explain why he gave me the opportunity to run.”

“Could be. But I think the abductions are terrorist acts. The earmarks are there. American victims from American embassies and consulates, huge ransoms.”

He glanced up at her again, meeting her eyes in the rearview mirror. “Think about this: He didn’t know you were a trained agent. And he couldn’t have known how long that drug would affect you or precisely how soon you’d be able to overhear him. How would he know you’d even recognize Dutch when you heard it?”

Marie considered that. “Then why did he make it so easy for me to get away?”

“It would not have been easy for most people. If you were the little clerk he thought you were, you’d probably still be there. Now why don’t you get some rest? You’ve got to be wiped out.”

She sighed. “Okay, but I’m fine, just so you know. You really think he’s gone to Holland?”

“Yes. Amsterdam.”

“Explain. The vibe you picked up from that piece of paper?”

“Something like that. Don’t want to bore you with details you wouldn’t believe anyway.”

He took a deep breath and released it, firming his hands on the steering wheel as he looked in the rearview mirror again. “You need to go home, Marie. It’s the best thing all around, for you and for the investigation.”

“I don’t think you want me to work this by myself.”

“I don’t want you to work this at all. You’d like to kill him, Marie. Don’t deny it.”

Well, he had her there. “Wouldn’t you?” she asked, sincerely curious. “The bastard grabbed me in my own kitchen, drugged me and tied me up like an express package! Of course I’d like to get back at him in the worst way. But I won’t go in like Rambo and kill him and any chance of finding out why he did it or who’s running the show.” She pouted for a second. “Give me a little credit for control.”




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