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Born A Hero
Paula Detmer Riggs


This Firstborn Son thought he was prepared for anything - except teaming up with his beautiful former flame on a crucial rescue mission.Lives were at stake when Dr. Elliot Hunter was called on by his father to report to Montebello after a bombing. Word had it that this terrorist act was the result of the long-raging feud between the powerful Kamal and Sebastiani kingdoms.Years ago, an emotionally bereft Elliot had ended his short-lived affair with Katherine Remson, and returned to the field, shattering her dreams. But now, working together around the clock was healing old wounds and rekindling pent-up desires. Could Elliot restore hope to Montebello - and the heart of the woman he loved?






FIRSTBORN SONS


PROFILE





Dear Reader,

Welcome to another month of hot—in every sense of the word—reading, books just made to match the weather. I hardly even have to mention Suzanne Brockmann and her TALL, DARK & DANGEROUS miniseries, because you all know that this author and these books are utterly irresistible. Taylor’s Temptation features the latest of her to-die-for Navy SEALs, so rush right down to your bookstore and pick up your own copy, because this book is going to be flying off shelves everywhere.

To add to the excitement this month, we’re introducing a new six-book continuity called FIRSTBORN SONS. Award-winning writer Paula Detmer Riggs kicks things off with Born a Hero. Learn how these six heroes share a legacy of protecting the weak and standing up for what’s right—and watch as all six find women who belong in their arms and their lives.

Don’t miss the rest of our wonderful books, either: The Seduction of Goody Two-Shoes, by award-winning Kathleen Creighton; Out of Nowhere, by one of our launch authors, Beverly Bird; Protector with a Past, by Harper Allen; and Twice Upon a Time, by Jennifer Wagner.

Finally, check out the back pages for information on our “Silhouette Makes You A Star” contest. Someone’s going to win—why not you?

Enjoy!






Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor




Born A Hero

Paula Detmer Riggs








To Matthew Detmer Riggs, our firstborn—and a loving, decent man with a soft heart and the soul of a poet. We love you dearly.


Bound by the legacy of their fathers, six Firstborn Sons are about to discover the stuff true heroes—and true love—are made of….

Dr. Elliot Hunter: This life-hardened Firstborn Son is called to duty after a terrorist bombing. Now he is passionately joining forces with the woman he once loved.

Dr. Katherine Remson: When this top-notch pediatric surgeon takes on this crucial assignment, she finds herself spending her days—and her nights—with the commanding man from her past….

Baby Alexa: This eight-month-old baby girl was pulled from the rubble, but what is the fate of her parents?

Dr. Gordon Hunter: On the verge of retiring, he’s called on Elliot to take on this important mission. But he hasn’t told his firstborn son everything….

King Marcus Sebastiani of Montebello: The bitter feud between King Marcus Sebastiani of Montebello and Sheik Ahmed Kamal of Tamir is escalating. Especially now that the heirs to both thrones are missing—and a forbidden love affair has been unveiled…


A note from author Paula Detmer Riggs, author of over twenty-five Silhouette books:

Dear Reader,

Six firstborn sons, six irresistible men who were once adorable little boys with scraped knees, grimy faces and boundless energy—what a terrific premise for a series! At least I thought so, which is why I jumped at the opportunity to introduce you to one of these larger-than-life heroes.

Elliot Hunter is a man hardened into bitter cynicism by the tragic loss of his wife and son. Once a charming rogue with an irresistible grin, he is now a surly loner, cut off by his own choice from his family and friends. A skilled surgeon with Medics Without Limits, he has saved countless lives and healed countless others, but seems powerless to heal himself.

As I wrote his story, I found myself thinking of my own firstborn son who had once suffered a similar tragedy—the loss of his son. Like Elliot, he’d once been a happy-go-lucky rogue with a heart-melting smile, a mischievous charmer laughing his way through life—and if truth were told, often a bit too insensitive to the feelings of friends and family. Dealing with such all-encompassing pain changed him, as suffering invariably does.

Readers familiar with my work know that this is a recurring theme running through nearly all of my books. Why? Because I firmly believe life constantly tests all of us in both large and small ways. The way we deal with those trials is, to me, a telling measure of a person’s character. In this story, Elliot comes very close to losing his way—and then Katherine Remson returns to his life. As she holds up a mirror and makes him see the man he’s become, he is forced to make the most important decision of his life.

Will he choose to step from the frozen darkness of grief into the sunshine represented by her love or remain trapped in a prison of his own making? As his story unfolded, I laughed and cried and truly wanted to brain that stubborn hunk with his own stethoscope. In the end, though, I fell in love with him right along with Katherine. I hope you will, as well.









Contents


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




Chapter 1


Climbing out of the limousine, Dr. Katherine Remson decided she had stepped through the looking glass and followed Alice into Wonderland.

A mere sixteen hours ago she’d received an urgent phone call from Dr. Gordon Hunter to report to Montebello to assist the medical staff in a crucial rescue mission. Now here she was, before the Royal Montebellan Hotel, delivered by one of King Marcus Sebastiani’s chauffeurs.

Located on a spectacular beach on the leeward side of the city, the hotel was an impressive granite edifice of a dozen stories, the facade reminiscent of the turn of the century hotels in the world’s great cities during the Gilded Age. Prominently displayed over the entrance on a gleaming brass pole, the white-black-and-gold flag of Montebello hung limp in the humid night air.

In the spacious foyer between two sets of large plateglass doors, airport-type security had been set up, and a short line had formed. Although the sharp-eyed men in the uniform of the Royal Montebellan Palace Guard were polite, even bantering with those waiting, the large pistols secured to trim waists were a grim reminder that evil in the form of senseless violence had come to the halcyon island kingdom.

A bomb had gone off in a civilian square, destroying one building completely and trapping an unknown number of people inside. The whole city was in an uproar as rescue workers rushed to save them.

Kate’s chauffeur, Arturo, a craggy, quietly imposing man in his forties, was clearly known to the guards, who, after a quiet word from him, allowed her to pass without having to wait in line.

“My family is most grateful for your kindness, Doctor,” one of the guards told her quietly as the chauffeur escorted her past the X-ray equipment.

“Paolo’s cousin Maximo is the chef at Leonardo’s, a restaurant in the building that was destroyed by the bomb,” Arturo murmured as they passed the concierge’s desk. “He has not yet been rescued.”

“I am so sorry,” she said, her chest thick with emotion. During the flight, the young steward had told her of the shock and anger that had raced through Montebello at the news of the bombing. It wasn’t just an appalling tragedy to the majority of the city’s citizens, it was also an intensely personal one, since Montebello was a land of large and interconnecting families.

As Arturo led her past a series of large marble pillars, she felt a sense of unease hanging over the opulent lobby like a pall, dulling the glittering marble-and-gilt surroundings like a thin layer of tarnish.

The curved, marble reception desk was busy. Four dark-haired, dark-eyed female clerks in trim maroon blazers and gray skirts projected an air of efficiency and calm, but most of the people lined up at the desk were clearly anxious to check out.

The chauffeur surveyed the situation with a slight frown before leading Kate to a spot next to one of the soaring marble pillars flanking the desk. “If you would be so kind as to wait here, Dr. Remson, I will facilitate your check-in.” Though he spoke perfect English, it was flavored with a charming Italian lilt that had been shared by everyone she’d met so far.

“I don’t mind waiting in line,” she assured him, even as her tired body yearned for a soft bed and cool sheets.

“Nevertheless, I will have a word with the hotel manager.” He set her bags at her feet before disappearing through a door behind the desk.

Five minutes later she found herself in an elevator with both the chauffeur and the manager himself, a Signor Francetti, who reminded her of an older, stockier Robert De Niro.

“This floor is reserved exclusively for foreign dignitaries and guests of the royal family,” he said as the elevator doors opened on the sixth floor.

Kate caught her breath as she stepped into the spacious elevator atrium to find herself in what her tired brain wanted to call museum chic. Paintings in ornate gilt frames lined walls covered with what appeared to be authentic watered silk of palest ivory. Her brand-new sandals—little more than a couple of wispy ostrich-skin straps and a thin leather sole—sank a good inch into the pile of the rich maroon carpeting. With each step she took, she expected a security guard to rush out from the shadows to warn her not to touch the priceless old masters. The very air seemed rarified, scented, she guessed by a combination of citrus and rose petals.

After they’d walked what seemed like a good quarter mile, the manager stopped in front of the second door from the end on the left. “We’ve put Dr. Hunter next door,” he said as he inserted the key card.

“Dr. Hunter is here?” she questioned as he opened the door, then stepped back to allow her to precede him.

Signor Francetti nodded. “He arrived late this afternoon and went directly to the hospital after checking in.”

“I’m surprised he got here so quickly,” she said as she walked into the room. Four steps later, she stopped dead. Instead of a room, she’d been given a suite the likes of which she’d never seen outside of Architectural Digest, which her mother subscribed to.

“This can’t all be for me,” she murmured, glancing around at the cozy living room-like setting. Through an open door to her left she saw a bedroom with a bed as large as her office in her clinic in San Francisco.

“His Majesty is most grateful for your assistance,” Signor Francetti hastened to assure her. “He insists that you want for nothing while you are our guest. We have arranged to house Arturo in the hotel as well, so that he will be at your disposal. When you require his services, you have only to call down to the front desk.”

“Oh, but I can take a cab—”

“No, Doctor,” Arturo spoke up with surprising firmness. “You are too valuable to the people of Montebello to take that kind of risk.”

Kate blinked. “Are you saying this bombing might not be an isolated incident?”

The chauffeur shrugged. “If His Majesty’s sworn enemy, Sheik Ahmed Kamal of Tamir, is behind this, he will not stop until he has embroiled us all in war. Word has it that he intends to take Montebello by force.”

Kate was dumbfounded. “War? You mean with tanks and smart bombs and scud missiles?”

The men exchanged grim looks. “It’s possible,” the manager replied, “although, of course, we have faith that His Majesty will find a way to avoid further bloodshed—at least that of our people.”

“You need not worry for your own safety, Doctor,” Arturo hastened to add. “Every measure possible has been taken to make sure you and your fellow volunteers are not injured.”

“In the meantime, whatever you require, you need only ask,” Francetti assured her.

Kate took a deep breath. She might have stepped through the looking glass, but she was here to work around the clock to save lives, not indulge herself in luxury. “At the moment all I require is a cool shower and an hour’s nap to shake some of this jet lag,” she said as she dropped her leather backpack onto the nearest chair. “After that, I, too, would like to see the hospital.”



An hour later the elaborate clock radio on the bedside table woke her from a deep sleep. Her senses still fuzzy, she slipped from the warm, lavender scented sheets and padded barefoot into the sinfully opulent bathroom, where an outrageously sexy tub fashioned of a solid block of black marble beckoned.

Feeling a lot like Cleopatra before she did the snake thing, Kate adjusted the gold taps to one notch below scalding, added a scoop of deliciously scented bath beads, then stripped out of her new underwear. Her drowsiness slowly turned to a decadent lethargy, tempting her to linger, but the images she’d seen on TV were a vivid reminder that she was here to work, not shamelessly indulge herself.

Fifteen minutes later, dressed in one of her new wraparound skirts, silk camp shirt and strappy sandals, she was slipping her favorite surgical clogs into her tote bag when she heard water running next door.

A smile curved her lips at the thought of seeing Dr. Hunter again. Next to her father, her good friend Sarah’s dad was her favorite male. Kate hadn’t seen him since he and his wife Helena threw Sarah a surprise birthday party last February.

When the sound of the shower ceased, she glanced at the phone, then decided to say a quick hello in person before calling for Arturo. After running through a mental checklist of all the articles she might need at the hospital, and finding she’d forgotten nothing, she slung her tote over one shoulder and pocketed the key card Signor Francetti had left on the breakfast bar.

Quiet elegance welcomed her again as she left her suite to rap on the door next door. Her lips already curving, she waited a few beats, then knocked again, louder this time.

“Hang on, I’m coming,” a muffled—and decidedly irritated—male voice called from within. An instant later the door opened, and she found herself looking directly at a man’s muscular, broad-shouldered, bare chest.

Water droplets glistened in a ragged triangle of golden chest hair spread over superbly developed pectoral muscles. Below a corded midriff, a dark blue towel was slung low on narrow hips, held in place by one large hand wearing a wide golden wedding band.

Acutely embarrassed, she reluctantly lifted her gaze to the man’s face. Stretched taut over sharp bones and hollowed planes, his skin had a patina of bronze from a burned-in tan. Heavy blond stubble added harsh texture to a jaw that was decidedly square. Deep lines framed a mouth that was well-shaped, but set in bitter lines.

“Well?” he demanded impatiently, and from beneath sun-bleached brows, green eyes fringed with brush-thick golden lashes bored into hers.

Her first reaction was hurt that Sarah’s dad would deliberately omit to mention that Elliot was one of the doctors he’d been contacting. Her second was a wild—and wholly unexpected—joy at seeing her first love again.

“I…when Signor Francetti said Dr. Hunter was next door, I naturally assumed it was your father.”

Suspicion tightened the muscles around eyes that she saw now were badly bloodshot. “You know my father?”

“Well, of course I—” She broke off when she realized he was still glaring at her as though she were some kind of rudely aggressive stranger. “Oh my goodness, I can’t believe it,” she said with a choked laugh. “That makeover must have really done a job.”

His gaze narrowed to a near squint, then turned dangerously impatient. “Look, lady, I have a raging headache and a real short tolerance for riddles. In two seconds I’m closing this door, so if you have something to say to me, get to it, or go the hell away.”

Heat suffused her face and her breath hitched. “You rude, self-involved…jerk! I can’t believe I once thought you were the kindest person I’d ever met.”

His mouth twisted into a sardonic sneer. “Maybe that ‘didn’t we meet someplace before’ baloney works on some guys, honey, but I’m damned sure I would remember a hot little number like you.”

A hot little number? Of all the unmitigated gall! And yet the purely female part of her psyche felt a little thrill. Her last semiboyfriend had dropped her after three dates because he considered her a cold fish.

“A thousand dollars donated to charity says we have indeed met—and more than once,” she retorted with a new recklessness that both frightened and exhilarated her.

Disgust deepened the bitter lines bracketing his mouth and made his deep voice raspy. “You’ve got a talent for bluffing, I’ll give you that.”

It cost her, but she lifted her chin and offered him a taunting smile. “Oh, I get it, you’re as chintzy as you are rude.”

A dark and savage emotion flared in his eyes. She refused to step back, though the protective instincts in her reptilian brain had already tensed her muscles and shot a hot bolus of adrenaline into her system.

At twenty-one Elliot’s body had been a magnificent example of well-conditioned, superbly developed male anatomy. A twelve on the hunkability scale she and Sarah had worked up during a sleepover in their sophomore year—not that Sarah had agreed, of course, but a sister couldn’t be expected to be objective.

Now, at thirty-one, he seemed taller and far more muscular and a thousand times more formidable. She locked her knees and forbade herself to show fear. Or anything else, for that matter.

“Five thousand to the San Sebastian Victims Relief Fund says we’ve never laid eyes on one another,” he challenged in a voice that had gone even harsher, though she would have thought that impossible.

Oh, she was going to enjoy this, she thought in a burst of anticipatory pleasure.

“Done,” she declared before she lost her nerve. In fact, some imp inside her prompted her to extend her hand. “Shall we shake on it, Doctor?”

He hesitated, then removed his right hand from the doorjamb where it had served to prop him up. He had beautiful hands, his long fingers supple and sensitive, his wrists thick with muscle, his grip strong enough to hold a scalpel steady for long, painstaking hours. As his fingers curled around hers, she noticed that his wide palm was rimmed with calluses that hadn’t been there ten years ago.

The inner shiver caused by the friction of his skin against hers was expected. After all, the last time he’d touched her had been in the heat of passion, and the body remembered, even when the mind forgot.

“Ball’s in your court, lady,” he challenged as the handshake ended. “Where exactly was it we met, you and I?”

He was crowding her now, looming over her in a blatant display of masculine arrogance. Strong scents of soap, mint toothpaste and wet, angry male teased her nostrils. Her senses wobbled a little before she regained control.

“Actually, I’m not really sure, but…” She paused, deliberately prolonging her private exhilaration.

“I thought so, you little—”

“…but my mother told me once that your mom brought you next door to see me a few days after I was born. Of course, I doubt you would remember that, since you were practically a baby yourself. I certainly don’t. What I do remember, however, is crashing my new red trike into the plum tree in your backyard one Christmas morning, then screaming bloody murder when you offered to sew up the cut on my chin with your mom’s petit point needle. I think I was four at the time, which would have made you five.”

Shock splintered his eyes. His gaze narrowed, skimmed like lightning to her toes, then moved slowly upward until it zeroed in on her face. Holding her breath, she watched recognition settle into those familiar eyes, followed by something very like guilt.

“My God! Katie? Is it really you?” Now his voice was rough, as though forced through a constricted throat.

Ah, revenge truly was sweet, she thought, her lips forming her coolest smile, the one she’d practiced in front of the mirror for weeks before trying it out on smugly superior male colleagues during her residency.

“That’s Dr. Remson to you, Doctor.” She felt a rush of pure vindication. “You can leave the receipt for the donation with the desk clerk.”

Feeling empowered and deliciously militant for the first time in her life, she turned and stalked off, her sandals slapping the carpet with each proudly furious step.

Behind her she heard an angry curse, followed by the unmistakable sounds of pounding footsteps. She quickened her pace, but refused to sprint.

“Stop running away, damn it,” he all but growled in her ear a split second before he grabbed her arm and, with an ease that infuriated her, jerked her to a halt.

Her leather soles slipped on the carpet’s thick pile and she skidded sideways. Her hip collided with his hard thigh before she found her footing. He jerked back as though scalded. The towel flipped open, exposing one muscular thigh and, for a brief instant, more intimate parts of his anatomy.

A sizzling heat started in the vicinity of her throat and melted downward to pool in the intimate parts of her anatomy. God, was she actually panting?

Scrambling to regain her dignity, she straightened her spine and glared at him. “Let me go, or I’ll scream so loud the king himself will hear me,” she ordered through a stiff jaw.

“Not unless you promise to listen!” His grip eased, but his hand remained coiled around her arm. For all his good-natured affability, Elliot had a stubborn streak as unyielding as tempered steel.

“I’ll give you sixty seconds.” She made a show of glancing at her watch, the old-fashioned kind with the sweep hand. “Starting now.”

“You’re right, I behaved like a jerk,” he grated, his jaw rigid.

It was difficult to look down her nose when she was looking up, but Kate leaned back far enough to make a stab at it. Anything was preferable to standing with her nose all but buried in that sexy chest hair. “And your point is?”

“I’m apologizing, damn it. That’s my point.” He looked thunderously angry—and yet, buried deep in his eyes was the same black emptiness she’d seen on the day he’d buried his wife and child.

Death was no stranger to those in the medical profession, especially surgeons and technicians involved in high risk cases. Over the years she’d grieved at every loss as though it were her own child, and as a matter of personal choice remained involved with helping parents come to grips with their own grief.

But never, in all the years since that bleak gray day in October, had she seen anyone suffer the way Elliot had. Her heart expanded and she nearly reached out to him before she remembered how easily he had shredded both her heart and her secret dreams.

“Katie, I’m truly sorry,” he said when she remained silent. “I shouldn’t have dumped my foul mood on you.”

“I agree completely, and your time is up.” She directed a pointed look at the large sinewy hand still holding her captive.

His brows lowered. “You’re still ticked off.”

“No, I’m in a hurry to get to the hospital, Doctor. I have patients to attend to!”

“Point taken.” Finally he let her go. The sensory imprint of those strong, callused fingers lingered, but she refused to indulge the need to rub away even that reminder of his touch. “I’m heading back myself. If you give me five minutes to throw on some clothes, I’ll go with you.”

Her self-possessed poise was beginning to fray. For the sake of her pride—and her peace of mind—she had to put some distance between the two of them.

“I don’t have five minutes, Doctor. And if I did, I wouldn’t waste them on you.”

Anger simmered for an instant in his eyes before fading. “Seems you’ve changed more than your looks, Kate,” he said quietly.

The whisper of hurt in his voice struck her as the worst kind of hypocrisy. He wasn’t the one who’d walked out of the pool house ten years ago, a pathetic basket case. Who hadn’t been able to get out of bed for a week. Who’d come close to hating herself for the humiliating spectacle she’d made of herself. Worst of all, who hadn’t been able to let a man touch her for years afterward.

“If you mean I’m no longer a…hmm, let me see if I can get this right. Oh yes, I remember now, ‘a stupidly naive little girl on some misguided mercy mission,’ you’re completely correct.”

He winced, then raked his free hand through his hair, leaving it tousled. Beneath the sun-bleached brows his eyes searched her face. “I hurt you more badly than you let on, didn’t I?”

“Yes, you hurt me, but I also realize I was as much to blame for what happened as you were. Let’s just leave it at that.”

He bowed his head, his free hand pinching the bridge of his nose. When he glanced up again, regret shimmered in his eyes like tears. “Katie, it’s not that I didn’t appreciate—”

“I’m not going to discuss the past with you, Elliot,” she interrupted, her voice bordering on shrill. She took a breath and tried to ignore the conflicting emotions in her chest. When she spoke again, she had her voice—and herself—under control again. “You and I are here to do a job, not walk down memory lane. I’m sure we can treat each other with appropriate courtesy on those few occasions when we’re forced to spend time in one another’s company.”

The disbelief in his eyes had her teeth grinding together. Clearly, Golden Boy wasn’t used to being rejected.

“Is that what you really want, Kate?”

“That’s what I want,” she said in her firmest tone. She felt a sharp stab of satisfaction. Less than admirable, perhaps, but completely human.

He hesitated, then sighed heavily, his big chest rising and falling mightily. Then, as she made herself hold her gaze steady on his, his jaw turned hard and ice formed in his eyes.

“In that case, Doctor, I won’t delay you a moment longer.” Without another word, he turned and stalked off with long, angry strides.



Alone in a bathroom the size of a regular hotel room, Elliot jerked the towel from his hips, wadded it into a ball and slammed it into the shower stall. As he stepped into clean briefs, he worked to level emotions that scared him.

“Way to go, Slick, you handled that real well,” he muttered as he dug into his shaving kit for his razor. As he slapped lather on his jaw, he forced his fractured thoughts into something resembling reason.

During the past ten years surly had been his mood of choice, followed by rude and uncommunicative. No matter where he was or who was around him, he’d been an equal opportunity…jerk. His jaw tightened as Kate’s outraged words rang in his ears again.

Self-involved? He tried to dispute that, but couldn’t. Not that it bothered him all that much. A man who’d had the best part of himself amputated tended to think about what was missing. In his case there wasn’t a prosthesis he could buy to replace his wife and baby girl.

All he wanted was to be left alone. Most people got the message quickly enough. Medics Without Limits colleagues who worked with him soon learned to leave him strictly alone between assignments. No one invited him to share a meal or a beer…or a bed.

Damn it, Kate Remson had been way out of line!

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d taken one look at a woman and wanted her beneath him naked. No, damn it, not just a woman. His sister’s best friend. The solemn little brown wren he’d come to love as much as he loved Sarah.

Little Katie Remson, who’d always seemed to have her nose stuck in a book, had become a knockout with enough sexual wattage to short-circuit common courtesy and scramble his senses.

No wonder he hadn’t recognized her, he consoled himself as he methodically scraped away a night’s growth of whiskers. The black-rimmed, soda-bottle glasses that had dominated her face were gone, no doubt replaced by contact lenses—or maybe she’d had one of the new surgeries designed to correct her kind of severe myopia. Whatever the reason, he had been mesmerized by those golden eyes with the curly lashes and expressive brows.

Instead of the scraped-back ponytail or that twisted-up bun thing, her hair was now cut into one of those fashionable styles he’d first seen in Paris a few months back—like she’d just gotten out of bed after a hot and heavy night of sex. While she’d been looking up at him as if he was some kind of peasant and she was the queen, his fingers had itched to touch the soft wisps at the nape of her neck.

But it had been her mouth that had had life returning to his groin. For about ten seconds, he’d been in real danger of embarrassing both of them, which was why he’d thrown attitude her way. And hadn’t she tossed it right back?

Damn straight she had. Worse, she’d gotten him as worked up as a horny sixteen-year-old. Hell, the woman could wake the dead, prancing around in that slinky purple skirt that barely covered her butt. Someone ought to remind her that she was a surgeon, not a Riviera bimbo trolling for a sugar daddy.

Damned if she didn’t have all the moves, too, he thought, scowling at the memory of that round little bottom swishing back and forth as she stalked off toward the elevators, her chin in the air and triumph glittering in her amber eyes like little gold stars.

Memory lane, hell. He didn’t want to remember that night in the pool house any more than she did, apparently. For ten years he hadn’t wanted to remember it. Sometimes he managed to forget for months at a time, but sooner or later he would hear a soft voice or see a flash of glossy auburn hair—and then it would all come crashing down on him.

I love you, Elliot. I’ve always loved you. Please let me give you another child. I know a baby can’t replace Lauren and I can’t replace Candy. I know you still love her, but I’ll wait, forever if I have to. Whatever you can give me now, even if it’s just physical love, is enough.

Sweet virginal Katydid, with her painfully innocent eyes and desperate eagerness to please. He’d loved her like a second sister for most of her life, and yet he’d used her.

The memory of the sex itself was blurred by the booze he’d drunk that night. The morning after, when he woke up in the pool house behind his parents’ home, cradled in her arms, the scent of sex mingling with the chlorine from the pool in the foggy air, he’d all but strangled on shame.

It was that shame that had made him cruel, compounding his sins. He’d lost count of the nights he’d drunk himself into oblivion after that. Dozens, hundreds, it hadn’t much mattered. Everywhere he’d looked, he’d run into a memory.

Finally he’d taken a leave of absence from medical school and hit the road, ending up in Alaska, where he’d worked on a shrimp boat to earn his keep. It had been brutally hard work, taxing his strength and straining his muscles. By the end of three months, he’d regained the weight he’d lost, most of it muscle layered over his chest and arms.

At the end of shrimping season, he’d gone back to medical school, because that’s what his wife would have wanted. He’d told himself he was healed, but he knew better. He was little more than a shell, with a hollow space where his heart was supposed to be.

Katie was right to want nothing to do with him now, he thought as he morosely wiped the last of the lather from his face. He would only hurt her again if he got the chance. He wouldn’t want to. He would try his damnedest not to, but sooner or later it would happen. Candy and Lauren had trusted him to keep them safe from hurt, and they’d died. Katie had trusted him with her heart, and he’d stripped her of her virginity and her pride.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out Elliot Hunter was poison to those he cared about—and he did care about Katie, as much as a man with most of his heart cut away could.

Whatever she wanted, that’s what he would give her. He owed her that, at least.



After stalking away from Elliot moments earlier, Katherine realized she was holding her breath, and let it out as she turned toward the elevator lobby. It was only when she was safely in the limousine that she allowed her shoulders to slump.

As the limo carried her through the narrow streets of Montebello, a sense of unreality came over her. She couldn’t believe the chain of events that had brought her and Elliot to this majestic island in the eastern Mediterranean. She had no idea what part of the world Elliot had been holed up in before he received the call from his father, but one week ago she’d been in dusty, hot Baja California, hyperventilating her way through a serious makeover she’d known without question would be a miserable failure. Her only worry then had been how fast her hair would grow back after Señor Jose Miguel had finished whacking off several inches….




Chapter 2


Rodeo Drive, Beverly Hills, California;

two days earlier

The shiny gilt letters on the door spelled out the name of the boutique in the same ornate script gracing the bottle of the obscenely expensive perfume sold at the desk and wafting through the ventilation system. Salsa pulsed through the small, but opulent fitting room, as hot and steamy as its Latin origin.

Alone in the fitting room, Kate stared at her reflection in the mirror. The woman staring back at her was a perfect stranger.

A goddess.

A siren.

Or dare she even think it, a slinky, sleepy-eyed sex object?

She drew a shaky breath and wetted lips the color of ripe plums. Secrets shimmered like summer heat in wide-set eyes of dark clear amber. Beneath sweeping, honey-toned brows, feathery lashes of the same hue fluttered in a provocative invitation. Slender hips longed to sway beneath thin silk the color of fuchsia, while her blood heated and her skin glowed.

“Oh my,” she whispered in awe. This woman would never be invisible in a roomful of people. Her face was a perfect oval, her features delicate. Her unblemished skin had been sun-kissed to a golden hue, with a subtle hint of rose-petal pink brushed over exotic cheekbones.

Still reluctant to believe her own eyes, Kate lifted a tentative hand to the softly curling tips of her glossy auburn hair, now layered and blow-dried into a breezy, asymmetrical, shoulder-length shag that did terrific things for her cheekbones.

When she walked into the clinic on Monday morning her staff would stare. Her pint-size patients would giggle. When she joined her parents for their traditional Sunday brunch next week, both would express their disapproval with their customary multisyllabic eloquence. Father, in particular, would be outraged that she’d cut off her crowning glory. Hadn’t Mother worn her hair in the same sophisticated—and boring—French twist for the past thirty-odd years? The same French twist Kate had adopted as her own sometime around her fifteenth year.

It had been a brain warp or some kind of temporary insanity, of course, combined with the two margaritas she’d gulped down to give her the courage to bare her head to a stylist’s scissors.

Muy magnifico, Doctor Remson. Que linda!

Magnificent? Beautiful?

Her? The nerd who’d been two and then three years younger than everyone else in her class, even in medical school? The pathetic geek who’d had only one date in high school—and that arranged by the brother of her best friend, Sarah?

The same Sarah who had talked her into spending the last six days at El Puerto d’Oro, the outrageously expensive health and beauty spa located fifty miles south of San Diego on the Baja California peninsula.

“Give her the works,” Sarah had ordered. A major makeover.

If Sarah hadn’t been standing right there next to her, urging her on, Kate was pretty sure she would have leaped out of the fancy salon and run all the way back to the Bay Area.

So what if she wasn’t attractive to members of the opposite sex? She had a life, didn’t she? A boring one, sure, but it was richly rewarding, which was what she’d been raised to value above all things. Service to others had been a Remson tradition for generations. Teachers, doctors, scholars and philanthropists dotted her family tree. As her parents’ only child, she’d always known she had an obligation to carry on the tradition. Founding the Children’s Free Clinic in San Francisco’s Mission District three years ago had been both a joy and an obligation.

Unmarried, and rarely been kissed, she had a cozy, turn-of-the-century flat on Nob Hill, the same VW bug her father had driven as a graduate student at Stanford and a small, but beloved, group of women friends. Perhaps there were moments in the darkest hours of night when her heart wept for her lost dreams, but by the light of dawn she had banished her haunted memories to the back of her well-disciplined mind. Maybe she wasn’t always over-the-moon happy, but she was productive and valued.

“What’s taking you so long in there, Kates?”

Before she could answer, Sarah slipped through the yellow-and-white-striped curtain, her green eyes glittering with expectation. A brunette who was also highly intelligent and remarkably kind, Sarah had been Kate’s rock during the worst period of her life, and she loved the outrageously unpredictable woman like a sister.

“Wow!” Sarah murmured, her hand still clutching the curtain, her large, heavily fringed eyes going wide. “You look…dangerous.”

Kate snorted a self-conscious laugh. “It’s the dress, what there is of it.” Which was no more than a couple of yards of flowing silk, cut on the bias to fall from thin, rhinestone-covered straps. The bodice dipped into a V so deep it would be considered a misdemeanor in more conservative states. Below a slinky stretch of shimmering fuchsia, the ruffly hem hit her in midthigh, shorter even than her favorite man-tailored nightshirt.

Her father, the biblical scholar, and her mother, the primary-school principal, would be appalled to see their properly reared daughter parading around in a couple of flimsy scarves sewn together—and not much else.

“Um-hmm.” Pursing her lips, Sarah cocked her pretty head and studied Kate through those famous, sinfully thick Hunter eyelashes. “Give me a twirl, sweetie, so I can get the full effect.”

Kate reluctantly complied.

“Hmm, that sucker’s a definite keeper,” Sarah pronounced with a wickedly naughty grin Kate desperately wished she could replicate. But dull old Katherine had done only one naughty thing in her life—and she was still suffering the aftereffects.

“Oh, Sarah, I don’t know,” she wailed piteously. “I’ve already spent so much money on the spa and clothes and shoes I’ll never wear that the numbers are all but worn off my credit card.”

“So what? You’re a rich surgeon, aren’t you?” Eyes the color of sunshine on jade sparkled the way they always did when Sarah teased her childhood friend. Another pair of sun-dappled, jade-green eyes shimmered for an instant in Kate’s mind. Eyes that were haunted and bleak and…brutally angry. Years of practice helped her banish the image almost as quickly as it appeared.

“What I am is darn near broke after this past week,” she declared firmly. “I’ll be lucky to make the mortgage payment on my flat next month.”

Sarah dismissed that with typical Hunter imperturbability. Besides, she knew all about the trust fund from Kate’s maternal grandfather that had put her friend through medical school—with plenty left over. “Nonsense,” she declared airily. “Did you or did you not tell me only two weeks ago that you were…uh, let’s see, how did you put it exactly?” She lifted one winged brow. “Oh yeah, I remember, ‘fed up with looking in the mirror and seeing someone’s dried-up spinster aunt’?”

Kate felt her face warming. Her wine-soaked soliloquy on the night of her thirtieth birthday still had the power to make her wince. “Well, yes, I might have said something like that, but—”

“Did you or did you not tell me your sex life was a total dud?” The sudden glint in Sarah’s eyes dared her to disagree.

Damn her, Kate thought peevishly as she swallowed the skillfully worded denial already forming in her mind. “Yes, but I’d had a few glasses of champagne and—”

“Look at yourself, Katie!” Sarah demanded now. “A terrific, trendy hairdo instead of that awful retro-hippie look—”

“Thanks very much.”

“—and flattering makeup instead of that awful pink lip gloss.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Sarah, I spend most of my time behind a surgical mask. My patients don’t care whether or not I slather on mascara before I scrub.”

“But those studly residents prowling the halls do.”

“Attendings do not date residents,” Kate declared in her mother’s haughtiest tones.

Sarah, the rat, ignored her the way she always did. “Mark my words, sweetie, straight men all over the Bay Area will be falling prostrate at your feet, begging to be your devoted sex slave for life.”

Because Kate had a particularly vivid imagination, the image that arose featured hard muscles beneath bronzed skin, narrow hips and a particularly outstanding example of masculine anatomy. Her breathing sped up. But when her imagination directed her attention higher, to bold aggressive features and deep-set, haunted eyes, she deliberately wiped her mind clean.

“I don’t recall mentioning anything about sex slaves—”

“No, what you actually said was, and I quote, ‘Oh Sarah, just once in my life I’d like to feel wild and wicked and…utterly wanton instead of so damned proper and…matronly. Just once I’d like to have a man lick champagne from my navel and drive me into a frenzy with his mouth. Just once I’d like to—”

“Enough, please,” Katherine begged, her cheeks flaming. Narrowing her gaze, she glared at her friend with as much indignation as she could muster. “What did you do, bring a tape recorder along with that obscenely huge bottle of bubbly you forced down my throat?”

“No need,” Sarah replied breezily. “I have a photographic memory, remember? It’s genetic, like Mom’s dimples and Dad’s laugh.”

Kate arched a brow. “She who gloats brings serious karma down on her head,” she foretold in somber tones.

Sarah smiled smugly. “I’ll remind you of this conversation on your wedding day.”

Kate’s heart leaped—and yet again those haunted, sea-green eyes rose to taunt her. She had once loved Elliot Hunter with all of her heart and soul. She had given him her virginity with the sheer joy of being a part of him. Now she cringed inside every time she remembered the foolishly naive ninny she’d been at twenty.

“I don’t want to get married,” she said a little too shrilly—then forced herself to take a breath. “All I want is a little spice in the romance department before all my vital juices dry up.”

Sarah lifted her own perfectly shaped—and naturally golden—brows. “You want children, right?”

So desperately it was a soul-deep ache. “Yes, but—”

“And you’ve always said you believe in marriage before kids, right?”

“For me, yes, but—”

“So go for it, girl! Be proactive for a change. Be aggressive, be bold, be a little naughty.” Sarah clamped her hands on Kate’s bare shoulders and turned her toward the mirror again.

Biting her lip, Kate shifted her gaze to the skimpy cocktail dress, swaying just a little to make the hem tease her thighs—like the brush of a man’s mouth. Her breath caught, and she nibbled at the inside of her cheek.

Was it so wrong to want to feel feminine and desired and cherished just once in her life? Was it wrong to ache to hold a child to her breasts and feel an eager little mouth suckle? To have the child’s father curve strong arms around the two of them, love shining in his eyes?

“I’ll take it,” she said, making up her mind. As Sarah gave her a fierce hug, Kate had a feeling she’d just taken a giant step on the road toward some unknown destiny. She only hoped she wouldn’t live to regret it.

Somewhere on the road outside Puebla del Mar, southern Spain

“Bueno, mamacita, breathe through the contraction. You’re doing fine. Uh, fantastico, sí?”

Pausing while his fractured instructions were translated to the laboring mom, who looked more like a child herself, Elliot Hunter used his forearm to swipe away the sweat mixed with blood from the gash in his temple.

Though a surgeon by training and inclination, he’d done a rotation in obstetrics during his internship at Stanford Medical Center. All but a few of those births, however, had been normal deliveries in antiseptic conditions with the state-of-the-art equipment and superbly trained, highly skilled personnel of one of the best hospitals in the world backing him up.

In this case he had to make do with the few essentials in his medical bag—stethoscope, blood pressure cuff, an old-fashioned thermometer. Instead of scrubbing for the full five minutes, he’d drenched his hands in tequila from the bottle in his duffel, the only antiseptic he had. Instead of surgical scrubs he wore jeans, six-year-old boots and a Medics Without Limits T-shirt. An identical shirt, the last one he had that was clean, was folded nearby, ready to be used as a blanket for the newborn.

When the contraction finally eased, he settled back on his heels, resting his aching spine. The air was thick with heat and dust and the smell of sage. There wasn’t a hint of cloud cover, and the merciless midday sun beat down on the dusty road where, less than an hour earlier, the bus taking him to the seashore had blown a tire.

Before the driver could regain control, it had plowed into a rattletrap pickup truck driven by a frantic husband racing his pregnant wife to a woman’s clinic in Puebla.

When the tire had blown, Elliot had been jammed into the corner of the last seat in the bus’s rear, doing his best to block out the sights and sounds of happy, chattering families on holiday. The sickening screech of metal compressing metal had jolted him awake a split second before the heavy bus slid sideways into a deep drainage ditch beyond the rutted road’s dusty shoulder, where it had settled at a dangerous angle.

Terrified screams had rent the air as the passengers had been tossed around like corks in a savage sea. Elliot’s head had hit the window with a sickening thud, making his ears ring. The two chubby little girls from the seat across from his had tumbled against him, inflicting various blows from sharp little elbows and hard soled shoes as he cushioned them from serious injury.

It had been chaos then. Noise and confusion and near hysteria—all very familiar to a man who spent most of his days working in places sane doctors prudently avoided.

As a trauma surgeon working with MWL for the past three years, he had experienced firsthand the aftermath of war, terrorist attacks and natural disasters. He’d learned to block out the noise and confusion and terror in order to function.

After discovering that the stocky, middle-aged driver spoke decent English, he’d handed the man his cell phone to call for help while he conducted an informal triage, identifying those passengers whose injuries required more than a soothing word and a Band-Aid from the bus’s pathetically inadequate first aid kit.

He’d just finished applying a makeshift splint to a teenage girl’s broken arm when a furious barrage of high-pitched Spanish had caught the driver’s attention. Minutes later, Elliot had found himself struggling to deliver a baby in the bed of a wrecked pickup, with several matronly passengers assisting.

Beneath the hand he kept splayed over the laboring girl’s swollen belly, another contraction rippled, then strengthened, until her entire belly was rock hard. Her hand desperately clutching that of her terrified husband, the frantic young woman screamed. Elliot murmured reassurance, hoping she would understand the tone if not the words.

“Ayudame, por favor!” she begged between cries.

“Help me, please,” the driver translated, his eyes dark with worry.

God, Elliot wanted to, but the baby was a posterior presentation. A damn breech. He glanced toward the empty stretch of road ahead. The driver had made three more calls to the authorities in Puebla del Mar, who promised to hurry.

Standing in a ragged circle around the truck, solemn-faced onlookers waited in an eerie silence broken only by the sound of prayers uttered in low, urgent tones.

Elliot had prayed in just that same way once, his voice thick with an icy terror, his eyes stinging with tears instead of sweat. Over and over he’d begged God to spare another young mother and her child. A baby old enough to lift up her arms to her daddy when he walked in. A dark-haired, dark-eyed bambina with the smile of an angel and a bubbling laugh.

His thoughts began to shatter the way his life had after he’d lost his girls. His chest hurt from the wound where his heart had once beat strong and steady.

Another contraction ripped across the girl’s stomach. Her eyes were huge pools of suffering and fear, beseeching him for help. For a bloody miracle.

Leave me alone, he wanted to shout. Don’t you think I would perform miracles if I could? But I can’t, damn it!

He took a second to pull back from the black empty pit that had been his prison for so many years. He wasn’t God, but he’d sworn an oath to do his best.

“Tell her husband to get behind her and support her shoulders,” he ordered the driver crisply. “I’m going to push the baby back into the birth canal, then try to turn it.”

“Ah sí, comprendo! Like birthing a…a calf, no?”

Elliot nodded. “Sí, exactly like that.” He only hoped he didn’t kill both mama and baby in the process.



Elliot didn’t care where he died. Still, it surprised him to discover he still had enough humanity left not to kill himself where his body might be discovered by someone who cared about him.

The third-rate, bug-infested hotel in the nowhere village of Puebla del Mar was ideal. Here he was just one more gringo. An outsider with a surly attitude and the take-no-prisoners swagger of a barroom brawler.

Hell, most of his fellow guests rented their rooms by the hour, so he doubted they’d even flinch at the sound of a shot. The desk clerk might even take it as a favor, given he could rent the room twice in the same night.

After twisting the cap off the tequila he’d bought after leaving the public clinic this evening, Elliot drank straight from the bottle, one fiery swallow after another until his head was swimming. Reeling a little and careful to keep a tight grip on the bottle, he walked to the sagging bed with its worn gray spread and lumpy mattress.

Old-fashioned wire springs creaked under his weight as he sank down. He took another long swallow, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before reaching under the thin pillow for the worn leather photo case he’d stashed there this morning after checking in. It fell open easily, the fold thinned by constant handling during these past ten years.

A familiar ache spread through his chest as he gazed into the laughing eyes of his two dearest loves—his wife and daughter. Sweet, generous Candy with her open smile and shiny black hair that always smelled like apples and sunshine. Feeling as though he were being strangled, he shifted his gaze to the face of his baby girl, his angel, Lauren, who had her mama’s stubborn chin and beautiful smile. Today would have been his fifteenth wedding anniversary—and his daughter’s eleventh birthday. Ten years was long enough to wake up every morning telling himself his work was enough. No matter how many broken bodies he put back together or how many lives he saved, he still felt empty inside.

He’d tried once, to put it behind him. On a miserable night shortly after the funerals, when he’d hit bottom, Katie had come to him. Sweet, innocent Katie, his sister’s best friend, wearing her heart on her sleeve.

She’d held him, talked to him, made love with him—and in that small window of time he’d felt peace. But afterward, the guilt had nearly crushed him—and Katie. It still hurt, the way he’d treated her.

His mind drifted. It had been a close call this afternoon on that hot, dusty road, but the mama and baby had survived. He’d damn near lost it when he’d drawn that tiny little body into the world. Mad as a little hornet, she’d started squalling as soon as he’d cleared away the amniotic fluid. Despite the temper, she’d been a dainty little girl with dark fuzz covering her little round head, and milky-blue eyes sure to turn dark.

Suddenly it had been Lauren there on her mommy’s tummy, and Candy gazing down at her daughter with dark, shining eyes. It was too much for one man to bear, this crushing grief that never let him rest, no matter how tired he made himself. God knew, he’d fought it, pretending that he had put the grief and despair behind him, hoping he could make the pretense real if he repeated the lie often enough.

Only now he’d simply stopped caring. He couldn’t fight any longer. He missed his girls. If there was a heaven—and he had no faith that there was—he wanted to be there with them.

His parents and his sister would mourn for him, he knew, and that hurt. But Mom and Pop had each other, and his baby sister had her friends and her job as a social worker. And sweet little Katie? He did regret not being able to make amends for the way he’d treated her. He tried, but every time he was home, she made it a point to avoid him. Not that he blamed her.

He smiled a little sadly as he drained the last drop from the bottle, then let it fall to the mattress. Head swimming, he unzipped the duffel bag at his feet and took out the .44 Magnum his dad had given him when he hired on with MWL.

“Keep it loaded and never point it at anyone you’re not willing to watch die,” his dad had said in a steely voice Elliot had never heard before.

Even as he slipped the barrel between his lips, he grieved a little when he thought about how upset Pop would be if he ever found out it was his gun that had fired the bullet into his son’s brain.

Elliot closed his eyes and his finger tightened on the trigger.

Washington, D.C.

The tall, white-haired gentleman with chiseled features, close-cropped white beard and military bearing who stepped from the elevator of the historic Willard Hotel and turned left was familiar with the agony of war and the sorrow of its innocent victims.

Though he no longer wore the olive drab of the U.S. Army, seventy-year-old Jonathan Dalton’s dedication to peace and freedom for all was still the abiding force in his life. To that end, a few years after resigning his commission he had begun using his skills and training to aid victims of abuse and oppression all over the world.

One by one he had recruited others to this same cause, fellow warriors with expertise in a wide range of fields, from medicine to demolition—men he trusted with his life and his honor, men willing to lay down their lives to make the world a better place.

For a long time there had been only five, an elite force of tough, dedicated commandos who had been sadly disillusioned after the Vietnam War. Few knew of their existence, and those who did had been sworn to secrecy as a condition of receiving their help. One of the few, a forward-thinking leader of an emerging nation in South America, had given them the name by which they were now known—the Noble Men—after they had successfully thwarted the overthrow of his government by dissidents.

Over the years others had joined the cause, good and valiant men all. As the original five men became more deeply involved in raising families and building businesses, they’d gone on fewer missions. Still deeply involved, however, the original five conscientiously considered every plea for help, accepting more than they declined.

Scattered across the continental U.S. now, where each had lucrative business and investment interests, they routinely communicated by secure phone lines and e-mail when security wasn’t crucial. But this mission was special.

King Marcus Sebastiani of Montebello was both a friend and, because of a past mission in his own land, a fellow comrade-in-arms. It had been his urgent, though rushed, telephone call to Jonathan’s private line at his Texas home yesterday morning that had brought the five Noble Men together tonight.

The room Jonathan sought was at the end of a dogleg corridor. Unlike the others he passed, its twin doors were unmarked. Officially, it was listed on the hotel’s roster as a house suite held in reserve for unexpected VIP guests. Occasionally it was even used for that purpose. Far more often, however, the three rooms beyond those doors served as a meeting place for some very hush-hush groups known only to a select few, extremely senior officials in the uppermost echelons of the intelligence community.

Satisfied that he was unobserved, Jonathan lifted a large, suntanned hand and rapped twice. An instant later, the door opened a crack, and he found himself facing a grim-looking man holding a Glock .45 pointed directly at his belly.




Chapter 3


“Get your butt in here, Dalton, and stop glaring at me.”

A captain in the U.S. Navy when he’d resigned his commission after the Vietnam War, Richard Sutter held the highest rank of the five Noble Men. In an organization as closely knit as this one, rank was a meaningless technicality, but Sutter took gleeful delight in needling his colleagues just for the fun of it. In retaliation, Jonathan and the rest of the guys ruthlessly ragged Sutter about his expanding gut.

A few inches shorter than Jonathan’s six-foot-one, with stubble-short salt-and-pepper hair, shrewd blue eyes and an imperious way of biting off his words, Richard had been instrumental in amassing the diverse flotilla of vessels available to their operatives all over the world at virtually a moment’s notice.

“Hell of a lousy way to welcome a man who saved your butt more than once, Sutter,” Jonathan growled as Richard tucked his pistol into the hollow of his spine before stepping back to allow him to enter.

In his early sixties now, the ex-captain showed few physical signs of the torturous ordeal he’d suffered after being captured during one of the missions undertaken by the group. Jonathan suspected the wounds to Richard’s psyche still troubled him on occasion, but then, all of them had scars that didn’t show.

“Just following standard operating procedure, Major,” Sutter replied with one of his rare-as-hen’s-teeth grins as they exchanged a fond handshake. “Want a beer, old man?”

Jonathan shot him a sardonic look. “Does a hound dog hunt?”

“Roger that,” Sutter snapped as he headed for the wet bar built into one corner of the suite’s living room.

At the same time, Jonathan swept his surroundings with trained eyes, memorizing exits, windows and then finally the layout of the room. More important than the spiffy furnishings, however, was the total privacy the suite offered, as well as the secure communications system.

“Fetch me another brewski while you’re at it, Cap’n,” Edward Ramsey called as he rose from one of the silver-and-blue sofas flanking a large chrome-and-glass coffee table. A solid brick of a man of medium height—and an air force major before he’d left the service—Eddie had been a top gun before that particular term had become public property. In his early sixties now, he reminded Jonathan of a feisty bulldog who still had more fight in him that most men had in their prime.

“Good to see you, Johnny,” Eddie said as they shook hands.

Jonathan grunted. “Heard your son’s making a name for himself in the skies over the Mediterranean. Flying the F-18 now, isn’t he?”

“He’s getting the job done, yeah.” Despite the unassuming words, pride glinted in Ramsey’s gray eyes, the same pride Jonathan suspected showed in his own whenever someone mentioned his own son, Jack. Not that Jack would believe that, however.

“Ah, c’mon, Eddie, we’re all friends here,” Dr. Gordon Hunter exclaimed as he, too, got to his feet in order to greet the most recent arrival. “If you can’t brag about your kids here, where else can you?” Though Gordo’s pride in his own son, Elliot, had always been obvious to all, Jonathan knew that Doc had lost a lot of sleep lately, worrying about his firstborn.

“How’s it going, Gordo?” Jonathan asked as they shook hands.

An inch or so under six feet, with intelligent gray-green eyes behind studious-looking glasses, Doc Hunter had served his country as a field surgeon in Vietnam. Leaner than most, Doc had a wiry strength that had surprised more than one opponent during past operations.

“I tell you, J.D., if I was any better, I’d be perfect,” he said with that slow mischievous grin that both charmed and disarmed—the same grin Jonathan remembered seeing on Elliot in the days before the boy’s life had been blown apart.

“Modest as always, I see, Doc,” Richard interjected as Eddie handed him a long-necked bottle of the murky Ecuadorian beer he’d discovered during a mission to that country in the late eighties.

“What’d you do, J.D., ride one of your precious cutting horses up here from Texas?” The question came from behind, triggering an instant jolt of adrenaline. In the field, Jonathan would have already dropped and rolled, his weapon drawn and ready. Fortunately, he recognized the deep voice with its distinctive Southwestern twang and allowed himself a grin.

“Nope, took that little bitty Gulfstream I picked up a few months back for weekend trips.”

“Damn, and here I was thinkin’ you’d slowed down some.”

At fifty-four, Caleb Stone was the baby of the group. An even six feet tall and incredibly fit, Cal had the kind of brooding dark looks and remarkable leaf-green eyes that women found irresistible. At least, that’s what Gordo’s wife, Helena, had told Jonathan once during one of their rare social get-togethers.

Never married, Cal had been drafted right out of high school in the Four Corners area of Arizona. Before leaving for Vietnam, he had sired a son with a young Navajo woman who’d died while he was trying to get his bearings after rotating home. He and his boy had a rocky relationship that Cal regretted deeply, though, like the rest of them, he rarely spoke of his feelings.

“So what’s going down in Montebello this time, Johnny?” Cal asked as he ambled toward the group with a loose-jointed athletic stride Jonathan envied.

“King Marcus is worried the feud with Tamir is heating up again. He wants to talk strategy before he takes action.”

It was a damned Romeo and Juliet mess, this thing between the royal families of Montebello and Tamir. For over one hundred twenty years the rulers of these two small, but prosperous, island kingdoms located within spitting distance of one another in the eastern part of the Mediterranean Sea had been at sword’s point, wrangling over a chunk of land on the western end of Montebello.

It seemed anachronistic now, raging a blood feud over what had originally been set aside as dowry for a princess. An extremely valuable dowry, Jonathan had to admit, given the considerable oil reserves and mineral deposits that currently existed on the land. Marcus had told him the story years ago when the then crown prince had asked their fledgling organization for help to stop rebel factions on the Arabian peninsula from taking over Montebello.

In the way of aristocratic families in the nineteenth century, King Augustus Sebastiani of Montebello and Sheik Mukhtar Kamal had arranged a marriage between Delia Sebastiani and Sheik Omar in order to form a political and economic alliance between traditionally warring neighbors. However, the land promised as dowry remained in Sebastiani hands when Sheik Omar had been mysteriously killed before the wedding could take place. Mired in grief, Delia had taken her own life.

More than a century later, the tragic drama continued. Just last fall the king had announced his intention to give the disputed land to his son, Crown Prince Lucas, in the hope that it would spur the bachelor prince to think more seriously about marrying and producing an heir. Then late in January, during a blinding snowstorm, Lucas had gone down in a private plane over the Colorado Rockies. Though the wreckage had been found a month later, the prince’s body was missing despite an all-out search.

Cal’s mouth thinned. “Is Sheik Ahmed Kamal rattling his scimitar again?”

Jonathan nodded. “Seems he’s revising that old claim that Montebello rightfully belongs to Tamir.”

Richard snorted. “Hell, those families have been wrangling over that blasted dowry land for more than a century. Kamal’s side has come up short every time. What makes him think he has a better chance than his ancestors to make it stick?”

“Seems in spite of all the security types guarding both families, the sheik’s firstborn son, Rashid, managed to get real cozy with Princess Julia. In fact, he apparently got her pregnant with Kamal’s first grandbaby.”

Eddie whistled through his teeth as he handed Jonathan a bottle of dark lager, his favorite. As unofficial mess steward, Ramsey prided himself on laying in a goodly supply of everyone’s favorite eats and drinks. “What’s Rashid have to say about this?”

“According to Marc, Sheik Rashid suddenly dropped out of sight right after the two of them had, uh, done the deed. That was six weeks ago, give or take a few days.” Jonathan settled into one of the overstuffed chairs and leaned back before allowing himself a long, soothing swallow of lager. “Kamal’s making the case that with Prince Lucas missing and presumed dead, this child, if it’s a boy, will be heir to the throne. And since he claims Rashid is the baby’s father, by both Montebellan and Tamirian law what belongs to the baby belongs to him.”

“To that bastard Kamal, you mean.” Richard’s voice was ripe with disgust. “What time did the king’s aide say to expect his call?”

“Any moment now.”

As if on cue, the phone rang.



“Ah, my dear friends, it is good to hear your voices again.”

King Marcus Sebastiani had a melodious baritone and a Cambridge accent acquired during his school years at that prestigious university. His words were as clear as a bell coming through the speaker phone on the coffee table.

In contrast, Jonathan’s Texas twang had been ruined long ago by the harsh Turkish cigarettes he’d chain-smoked for forty years. “Good to hear yours, too, Your Majesty. Any further news on Prince Lucas?”

“Unfortunately, no, but we will never give up hope. In the meantime, I must attend to my duty to my people, which is why I have asked for this consultation.” His heavy sigh whispered through the speaker. “My advisors and myself believe that maggot-brained back end of a donkey is even now planning action against us.”

“Sutter here, Your Majesty. Any idea what kind of action?”

“Marc, please, gentlemen. Or have you forgotten how we dodged bullets and crawled together through the mud?”

Gordo Hunter chuckled before adding, “Ate a good coupla pounds of that same mud, as I recall.”

“Indeed.” The men in the room exchanged grins before narrowing their focus when the king spoke again. “My chief of security has received what we believe are extremely reliable reports from several key agents, suggesting that Kamal intends to have Julia kidnapped and kept in seclusion until she delivers the child. We have taken steps to protect her, of course, but we cannot protect all our citizens in the same way.”

“Ed Ramsey here, Marc. Have your agents heard tell of any terrorist groups showing up in Tamir anytime during the last few weeks?”

“No, but one of our best operatives, who has become, shall we say, intimate with one of Kamal’s top generals, just sent word that the man is even now planning a massive amphibious-landing training exercise to be held within the next few days. He—” The king was interrupted by what sounded to trained ears like a muffled explosion.

“Marc? Your Majesty, are you all right?” Dalton asked urgently.

When the king came on the line again, his voice was filled with both rage and urgency. “Gentlemen, I have just been informed that a bomb has gone off in the civilian square just two blocks from the palace. It destroyed a building, trapping people inside. There will surely be casualties.” His voice shook slightly as he added, “Gordo, I fear we will need your skills yet again.”



While the others formulated a plan of action to get the appropriate personnel into place quickly, Gordon consulted by phone with the chief of staff of King Augustus Hospital, where even now the injured were being brought by ambulance and private vehicle.

A graduate of Yale Medical School, Dr. Guiseppe Andretti was considered Montebello’s premier cardiologist. Gordon had spent time with him on several occasions while on business and pleasure trips to Montebello over the years. A rotund, jocular sort, Gus, as he had been called since his days in the States, was a first-rate administrator, as well as an excellent surgeon.

From what Gordon had learned so far, the scene at the bombing site was chaotic, with frantic relatives pouring into the area and rescue workers bumping into each other in an attempt to dig victims from the rubble. Andretti had called in all available staff. Unfortunately, a particularly virulent strain of influenza was currently making its way through the capital city, afflicting a good third of hospital personnel.

“So we’re agreed, the first priority is additional surgeons, especially head and bone docs,” Gordon summed up after consulting his notes.

“Agreed.” Although Dr. Andretti spoke calmly, even crisply, Gordon heard a note of underlying urgency in his voice. “Trauma experience would be especially helpful in all areas, of course. Most of the staff here has very little experience with the kinds of massive injuries we’ve seen in several of the twelve victims in house so far.”

“Duly noted, Doctor,” Gordon said, his mind already clicking through the list of field surgeons and specialists available to the Noble Men. It was, he realized grimly, a very short list. “I’ll get right on it.”

“One more thing, Doctor,” Andretti said as Gordon was about to disconnect, “according to one of the paramedics at the scene, a woman who had left the restaurant only minutes before the blast reported that she’d been seated next to a young couple with an infant. A little girl, I believe, around seven or eight months old.”

“Damn,” Gordon said softly. “I don’t suppose this child has been rescued?”

“Not yet. Unfortunately, we’re thin on experienced pediatric surgeons at the moment as well.”

“I’m sure you understand we seldom have a call for this kind of medic,” Gordon replied tersely, “but I know someone back home in California who would be outstanding. Her name is Dr. Katherine Remson. I’ll give her a call and see if she’s available.”

“Tell her we’ll pay anything she asks, only for God’s sake, get her here as soon as you can. God willing, if that baby is pulled out alive, we don’t want to lose her simply because we don’t have the proper personnel.” Andretti’s voice sharpened. “No matter what happens politically, we must keep these people alive.”



A haze of smoke and weariness permeated the hotel suite’s center room as five somber-faced men sprawled on chairs and couches. Clothes were rumpled, eyes stung, stubborn jaws sported a day’s growth of bristly whiskers, and throats were raw from too much smoke and talk. No one had even considered sleep. Gallons of coffee had been brewed and drunk while they worked out a strategy in this chess game between sworn enemies. Living on adrenaline and caffeine was second nature now, though it had been months since they’d been tested.

“Damn, these all-nighters used to be more fun,” Eddie Ramsey grumbled.

“Everything used to be more fun,” Richard said. “Let’s face it, guys, we’re getting old.”

“Speak for yourself,” Caleb declared as he poured himself a cup of fresh coffee from the carafe Jonathan had just set in the middle of the table. “Me, I’m in my prime.”

“In your dreams, Stone,” Gordo retorted.

After pacing the room, Jonathan lowered himself awkwardly into a chair. His hip was giving him fits, but he’d been reluctant to take the medication that dulled his mind along with the pain. “You guys can blow smoke all you want,” he said as he unfolded his napkin, “but me, I’m ready to admit I’ve had it with field work.”

“Amen, brother,” Richard muttered.

“Okay, hotshots. If we give up the field, who’s going to take our places?” Cal challenged.

“Funny you should ask,” Gordon told him with a grin. “I’m seriously considering asking Elliot to handle the medical end in Montebello.” He paused. “According to the Medics Without Limits scheduling clerk I rousted out of bed a couple of minutes ago, he’s taking R and R in Spain as we speak. Depending on transport, he could be on scene in a matter of hours.”

Jonathan regarded him with thoughtful eyes. “You think he can handle this kind of assignment?”

“I know he’s rock steady in the OR, which is what’s desperately needed in Montebello at the moment. How he would react under more extreme mission conditions is another question. Maybe the best thing is to take it one step at a time, see how he handles this, before talking to him about joining us.”

The room fell silent as the others considered. Coffee cups clinked against saucers for a good five minutes before Jonathan broke the silence. Although the Noble Men had no official leadership hierarchy, as the man who’d gathered them together into a cohesive force, he was considered the group’s de facto commander.

“Sounds reasonable to me,” he stated, his drawl more prevalent than usual, a sign of weariness they all recognized. “In fact, I’ve been toying with the idea of bringing Jack into the mix now and then. Provided he’d be interested.”

“Hell, we’ve all been thinking about bringing our boys into the fold,” Eddie declared, glancing around the table with eyes habitually attuned to the smallest flicker of emotion in friend and foe alike. “Me, I don’t mind admitting it’s something in the nature of a dream for me, the thought of working closely with my boy.”

“Maybe it is time we gave this some serious thought,” Richard mused aloud. “This thing in Montebello could be a good testing ground, at least for Gordo’s boy and maybe some of the others.”

“Then we’re agreed—Elliot gets a call?” Gordon asked, his emotions tangling despite the calm deliberately layered into his voice.

“Agreed,” Jonathan said immediately.

“Works for me,” Cal said as he refilled his cup. The others chimed in with various comments, all of which were affirmative.

Gordon excused himself to make the call. He only hoped to hell he wasn’t asking more of his son than Elliot could bear.



Elliot wasn’t dead. He knew that because some sadistic SOB was presently pounding a dull railroad spike into the cavity behind his eyeballs.

He opened his eyes slowly, then winced at the sudden glare of daylight filtering through ancient venetian blinds. The .44 was on the pillow next to him. Still fully loaded.

Nothing had changed. He still wanted to die. So why hadn’t he pulled the trigger? His dad’s voice, that’s why, shouting in his head. Remember this if you never remember anything else, son—as long as he has breath in his body and blood in his veins, a real man never surrenders.

A real man? Hell, Elliot had ended up crying himself to sleep like a two-year-old terrified of monsters in the night. The inside of his eyelids felt raw, and he was pretty sure he must have swallowed sandpaper while he slept. One arm was numb, and his gut was full of greasy eels.

Slowly he rolled to his back, then waited out a sudden rush of nausea. He figured he could make it down the hall to the can before his stomach revolted—as long as no one was foolish enough to get in his way.

It took some doing, but he managed to sit up and get his feet on the floor without upchucking. He’d just braced one hand on the night table and was working up his courage to push himself to his feet when the cell phone next to his hand suddenly rang.

Something resembling cymbals crashed in his head, and he let out a pitiful groan. Damn thing, why hadn’t he tossed it after buying the bottle? What does a dead man need with a cell phone, anyway?

He was giving serious thought to smashing the miserable thing before the conscience he’d never quite wrestled into silence kicked him into answering.



The smell of chlorine and sex swirled around their heated bodies. His mouth was hot on hers as tension built to a feverish pitch inside her. Her soft, eager moans mingled with the soft humming of the filter behind the pool house wall. Strong, skillful hands lightly stroked the sensitive curve of her inner thighs, sending warm ribbons of mindless pleasure swirling through her naked body.

“Are you sure?” he whispered, his voice thick and urgent.

“Yes, oh yes, Elliot. Please love me, please. I want you….”

His broad chest radiated heat as he pressed her deeply into the thick cushion of the pool house lounge. The hair covering his pectoral muscles rubbed against her small breasts. Awash in pleasure, she writhed, desperate to find relief from the sweet pressure in all the private places inside.

“Spread your legs for me, Katydid. Let me inside you.” His voice was harsh, his breathing labored. His dear face was taut with strain, his eyes dark with an almost savage need.

“I love you,” she cried as he plunged into her, rending intimate flesh and ending her innocence.

The phone by the bed was ringing. Kate jerked awake to discover her fingers clutching the pillow, her breath coming in harsh gasps. A quick glance at the clock had her letting out a heartfelt groan. Not quite 6:00 a.m., it was far too early to be waking on the last day of her vacation.

She was definitely not on call, so it couldn’t be the clinic. Heaven help the person on the other end if this was a telemarketing call. Accustomed to phones ringing at all hours, she took a moment to clear her throat and focus her mind before sitting up to reach for the receiver.

“Dr. Remson,” she said crisply.

“Katherine, this is Gordon Hunter. I hope I didn’t wake you.”

Shock rendered her speechless for a full second before she found her voice. “Uh, no, not at all, Dr. Hunter. Is…is something wrong?”

“Yes, I’m afraid it is.” Before she could give voice to the questions already jamming her head, he went on. “Are you near a TV set?”

“Yes, why?” She glanced at the small set on her dresser.

“Turn on CNN and then we’ll talk.”

“Just a sec.” She fumbled for the remote control device on the Mission oak table by her bed, then switched on the set and surfed quickly to the right channel. An instant later stark images of a scene reminiscent of the Oklahoma City bombing filled the screen. Her breath caught as the camera panned to a shot of a tiny pink sneaker half buried under a mound of debris.

As she stared at the shifting images, a hole opened in her stomach, and her heart picked up speed. “Oh my God, Doctor, what happened?”

“A bomb went off in a popular restaurant in the center of Montebello’s capital city of San Sebastian della Rosa. It appears a number of people having breakfast were buried. No one knows for sure how many.”

Kate watched in horror as rescue workers in hard hats and surgical masks dug frantically through what appeared to be a mountain of rubble.

“Montebello? Isn’t that one of those islands in the Mediterranean near Saudi Arabia?”

“Yes, it’s next to Tamir, where the Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries met a few years back.”

“Wasn’t Montebello pro-West during Desert Storm?”

“Indeed. As a matter of fact, I have some investments there, and King Marcus Sebastiani is an acquaintance of mine. He called to ask my help in locating surgeons to help treat the victims the rescue workers think will be pouring in soon—including several children, I’m told. I was hoping you’d be available to help.”

Children? She thought of that tiny sneaker and her heart sank at the damage falling debris could do to delicate bones. Oh God. Of course she wanted to help, provided she could juggle her responsibilities as the children’s clinic chief of staff.

Quickly she ran through a mental checklist of the surgeries she had scheduled for the next two weeks. None were critical, nor were they so complicated she would hesitate to turn them over to her associates. Of lesser importance were a staff meeting next week and a routine appointment with the clinic’s accountant. Both were easily postponed.

“I’m available,” she declared finally. “I’ll have to make arrangements with my associates to cover for me for the next two weeks, but the clinic staff is terrific at improvising.” She took a fast breath. “Sarah and I just got back around midnight last night from a week in Baja, and I haven’t unpacked more than my toothbrush. Provided I can get reservations, I can leave sometime today.”

“Don’t worry about reservations. I took a chance you’d agree and made your travel arrangements for you. A car will pick you up at nine-thirty, and one of the king’s planes is already on its way to San Francisco Airport. It will be landing at SFO at ten-thirty, and after a quick refueling, will return to San Sebastian immediately. Weather permitting, you’ll be in Montebello before the sun sets.”

“You must have been fairly sure I’d say yes,” she muttered, more than a little awestruck.

Relief was audible in his voice. “Let’s say I was hopeful. You’ll be met and briefed when you land.” There was a momentary pause before he added softly, “Bless you, Katie Remson. I know a lot of desperate people in Montebello will be very happy to find out you’re on your way.”

As Gordon hung up, his conscience reared its ugly head. A man who believed in fair play would have told her that Elliot was even now in another of the king’s personal planes.

Believing in his children’s right to privacy, Gordon had never let on to either Kate or Elliot that ten years ago he’d seen her leaving the pool house at dawn, her face streaked with tears. The same pool house from which Elliot had emerged a few minutes later, his face white and his expression grim. For days afterward, Elliot had lashed out at everyone like a badly wounded animal. Helena was sure he’d somehow hurt Katie very badly.

Gordon had a gut feeling Helena was bang on this time. Until the morning in question, Kate had routinely joined them for family celebrations. Indeed, both he and Helena loved the girl like a second daughter. After that morning, however, on those rare occasions when Elliott came home for a visit, Kate invariably had “other plans.”

Sorry, Katie, he told her silently as he gave a thumbs-up to the weary men watching him with bloodshot eyes. Personal feelings don’t mean squat when children’s lives are at stake. Still, Gordon couldn’t help saying a quick prayer that neither of these decent, caring people would end up getting hurt again….




Chapter 4


King Augustus Hospital, Montebello’s only full-service medical center, was located near a pretty man-made lake in the newer section of the sun-washed capital city. Constructed of pink granite quarried on the western end of the island, the imposing structure was shaped like a three-story X. Each of the four “legs” angled out from a central core that, in every sense, acted as the heart of the satisfyingly modern complex.

In the twenty-four hours since walking through the front doors for the first time, Kate had become quite familiar with the layout of the hospital.

After the initial rush of victims, the injured arrived singly now or in groups of two or three, as the rescuers removed the debris piece by piece in order to prevent a cataclysmic shifting. Although the top floor of the building had pancaked down, they believed there were pockets in the rubble where people could survive for more than a few hours, possibly even days.

This afternoon’s victims had included two children—a ten-year-old girl with internal injuries, and her four-year-old brother, who had a collapsed lung and multiple fractures. While other teams had tended to their parents, Kate finished one procedure, then rescrubbed and regowned to assist with the other. Both children were now in recovery. Until she felt confident they were in no immediate danger, she intended to stay close.

The two local teams she’d worked with so far had been enormously efficient and skilled—as well as welcoming and supportive. Many of them hadn’t left the hospital since the first batch of victims had been brought in the previous day. So far Kate hadn’t detected an erosion in performance or efficiency, but tempers were beginning to fray as stress and fatigue gradually nibbled away their aplomb.

It was going on 9:00 p.m. Initial uncertainty and adrenaline had kept jet lag at bay, but now her body clock seemed set to a time halfway between San Francisco and San Sebastian. On those few occasions when she’d been able to carve out time to nap, her body remained obstinately wide-awake. At other times, when she desperately needed to be alert, she found herself fighting drowsiness.

This morning she had been wide-awake at 4:00 a.m. Arturo hadn’t complained when she’d gotten him out of bed to drive her to the med center, but during the twenty-minute journey he’d shot her several long-suffering looks.

A young female aide wheeling an elderly woman toward the elevator smiled shyly as Kate approached. “Are you on your way home at last, Doctor?” she asked with a charming diffidence Kate had never noticed in the States.

“Soon,” she replied, returning the smile. Provided she could find the energy to summon Arturo from wherever it was he went while she worked, then make it to the car.

When she’d been a resident, she’d become accustomed to thirty-hour shifts. The last four years of semiregular hours had spoiled her, she decided, as she pushed open the door to the lounge.

Expecting to find the stress-relieving, often ribald bantering and chatter that seemed to be a universal characteristic of medical types everywhere, she was surprised to find the lounge all but empty.

Its only occupant was a trim, freckled-faced woman in pale blue scrubs, who glanced up from fixing herself a cup of tea when Kate entered. Petra McGee had sparkling sky-blue eyes, short crinkly curls the color of sun-splashed copper and, despite her tiny five-feet-nothing frame, energy enough for two people.

According to the bios they’d exchanged during a shared—and hasty—lunch earlier, the elfin registered nurse had joined Medics Without Limits three years ago after a painful divorce. She’d been working with Elliot for half that time. Kate had been tortured by curiosity about the depth of their relationship, then furious that she’d spent even a moment wondering about that part of his life.

As far as anyone knew, she and Elliot had met for the first time on the night she arrived. Whenever they chanced to meet—at a hasty orientation meeting held by Dr. Andretti early this morning, in the intensive care unit later and in the corridor outside the OR suites—he’d simply nodded without speaking. Since that was exactly what she had demanded of him, she failed to understand why it irritated her no end when he ignored her.

“Mind some company?” Kate asked when Petra hailed her with a grin.

“Lordy, no,” the nurse replied in the rapid-fire, clipped accent of a Brooklyn, New York, native. “Actually, I was terrified I was going to be stuck with my own company.”

“I didn’t realize your team was working tonight,” Kate commented as she filled a paper cup with black coffee.

“Our shift officially ended an hour ago, but triage got a heads up from the field that there’s a strong possibility of another victim or two. The four of us voted to stay so the local people could get home to see their families.”

“Any idea how many are still trapped?” Kate asked, resting the cup on the sofa’s arm.

Petra offered her a somber glance. “No one seems to know. The last report I saw on the tube said there might have been upwards of thirty people already at work on the floors above the restaurant. The way those floors pancaked down…” Her voice trailed off. Both knew how grim the odds were against surviving crushing injuries.

Terrorism was an obscenity, Kate thought with a rush of pure cold anger. Those who practiced it were no better than the most heinous murderer, no matter how tightly they wrapped themselves in the mantle of patriotism.

“Any leads on who planted the device?” she asked. King Marcus had addressed his subjects—and the international community—at noon today, but she’d been in surgery and hadn’t been able to listen in.

“Not that I’ve heard, but I haven’t had much time to check the news, either.”

“Arturo, my chauffeur, told me this morning the king had ordered increased security at the airport and the cruise line terminal.”

“I heard the same thing. It helps some, but every time I walk into the hotel, I can’t help thinking how easy it would be to put a bomb in a suitcase and just leave it by one of the pillars.”

A cold shiver ran down Kate’s spine. Don’t think about that, she told herself sternly as she shifted her gaze to the TV screen. Though the sound was muted, the images spoke for themselves. Not since Oklahoma City had so many media types gathered in one small space. Like a swarm of hungry termites, Kate thought, taking tiny sips of the still-steaming coffee.

Immediately after the explosion, city police had cordoned off a two-block radius, allowing only emergency personnel, government officials and a pool of media types beyond ropes of yellow tape very much like the kind used in the States.

The high-profile buzzards had arrived, she thought with a grimace as she watched a glossy blond female reporter in trendy safari togs speaking earnestly into the camera. In the distance the mound of rubble that used to be a modern, four-story office building provided an obscene contrast to the journalist’s bright-eyed freshness.

Cold-hearted bloodsuckers, Kate thought, averting her gaze.

After kicking off her surgical clogs, she carefully set her cup on the table in front of her, then bent forward to massage one cramped instep with fingers so tired they were nearly numb.

“I read someplace that the world always looks bleaker when you have sore feet,” she muttered as she dug her fingers into the painful knots.

“You should get some of these Wellies,” Petra suggested, dropping her gaze to the calf-length, green rubber boots she and the rest of the Medics Without Limits favored. “They have nice thick soles and good arch support.”

“Aha, and here I thought you Without Limits types were going for the rugged, outdoorsy look.”

Petra laughed, but there was a hint of somberness in her eyes. “Actually, Elliot started wearing them in Kosovo because he got sick and tired of cleaning the blood off his leather boots after a surgical marathon.”

Kate grimaced. “When were you in Kosovo?”

“During the worst of it, in fact. The working conditions were abysmal, to say the least. One wing of the hospital where we set up shop took a direct hit the day before we arrived. They’d rigged up a gas-powered generator that kept running out of fuel, usually at the worst possible times. Late one night Elliot had to shanghai a couple of ambulatory patients to hold flashlights so we could finish.”

Petra turned to fill a cup with hot water from one of the urns. “On our last day there, our X-ray tech was killed only a few feet away from me.” Her face tightened as she dunked the teabag in the cup. “His name was Eugene, but we called him Bubba because he had this grits-and-molasses Alabama accent. His wife had just had twins, and he’d been scheduled to leave for home the next day.”

Kate’s stomach clenched. She’d seen the horrific images of war and carnage on TV and felt sympathy for the victims. What she hadn’t done—what she knew she could never do—was face that kind of horror herself.

“I’m so sorry,” she murmured truthfully. “Was he a close friend?”

Petra nodded sadly. “We’d been together for nearly three years. The kind of work we do tends to bond a team together very much like a family.” Her lips curved. “Sometimes I think I’m closer to Hans and Elliot than I am to my own brothers.”

Kate was lifting the cup to her mouth when the door opened and Elliot walked in, wearing rumpled scrubs and a grumpy expression. His hair was a tousled thatch of silver and wheat, and his jaw was shadowed with a day’s growth of beard. He looked tough and bitter and unapproachable.

Kate had almost gotten used to the way her heart leaped whenever she happened to run into him. The rush of heat to her cheeks was annoying.

The tired smile he offered Petra disappeared the instant he caught sight of Kate. Instead of greeting him, she mimicked the curt nods he’d given her earlier. His jaw clenched briefly.

After they exchanged greetings, Elliot turned his back and concentrated on the soft-drinks machine. Though she wanted to look away, Kate found herself riveted by the ripple of muscles beneath the cotton scrubs.

Elliot had always been superbly fit. A natural athlete, he’d played football in high school and rugby at Stanford. His body had always been strong, his legs long and powerful, his chest heavily muscled. But now her practiced eye noted substantially more hard-packed muscle and steely sinew on that frame of long bones and the wide, deep chest.

According to Sarah he’d worked for three months on a shrimp boat in Alaska during the year he’d spent traveling after Candy’s funeral. It had been hard, dangerous work under miserably cold conditions. Just what he’d needed to take his mind off his loss. Kate hadn’t seen much of him after he’d returned to finish medical school.

In fact, she’d seen him only once before in the last ten years—and that was because she’d dropped in one Sunday morning on her way to the hospital to leave a birthday present for Helena, only to find him sitting at the breakfast table. He hadn’t seemed any happier to see her than she’d been to see him—which was not at all.

Not then. Not now.

She gave some thought to excusing herself, before she remembered that she was in control of the choices she made in this lifetime, not Elliot Hunter—or anyone else. So…she would finish her coffee, then check on her patients. Just as she’d planned, she reminded herself as she took a sip of the black-as-pitch coffee.

“Heard any more from triage?” Petra asked as Elliot took a bottle of juice from the machine.

“Last I heard we’re still on alert.” He twisted the top off the bottle and tossed it away before taking a drink. “Almost forgot—Hans was looking for you.”

Petra brightened. “He was? Why?”

Elliot shrugged. “Haven’t a clue. He was in the cafeteria last I saw him.”

“Guess I’d better see if I can save him from another bout of acute pasta overload.” After downing the remainder of her tea in two quick swallows, she uncoiled and got to her feet. After tossing her cup in the trash, she headed for the door. “I have my pager if you get the word,” she told Elliot before saying good-night to Kate.

“Night, Petra,” Kate replied with a smile. “See you tomorrow.”

The door was no sooner closed behind her than Kate dropped her feet and sat up. Careful to keep from looking at him, she slipped her feet into her clogs, then stood up.

Elliot leaned back against the counter and crossed his ankles. He’d heard she’d graduated top of her class at the University of Southern California, and then three years later from med school. His dad had let him know how much he admired her decision to do her internship and residency at San Francisco General instead of the half-dozen other prestigious med centers that had actively recruited her. Last he’d heard she’d started a low-cost clinic for kids.

Even as a girl there’d been nothing mean or selfish or ugly about Kate. Nothing cruel or vindictive.

He told himself it was lack of sleep that made him want to wrap his arms around her and hold her close until some of her goodness dulled the pain.

Shaken, he took a fast mental step backward. He’d been without a woman for a long time. Months? Years? He didn’t care enough to be more precise. Katie had been the only one who had meant anything to him beyond a mild affection.

“If it makes you feel better, I gave Dad hell for blindsiding you,” he told her as she passed him on her way to toss her cup. “He asked me to apologize on his behalf.”

She turned to glare at him with hot eyes. “You had no right to do that, Elliot,” she said in a heated rush that had her breasts rising and falling in irate breaths beneath the loose-fitting shirt. “If I have a problem with your father, I’ll handle it myself.”

Elliot had a sudden impulse to lean on her a little, just to see those fiery sparks shooting out of her eyes again. “He was wrong to put you in such an awkward position.”

“Don’t be silly. He had other things to think about.” She took another agitated breath. “Besides, he has no idea that you…that we…” Her voice trailed off.

“Made love?” he prompted, moving closer until only a deep breath separated those sassy little breasts from his chest.

“Had a brief sexual encounter,” she returned coolly, holding her ground.

He frowned. Was that how she viewed those frenzied moments when he’d lost himself inside her? His ego stinging, he touched her face, maybe to prove that he could handle physical contact without emotion getting in the way. She stiffened, but still stood her ground. Her skin was warm and resilient and soft. Needs he’d denied for years struggled to break free.

“Brief, maybe, but definitely memorable,” he said before dropping his hand to his side again.

“Brief and definitely regrettable,” she countered before turning away, her back straight. Too big for her slender frame, the scrubs she wore only served to stimulate the memory of the cute little butt beneath the loose-fitting pants.

Halfway to the door, she stopped and turned around. “I got the receipt for the donation to the victim’s fund. Our agreement was for five thousand, not ten.”

“Call it an act of contrition,” he said with a shrug. “Besides, I can afford it.”

Her brow furrowed. “It was a stupid bet,” she said in a tight little tone. “We acted like a couple of bickering children.”

There was sunshine trapped in her hair, he realized. Shiny strands of gold mixed with a half-dozen shades of reddish-blond. It had been soft against his throat. He tried to swallow past a lump as sharp as a chunk of granite. “If I apologize for hurting you that night, will you slam me again?” he said gruffly.

“Probably,” she returned, looking up at him. “Although I’m thinking of holding out for some serious groveling.”

It had been a long time since he’d actually felt like laughing. “I really wish you wouldn’t,” he told her in a solemn tone instead.

Her gaze flickered, but he was pretty sure he saw a smile lurking in those fascinating golden eyes. “I’ll let you know when I decide,” she said before turning to walk out.

Restless now, he went to the window and looked out at the lighted courtyard below. Though he hadn’t allowed himself to watch any of the news reports, he understood all too well the terrible agonies those waiting for word were suffering. While Candy had been in surgery, he’d prowled the waiting room like a wild animal suddenly shoved into a too-small cage.




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