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Safe Passage
Loreth Anne White


Wounded government agent Scott Armstrong hated his newest assignment–baby-sitting beautiful scientist Dr. Skye Van Rijn. He missed the excitement of working in the field, his only salvation from the tragedy that haunted his dreams. But the mission turned dangerous when he discovered an evil terrorist was also after the mysterious doctor.

Skye was a genius at developing biological antidotes to new diseases. Her tender touch and warm body soon began to heal Scott's battered heart, but the deadly secrets she hid put them both at risk, forcing them to run for their lives. As their enemy closed in, Scott had to choose between his loyalties to his job and his passion for the woman who'd saved his soul.









She was a suspected terrorist. Brilliant—perhaps even dangerous.


And he was a government agent.

They had no business even entertaining the notion of a future together. But at the same time, the fact it had even entered his head shook Scott Armstrong to the core. He had not thought about the future this way for the past nine years. Not since his wife and child were killed by his enemy, the Plague Doctor.

The acrid and familiar anger seeped into his throat.

Was this woman sleeping in his arms allied with a dangerous criminal mastermind on par with the Plague Doctor?

Skye murmured in her sleep. He turned, stroked her face. And deep down, a part of him prayed to God he’d find Skye Van Rijn innocent.




Safe Passage

Loreth Anne White





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




LORETH ANNE WHITE


As a child in Africa, when asked what she wanted to be when she grew up, Loreth said a spy…or a psychologist, or maybe a marine biologist, archaeologist or lawyer. Instead she fell in love, traveled the world and had a baby. When she looked up again she was back in Africa, writing and editing news and features for a large chain of community newspapers. But those childhood dreams never died. It took another decade, another baby and a move across continents before the lightbulb finally went on. She didn’t have to grow up, She could be them all—the spy, the psychologist and all the rest—through her characters. She sat down to pen her first novel…and fell in love.

She currently lives with her husband, two daughters and their cats in a ski resort in the rugged Coast Mountains of British Columbia, where there is no shortage of inspiration for larger-than-life characters and adventure.


To JoJo, Pavlo and Marlin

for being my sounding boards.

To Mu for believing.

And to Susan for keeping the bar raised.




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 1


Scott Armstrong drove off the ferry ramp with a clunk. He felt like he’d just been spat from the belly of a vibrating metal beast.

He was back on Canadian soil. A bloody island of it—trapped on all sides by the placid, steely waters of the Pacific Northwest. He couldn’t feel more claustrophobic if he tried.

He glanced at the golden-haired dog at his side as he maneuvered the truck through congested ferry traffic. The retriever grinned foolishly at him with a lolling tongue, thunking its tail on the seat.

What in hell had Rex been thinking, giving him a dog as part of his cover? He didn’t need the stupid hound any more than he needed this lame-duck mission. He was being put out to pasture and he damn well knew it. Scott clenched his teeth. He’d bloody well show them he still had what it took, blown-out knee and all.

He tightened his hand on the wheel, shifted gears sharply, wincing as an all-too-familiar shaft of pain shot up his leg. He swore, turned onto the coast road and followed the exit signs to Haven.

The sun was dipping behind the mountains of Vancouver Island, throwing farmland into evening shadow. Beyond the fields the sea shimmered like beaten silver. The bright light made his head hurt.

Scott wound down the window, letting the crisp spring wind whip at his hair, clear the fog in his brain. Honey wriggled closer toward him along the cab seat, chomping her jaws, testing the breeze, dribbling with excitement.

“At least one of us is happy,” he muttered, elbowing the dog back over to the passenger side.

Honey’s tail stilled for an instant. Scott felt a pang of guilt. “It’s okay, girl,” he muttered. “You do what you gotta do.” The wriggling and rhythmic thunking resumed. A warm splotch of drool seeped through the denim of his jeans. Scott sucked air deliberately, deeply, into his lungs, straining for an elusive sense of calm. This might just end up testing him to his limit. And Lord knew, he was pretty much out of tolerance for life in general.

He ignored the wet drool on his thigh and tried to focus on the task ahead. Apart from skimming the facts and checking for directions to his rental house, Scott hadn’t had the time or the privacy on the ferry to study the dossier Bellona Channel boss Rex Logan had handed him the second his plane had touched down in Vancouver.

All Scott knew was that he had to watch Dr. Skye Van Rijn. Some brilliant entomologist geek with possible bio-criminal or terrorist links to a disease devastating the cattle industry south of the border, one that was rapidly spreading to humans. But the link between Dr. Skye Van Rijn and the Rift Valley Fever currently sweeping the Southwest corner of the United States was tenuous at best. Even Rex had admitted that the bug doctor had pretty much checked out.

Yeah. Lame-duck mission if he ever saw one. He should be where the action is, not in some bucolic village on a vague fishing expedition for a possible bit player in a game that had snared global headlines and rocked stock markets.

Scott hit the wheel, swore again.

Surveillance was a junior agent’s beat.

His beat was out there, in the international field, in the wilds of the Borneo jungle, under the relentless sun of India’s Thar desert, in the hot red sands of Namibia. Not here. Not in the stifling, dripping, cool, gray stillness of a place he’d once called home.

He didn’t have a home. Not anymore. But right now he had no choice. He’d almost lost his leg.

And his mind.

It was this, or a desk job, while he recuperated. And he’d rather die than push a pen behind a desk.

He snorted at the irony of his situation. Because his cover was that of a full-time paper-shuffler and pen-pusher. He was to be Scott McIntyre. A writer. A futurist. It would put him at liberty, Rex had said, to ask questions, to get the doctor’s views on things like macroeconomics, social trends, globalization, American imperialism.

And Honey, he’d added, would help break the ice.

Yeah. Right.

It was almost dark by the time he found the narrow farm road, picked out the house number on a faded green mailbox. Grass and weeds grew up between the rutted tire tracks that constituted the driveway. The truck jounced up to the front porch. Honey yipped with glee.

“Oh, shut up, dog!” She made him feel like a redneck arriving on the farm in his beater. All he needed was a shotgun behind the seat and load of beer cans in the back.

Scott pulled to a stop, threw open his door. Honey dug claws into his thighs and scrambled over him, promptly relieving herself in the grass. Scott scratched his head. “Okay. Sorry, pooch. Guess you gonna want food, too, huh? Let’s see what Rex has packed for supplies.”

He grabbed his old, gnarled walking stick, hesitated, fingering the ancient knots in the smooth, durable wood as if they’d somehow yield an answer. A reason for it all.

The dog yipped again, jerking him back to the present. Scott shrugged off the sensation of buried memories scratching at locked mental doors, climbed out of the truck and tentatively tested his leg on the ground. It felt okay. Better than it had in weeks. He could almost put all his weight on it. “Small mercies,” he muttered as he limped up the porch steps, pushed open the front door.

He flipped on the lights.

Honey’s paws skittered over wooden floors as she explored the premises, butt wiggling in a crazy hula of excitement.

Scott checked out the rooms. More than he’d ever need. The kitchen was big and airy. And the windows looked out onto Dr. Van Rijn’s neighboring property.

“Sweet,” he told Honey. “I can wash the dishes and watch the Bug Lady at the same time. Ain’t life grand. Come, let’s see if we can find you some doggy chow before it gets too dark out.”

Scott counted five large cardboard boxes in the back of the truck. One was marked Computer, another Books. Yet another was marked Kitchen. He sliced the tape on the kitchen box with his army knife and tore back the cardboard. In the fading light he could make out a box of cereal, some tins, and a humungous bag of dog kibble.

Then he cursed Rex.

How in hell was he supposed to carry all this crap with a walking stick in one hand?

His buddy had probably done this on purpose. Just to make sure he turned to someone for help. Just to make sure he met some locals.

“There’s no way I’m going to be reduced to begging someone to help me carry a couple of boxes,” he mumbled. Honey circled his feet with excitement.

Scott dropped the tailgate with a clunk, maneuvered the kitchen box to the end. Dropping his cane, he used both hands to grab the box. He flexed his knees, slowly lifted the box, trying to transfer most of the weight through to his core ab muscles, shoulders and thighs and onto his good leg. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and took a few steps toward the porch.

Pain sparked out from his knee, seared down his calf, shot up his thigh. He swallowed it. Jaw clenched, he made his way, step by painful baby step. And in his mind he heard the heavily accented voice of Dr. Ranjit Singh from the Mumbai hospital, rattling off dire warnings about what could go wrong with his leg if he didn’t follow the recuperation procedure, if he didn’t keep his weight off his new, fake knee. Pain, swelling, slippage, infection. He could cope with those. It was the risk of breaking the bone below the new joint on which his knee was anchored that concerned him most. Or the threat of a blood clot.

But it was not enough to stop him from carrying the box. Minute beads of perspiration pricked through the skin of his forehead as he stepped through the front door. He made it a few more paces and slumped to his haunches with a grunt of pain.

He hunched over the box, rested his forehead on the cardboard, letting wave after nauseating wave of pain flow over him. His heart thumped against his chest from the exertion. “Oh, sweet Mother Mary,” he whispered to no one in particular.

But Honey heard. She quivered, licked his face, sat beside him, watching, her liquid brown puppy eyes almost level with his.

“You know, Honey, you actually look like you understand. What is it about dogs that—” He saw the change in Honey.

She stiffened. The fur on her neck rose.

It stopped him dead.

Scott was so used to living in the wild he’d almost developed an animal’s sense of a presence himself. He could feel the hair on his own neck prickle with that awareness now.

“You drop this?”

He swiveled the instant he heard the voice.

His hand shot instinctively for the knife at his ankle. In another heartbeat he’d have thrown it.

But he froze at the sight in front of him.

The most striking woman he’d ever seen. At his door.

He swallowed.

Her stance was wide, her muscles tensed, knees flexed. She held his wooden cane across her body, one end in each hand, as if to deflect the knife he held in midair.

As reflexive as his reaction had been, hers had been more so.

Scott stared, realized he had his knife aimed at her heart.

Shaken, he slowly lowered the arm that held the blade. He slipped the knife carefully back into the sheath at his ankle, his eyes never leaving hers.

Honey snarled, head low, hackles raised.

But the woman didn’t flinch. Not even blink. Her jaw remained clenched. She stared straight at him with penetrating silver eyes.

Scott could almost see her mind computing, trying to second guess, to figure out what had just happened. Lord knew, he sure was.

She made the first move, the muscles of her shoulders visibly relaxing as he moved his hand away from the knife, safely back in its sheath.

She stepped forward, held his wooden cane out to him as if an offering of peace. “I think you dropped this.” Her voice was low, like smoke over the desert, and it came from lips that invited sin.

He stared at his cane in her hands.

Then he looked up into her eyes. They were set above strong cheekbones and they were shaped like almonds. Large and light with impossibly thick, dark lashes. There was a wildness, a recklessness, that lurked there. Something he recognized. Something that reminded him of vast spaces and untamed tribes.

The shape of her face was exotic. Foreign. Her skin was a soft olive tone. Her hair, lush and dark. It fell below her shoulders in a soft wave. The image of her burned into his brain, in the way he had trained his mind to capture the tiny details of each new face he encountered on a mission.

She wore a cream-colored sweater that caressed the curves of her breasts in a way that should be declared illegal. And her legs, in dark blue denim, were long. And slim. He noticed she wore heavy black motorcycle boots.

She had the advantage of height over him. She took another step across his threshold, into his new home.

A growl rumbled low in Honey’s throat.

“Honey, quiet.” He tried to push himself to his feet, buckled under a hot wave of searing pain, “Damn!”

“You all right?” The woman stepped further into his life.

“Yeah.” He clenched his teeth. “Fine.”

“Here, let me help.” She bent to take his arm and her hair fell across his cheek. The spicy, female smell of it sent an unbidden and long-forgotten wave right through him.

He shook her off. “Just hand me that stick. I can manage.”

She raised a dark brow, passed him his cane.

“Thanks.” He swallowed a curse, another surge of pain, and forced himself up onto his feet. She was tall, but this way he could still look down at her from his height of two inches over six feet.

He held out his hand. “Hi.”

She looked down at his hand, laughed. A smoky laugh, like sex and smooth whiskey. He could almost feel the sound of it in his gut.

“Seems a little trite after you almost killed me.” She held out her own hand. It was cool, soft to the touch. “My name’s Skye, I live next door.”

“You’re…”

The Bug Lady?

“Your neighbor.” Her lips curved into a smile that made his stomach churn.

Scott found his voice. “I’m Scott…McIntyre. This is…this is Honey.” Christ, he’d blown it. He hadn’t had time to go through the damn dossier.

“You always attack when surprised?” She stared him straight in the eye.

“You looked pretty primed for a fight yourself.”

Her eyes flicked quickly away, scanned the room. “You startled me. Where’re you from?”

Scott leaned heavily on his cane. He was supposed to be the one asking questions. He should be controlling the flow of information.

“I’m from…out east.” Damn. He’d thought he’d have plenty of time to go through the file, familiarize himself with his cover, before running into the doctor. But this woman with the silver eyes had him cornered.

“East? As in Ontario? Or farther east?”

Scott attempted a laugh. “Even farther. I’ve been traveling for a while.” A long while.

“Business?”

“Research.”

“You’ve come home then? Back to Canada?”

There was that word again. Home. “I don’t have a home, neighbor.”

“Hey, home is where the heart is. So they say.”

“Yeah. Like I said, I have no home. Now, you tell me something, do you subject all newcomers to Haven with the third degree?”

Something flickered through her eyes. Then it was gone. She smiled a full smile, revealing strong white teeth and a sharp twinkle in her eyes.

“I’m sorry. Naturally curious nature, I suppose. Goes with the territory. I’m a scientist. You?”

He cleared his throat. “Writer.”

“Is that what brings you to Haven?”

“Pretty much. Thought it might be a nice, quiet spot to work on my book. Close to the sea, not too far from the city, lots of space for Honey.”

Skye Van Rijn bent to pet Honey. “You’re a real pretty thing, aren’t you?” She looked up at Scott. “She still a puppy?”

“Pretty much.”

“What kind of book you writing?”

Damn. “Some call me a futurist.” The words did not come easily over his tongue. He felt anything but a futurist. Mostly he thought about the past. “I look for global trends. Economic. Social. That kind of thing.”

“You widely published?”

Hell if he knew. He’d just have to wing it. “Nope. Mostly small university presses, academic journals, that kind of thing.”

She frowned. “You’d enjoy talking to my fiancé then. He’s all into big-picture economic trends and futures. Stock market, import-export business is his thing.”

Her words blindsided him. He blinked.

“Fiancé?”

She smiled a slow smile, looked down at the dog. If he wasn’t mistaken, it was a sad, resigned smile.

“Yes. I’m getting married day after tomorrow.”

Scott couldn’t begin to identify the strange little slip he felt in his chest, the hollowness in his gut. He liked the idea of the doctor being single. Rex hadn’t told him about a fiancé. It was probably also in that damned dossier.

“Congratulations.” The word sounded inane. It hung between them.

She stepped back. “Yeah, well, I should be going. I’m really sorry to have barged in on you like that. There’s been no one in this house for a while. I thought you were the caterers. I’m expecting them. I thought they’d come to the wrong address.”

She turned. Scott watched the sway of her ass as her long legs carried her to the door.

She stopped, spun suddenly back to face him. “By the way, how’d you hurt your leg?”

Images shot through his brain. The bullet smashing his knee. The terrorist group in the Thar. The suspicious disease he’d been investigating. Scorching heat. Pain. The hospital in Mumbai. His old life gone.

“Skiing accident,” he said. “Torqued my knee.”

“Oh.” She ran those exotic eyes over him slowly. “Well, you’ve got an exquisite cane. Don’t think I’ve seen wood like that before.”

“Picked it up in Africa years ago. It’s mukwa wood, a gift from a Venda chief. Never thought I’d end up needing it in this way, though.”

“I’m sorry.” She turned to go, hesitated, turned back. “Would you like to join us for the reception Saturday? We’re having the caterers set something small and simple up at my house for after the church ceremony. I really didn’t want anything fancy.”

There was something about her demeanor that made him ask, “Why not?”

She shrugged. “Jozsef wanted to have the wedding brought forward for a number of reasons. This was the best option at such short notice.”

Scott’s curiosity piqued. “What short notice?”

She laughed. “Now who’s giving the third degree? Good night, Scott McIntyre.”

She slipped out into the dark and the house felt suddenly empty.

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Skye Van Rijn,” Scott whispered to the black night that had swallowed her.



Scott spent the rest of the night pouring over the dossier. Suddenly this mission wasn’t looking so lame. The bug doctor was not what she seemed. He sensed it in his gut. She was too quick with her reflexes, primed to react to physical threat in the way of no ordinary citizen.

And behind her smooth, smoky voice, her bold, unflinching gaze, she was guarded, hiding something. He knew it. Scott had spent years reading slight gestures, nuances of movement. He’d lived with tribes who communicated by tuning in to nature. He’d survived only because he was constantly poised for the slightest hint of danger, the mere intuition of imminent attack. Scott had lived the life of both hunter and prey. And there was something about this woman that made him feel she knew exactly what it was to be both. But which was she now?

And which was he?

He flipped over a page in the dossier, new energy humming softly through his system. And he told himself it had nothing at all to do with female curves that invited sin.



Skye pushed a button and her computer screen crackled softly to life. She scanned her e-mail before punching in her code and logging into the Kepplar lab system. She opened her work files, then rubbed the heels of her hands into her eyes. She couldn’t concentrate. Couldn’t sleep, either. An edginess zinged through her veins. Maybe it was wedding jitters. But deep down she knew it was more than that. It was the man next door. He’d unnerved her. She didn’t like the knife strapped to his ankle, his gut reaction to surprise.

She didn’t trust him.

There was something wild about him. Something she recognized. Something that had slipped past her guard and made her ask him to her wedding reception.

She stood, paced over to her window and stared out across her yard. The light was on in his kitchen.

His shadow moved momentarily against the shade.

She jerked back in reflex, told herself he couldn’t see her through his closed blinds. She edged forward, studied the shape of his silhouette as he moved around his kitchen.

Scott McIntyre. She tested the name in a whisper over her tongue, found she liked the feel of it.

He dressed like a writer in that knobbly wool sweater with leather patches at the elbows. His body, however, did not belong to a man who spent his life hunched in front of a computer terminal. She’d seen the way his jeans were faded in the most eye-catching places, how the worn fabric strained over the thick muscles of his thighs. She’d noted the power of his wrists, the latent strength in the shape of his broad shoulders, the arrogance in the line of his wide and defined jaw. A jaw that needed a shave. His face was rugged, rough, but with an air of intelligence, a hint of compassion.

And his lips. They hadn’t escaped her notice, either. Sculpted. Almost harsh.

She laughed at herself. Yeah, as if a writer had a certain kind of lips.

Yet, as she watched the hulk of his shadow in the kitchen next door, she couldn’t pull her thoughts away from the hot image branded into her mind. He certainly looked as though he’d traveled recently. His skin was sunned a rich brown that contrasted startlingly with the deep jewel-green of his eyes. And his hair, thick and mahogany-brown with sun-bleached tips, needed a trim. But she liked the look of it. She liked the look of him. Wild. Dangerous.

And there was something about his eyes that made her want to look into him. To find out more about him. Not only because she was intrigued, but because knowledge was strength.

It could mean life over death.

She yanked her drapes shut, turned to her computer, her mind ticking over. He said he was published. A futurist. She sat in front of her terminal. With a few quick clicks she logged into the Internet and pulled up a search engine.

She punched in the letters of his name and a few keywords.



Scott sipped his second mug of tea, flipped over another page in the dossier the Bellona Channel, the international nongovernment agency dedicated to researching and fighting bio crime and bio terrorism, had prepared on Dr. Skye Van Rijn.

According to the file, Bellona’s Canadian headquarters had received an anonymous tip that Dr. Van Rijn, research and development scientist with Kepplar Biological Control Systems, had recently traveled from Kenya to Mexico where she’d crossed the border into the United States. Within weeks of her visit the first cases of Rift Valley Fever were being reported in Texas cattle. Devastating news. International borders had shut instantly, killed the American beef industry. The stock market reeled.

And then came worse.

Human infection.

And panic.

So far all the deceased were employees who had contracted the disease via slaughtering livestock at a Texas abattoir. RVF occurs naturally in Africa and is spread by one of three ways: mosquitoes, physical contact with the blood or secretions of infected animals, or inhalation of the airborne virus.

But no one had yet managed to identify the source of the U.S. outbreak.

Scott whistled softly through his teeth, set down his mug. Apart from an episode in Saudi Arabia and Yemen two years ago, there had never been a documented outbreak of RVF outside of Africa. Could this RVF strain have been brought in accidentally through commerce? Or had it been purposefully introduced? And if so, how? By contaminated animal products? Insects?

His thoughts turned to Skye. Insects were her field. She certainly had the expertise. She had been in the area after a visit to Africa.

But it was all so circumstantial.

He stretched his leg out, removed his makeshift ice pack, massaged his knee gingerly. Honey stirred at his feet. He reached down, scratched absently behind her ear.

Agro-terrorism, thought Scott, was easy to execute, low risk and often almost impossible to trace. It could instil mass panic, especially if there were human deaths, yet not generate the kind of backlash a direct civilian hit would. It was the kind of terrorism that had the additional value of being a powerful blackmail and extortion tool.

It had the potential, he figured, for use by organized crime and terrorist groups to raise huge sums of money by manipulating the U.S. agriculture future commodities markets. An astute player could simply invest in competitor’s stock before carrying out an assault with pest or pathogen.

Scott made a mental note to ask Rex to check into recent stock market trades. Bellona may have already done so but there was nothing in the dossier.

Scott turned to the next page, his interest in Dr. Skye Van Rijn now thoroughly piqued—in more ways than one.

Bellona had combed through Skye’s background. Born in Amsterdam, she immigrated to Canada ten years ago at the age of twenty-two. The dossier contained copies of her immigration papers, birth certificate, social security number, driver’s license along with transcripts from the universities she’d attended and details of her scholarships.

She now worked for Kepplar, designing and developing biological control measures for the agricultural and horticultural industries. Rex and his boys had been pretty thorough. Everything had checked out.

She looked clean.

But Bellona still wanted to keep an eye on her. It was part of the organization’s mandate to do so. And Skye Van Rijn was on record as having expressed controversial views on American imperialism, globalization and blow-back.

Scott raked his hands through his hair.

Maybe this gig wasn’t going to be too painful. Watching Dr. Skye Van Rijn’s wickedly sexy body, listening to that mysterious smoky voice…things could be worse.

He rested his head back on the sofa. Honey shifted again at his feet. Scott found himself smiling. He was kind of enjoying the dog’s company. He prodded Honey with a toe, scratched her belly. “Well, dog, looks like the doctor’s got something to hide. And we’re gonna find it.” He drifted off into a dream of wild spaces and liquid warmth.

Some time later, he woke with a jump.

He blinked, momentarily disoriented. Then his brain identified the sound. An engine growling. Low and throaty. Next door. His eyes flicked to his watch: 3:00 a.m.

He jerked to his feet, lunged to the window. His knee protested violently. White pain flashed through his skull. He swallowed it, forced his eyes to adjust to the dark shadows outside.

He was just in time to see the sensuous shape of Skye Van Rijn, clad in black leather and straddled over a sleek motorcycle, purr down the driveway.

Refracted yard light glinted like liquid on her black helmet. She kicked the mechanical beast into gear and growled down the pastoral street.

“Honey!” he barked as he grabbed his jacket and keys. “She’s on the move!”




Chapter 2


Scott cut the engine, crawled silently to a stop in the peripheral shadows along the outside of the compound.

He watched Skye park her gleaming bike under harsh sulphur lights that flooded the fenced parking lot of the Kepplar lab complex on the outskirts of Haven.

Honey remained motionless at his side. Scott stroked the dog’s head, watched Skye remove her helmet, shake out a wave of dark hair. Even under the flat whiteness of industrial lights, her hair shimmered, alive with burnished highlights.

He watched as she strode openly, confidently, up to the main entrance of the building, helmet tucked under her arm.

He checked the glowing digits of his watch. Three-fifteen. What in hell was she doing here at this hour?

A security guard stepped out from under the portico. Scott saw him exchange words with Skye. The guard nodded. His teeth glinted as his smile caught the lights. Skye laughed at something he said. She slotted what Scott imagined was a coded identity card into a panel. The building doors opened. They slid smoothly shut behind her. The guard retreated to his cubicle under the portico. All was still.

Scott shifted his throbbing knee into a more comfortable position and settled back in his seat to wait. This surveillance business was crap.

A movement caught his eye. He tensed. So did Honey. The dog peered intently out the window. Another vehicle. Silver Mercedes. It crawled down the road toward the fenced lab compound, turned into the gates, cruised quietly to the far end of the parking lot and came to a stop.

Then nothing.

Scott noted the plates, reached for his sat phone and punched in the code to activate the scrambler. The red LED indicator showed voice encryption had been initiated. His satellite communication was secure.

“Logan,” Scott rasped into the piece.

“Jeez, you have any idea what time it is, Agent?”

“Desk life making you soft, buddy?”

Rex ignored the gibe. “What’s up?”

“I need a plate run.”

“Couldn’t wait until morning?”

“It is morning.”

“Don’t tell me…you’re pissed with the job.”

“The plate?”

“Okay, okay,” he mumbled. “Let me find a pen here somewhere… All right, shoot. Oh, and next time, call Scooter direct.”

Scott chuckled inwardly. This would teach his boss for making him report to him direct. “Sorry. Haven’t got Scooter’s home number.” He gave Rex the plate number, flipping the phone shut as the door to the Mercedes opened.

A man stepped out. Dark, well over six feet, and tough-looking. He strode to the entrance. There was something threatening in his movements.

Scott’s knee-jerk instinct was to get out and follow the guy into the building, to make sure Skye was okay. But he forced himself back against the truck seat. His brief was to watch. And she was a suspect.

Not a victim.



Skye hadn’t been able to shake the deep sense of unease that pulsed low in her core. Sleep had remained elusive. She’d tried. Tossed and turned. But her thoughts had scrambled over each other like wild, hungry, teething puppies.

Work, she’d decided, was her only salvation. It was the only thing that kept her going forward. The only thing that made her forget the past.

The only thing that dulled her latent fear.

She placed the minute beetle carefully under the microscope, adjusted the focus. It was so tiny. So perfect. So very beautiful in its own way. If everything went according to plan, these little bugs would lead an army and conquer the enemy blight in its path. She adjusted the scope, bent closer.

A sound at the far end of the darkened lab crashed into her thoughts.

She jerked back, knocking a petri dish off the counter. It clattered to the floor, the sound disproportionately loud in the deserted laboratory.

Skye peered into the night shadows.

Her heart thumped a steady beat against her chest wall. Nothing. No movement.

She chided herself, turned back to her beetle. The Kepplar labs were perfectly safe. Even at night. Still, more than ten years down the road and she hadn’t stopped looking over her shoulder. She was still seeing ghosts in shadows. Hearing sounds in the night. Afraid he’d find her.

Then she heard it again.

She froze. “Who’s there?” She could hear the brittle edge of panic in her own voice.

Neon light flooded the lab, exploded into her brain.

She blinked against the brightness.

Jozsef stood beside the light switch, a wide grin on his face. “What you doing working in the dark at this ungodly hour, Dr. Van Rijn?”

Skye sucked her breath in slowly, trying to steady her popping nerves. “Good grief, Jozsef, you startled me. What in heaven are you doing here? When did you get back?”

He walked forward, arms behind him. “I thought I’d find you at home. I didn’t. So I came looking here.”

“You could’ve tried my cell.”

“I wanted to surprise you.” He grinned broadly. “What are you working on so late…or should I say so early?”

“My beetles,” she snapped defensively, anger edging out fear.

“The ones for the whitefly epidemic?”

“Jozsef, how did you get in?”

He laughed, held up an access card.

“That’s mine. That’s my spare.” She reached for it.

Jozsef held it playfully out of reach. “You left it at my place, sweetheart.”

“I thought I’d misplaced it. Besides, you still had to get by security.”

“When’s that ever stopped me.” He smiled warmly, slipping the card into his back pocket.

Skye frowned.

“C’mon, Skye.” He lifted a hand, brushed a tendril of hair from her cheek. “Marshall Kane gave me the all-clear with security. They know I’m with you.”

She hesitated, suddenly strangely unsure of the man in front of her. The man she was going to marry. “I bet Marshall didn’t think you’d be trying to get in here after hours.”

Jozsef shrugged. “Enough of this already. You’re way too jumpy.” He stepped closer. “Besides, I got a surprise for you. Guess.” His words were warm against her ear.

Skye forced a smile. “What?”

“I said guess.”

She sighed. “A rose?”

“Nope.”

“Chocolate?”

“Come on, Doctor, I’m a little more original than that. You got one more guess.”

“I give up. Look, we should go. You really shouldn’t be in here—”

Jozsef Danko raised a finger to her lips. “Shh.” He winked. “I won’t tell if you don’t.” With his other hand he brought a small box out from behind his back. It was a deep burgundy-red. He set it on the lab counter, a smile playing around his dark eyes. “Open it, Doctor.”

The light in the man’s eyes was infectious. Skye relented. She peeled off her latex gloves, picked up the box and lifted the lid. Nestled in shiny black satin was a tiny gold bug with glittering emerald eyes. It hung from a gold chain.

She looked up at Jozsef. “You get it in Europe?”

“It’s a little token to celebrate the completion of your big project.”

“I’m not finished yet. They’ll only be ready for release in another two weeks.”

“Yes. But the bulk of your work is done, not so?”

“I guess.” She lifted the chain and pendant from the box. “It’s so unusual. Where’d you find it?”

“I had it made. Here, I’ll put it on for you.”

Skye lifted her hair, bent her head forward as Jozsef fastened the clasp behind her neck.

She turned to face him. “What you think?”

“Take a look in the mirror.”

“There isn’t one.”

“There is, in the washroom. Go on. Humor me. I’ll wait here.”

Skye made her way to the bathroom, pushed open the door. She stared at her reflection under the harsh washroom lights. It was certainly a perfectly proportioned little bug. And knowing Jozsef, the gold of the carapace nestled at the hollow of her throat was as real as the glittering emerald eyes of the beetle. It really was perfect. But it wasn’t her. It didn’t go with her coloring. She preferred silver.

She shrugged. So what? It showed he cared. It showed he’d gone to the trouble of finding something tailored specifically for her.

When had anyone ever done that?

But a little niggle of doubt ate at her as she headed back down the empty corridor to her lab, the heels of her boots echoing in the empty gloom. It summed up her relationship. Jozsef Danko seemed so perfect, but everything about him was always just slightly off center. It hadn’t worried her before. But today it did. Maybe she was making a mistake. Maybe she just needed a holiday. The stress of this project had been getting to her.

Or maybe she’d just been unsettled by the mysterious man who’d moved in next door.

She shoved open the lab door, gasped.

Jozsef had the lid to the box of larvae open. She rushed forward. “What are you doing?”

He glanced up, smiled that nonchalant smile of his. “Just peeking at your babies.”

“You shouldn’t—”

“Oh, come on. It can’t hurt. So, do you like your pendant?”

“Yes.” She moved over to make sure the lid to the larvae was properly secured. The ugly little grubs, her pride and joy, represented a fortune to Kepplar Biological Control Systems. And there was stringent protocol on secrecy. A leak could spell the loss of millions. She couldn’t understand why Marshall would clear anyone with security. Even her fiancé. It just didn’t make sense.

“Come.” She turned to Jozsef. “Let’s get out of here before you ruin me.”

Jozsef chuckled. “Now that would be the last thing on my mind.” He lifted his hand and brushed her cheek softly with the backs of his fingers. “Come, let’s go grab some breakfast. My place or yours?”

Skye hesitated. “Actually, Jozsef, I’m really tired…and I’ve got a meeting with Marshall in a couple of hours.”

He studied her face. Then he nodded. “Sure.” He took her arm. “It’s okay, I understand.”

Skye felt everything but sure. Or okay.

Jozsef halted at the door, grasped her shoulders, turned her to face him. “Skye—”

The sudden severity in his eyes startled her. “What?”

“Promise me you’ll wear that beetle always. No matter what happens. Can you promise me that?”

She reached up, fingered the gold carapace. “Why? What’s going to happen, Jozsef?”

“Just make me that promise.”

She tried to read his eyes. Couldn’t. “All right,” she said tentatively. “I’ll wear your beetle…no matter what happens.”



Scott’s phone beeped. He flicked it open. “Yeah.”

“The plate’s registered to a Jozsef Danko.”

“That was quick.”

“He’s in the system. Landed immigrant, a Hungarian national. Investor, stockbroker, importer-exporter, all-round international businessman. Travels a lot. Works from an office out of his residence. Wonder why an international player like him has set himself up in a place like Haven.”

“He found something to keep him here. He’s getting married morning after next.”

“What?”

“He’s the fiancé.”

“What fiancé?”

“Dr. Van Rijn’s.”

Silence. “We didn’t know there was a fiancé.” There was a new bite in Rex Logan’s voice.

Scott felt a wry smile tug at his mouth. The Bellona boss was suddenly taking this mission a little more seriously. “Well, there is one. And do me a favor. Have someone check into Danko’s recent investment history.”

“Why?”

“A hunch. I think these two may be working together.” Scott flipped his phone shut as two figures emerged from the Kepplar lab building. Danko and Skye.

Jozsef Danko walked her over to her bike. Scott noticed his arm around her slim waist. Something in his stomach tightened.

Danko leaned down as if to kiss her but she moved abruptly, positioning her helmet on her head as if she hadn’t noticed his intention. It gave Scott an unexplained jolt of satisfaction.

Danko’s vehicle exited the Kepplar compound, turned left. Skye, on her Harley, turned right. Scott followed the bike.

The doctor rode home at a ridiculous speed. Scott turned down a side road and approached his house from the opposite direction as pale gray fingers of dawn reached over the distant sea.

He had just fed Honey, sunk down onto the sofa with a mug of coffee and fresh ice pack when he was jolted by a banging at his door.

He sat up, winced. His knee felt like a bloody water-filled balloon after the box-carrying episode last night. He dragged his hands through his hair, reached for his cane, pushed himself to his feet.

The banging got louder.

“All right, already!” He limped over to the door, threw it open.

And froze.

Dr. Skye Van Rijn stood there in a soft pale pink sweater, fresh as a freaking daisy after her night of sneaking around in the dark. She smiled up at him with those lightly glossed lush lips. Her eyes were as pale silver and lambent as the monochromatic dawn sky.

Something shifted in his belly. He pulled the door closer to his body, hiding the dossier, her personal details scattered all over his living room coffee table.

“Mornin’,” he said slowly.

Her eyes flicked over him, taking in his rumpled clothes. “Doesn’t look like you got much sleep.”

He shrugged.

She waited.

He said nothing.

“Your truck wasn’t here early this morning.”

“I work odd hours. Needed to chase my muse this morning. Went for a drive.”

She bit her bottom lip, studied him with those crystal-clear eyes. “I see.”

He shifted slightly, held the door closer.

“I thought you might need that.” She turned and pointed to a dolly she’d left alongside his truck still loaded with gear. “I had one in my garage.” She angled her head, looked back up at him, a twinkle playing in the silver of her eyes. Amusement tugged at one side of her mouth. “I had a hunch you weren’t going to ask anyone for help unpacking.”

She’d floored him. Again. He scrambled for composure. “Thanks.” He said no more. Waited.

“Well, I’m off to work, then. You coming tomorrow, around eight?”

“Tomorrow?”

“My wedding reception.”

“Oh. Yes. Of course. I’ll be there.”

“Well, have a good day, then.” Her top lip twitched slightly as if at some secret joke. “Happy writing.”

Was there mockery in her tone? Challenge in her voice?

“Happy doing whatever it is scientists in Haven do,” he answered.

She halted, as if unwilling to leave just yet. She turned back to face him. “I do research and development. I work mostly with insects and design biological control measures for the agriculture and horticulture industries.”

“You mean, you create assassin bugs?”

She laughed that deep, smoky laugh. “That’s cute, McIntyre. Yes, I find and develop little predators.”

“I see.” He allowed his eyes to walk slowly, obviously, over her utterly amazing body. “I’d never have pegged you for a bug lady.”

She laughed again, a little less sure. “A bug lady? What’s a ‘bug lady’ supposed to look like?”

Scott smiled, holding her eyes. “Not like you.”

For a moment their gazes locked. A silent, primal current swelled, surged between them.

Then she broke the moment. “And there I was, wondering what a typical futurist looked like.” She turned in a fluid movement and strode down the rutted driveway. Scott couldn’t help but watch the way her firm buttocks moved under the denim fabric of her jeans, couldn’t help the soft pulse of warmth in his groin.

“Oh.” She stopped suddenly and swung round.

He braced.

“I meant to tell you, nice Web site.”

Scott closed the door deliberately, quietly.

And blew out a stream of breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. Thank God. Rex’s boys must have placed some cyber-litter for his cover. It made sense that a woman like Skye would check him out on the Internet. Especially if she was hiding something.

He leaned heavily on his cane, looked down at the dog waiting patiently at his feet. “We’d better use the doctor’s dolly to unpack that computer gear and get connected.” He limped over to where his jacket hung across the back of the sofa. “That is, once we’ve made sure work is where she really is headed this morning.” He picked up his keys, bounced them once in his hand. And he couldn’t help grinning. The woman was a challenge he didn’t mind right about now. She was up to something, sure as hell. And he’d find out what. He’d prove Agent Armstrong still had what it took. This little game was gonna buy him a ticket back out into the field.

The real field.



The jitters in her stomach were still there. And her neighbor wasn’t helping matters. Skye pulled into the Kepplar parking lot, dismounted, yanked off her helmet. She should never have taken him that dolly. But seeing that big pile of boxes still in the back of the truck this morning had tugged something inside her. She’d wanted to reach out, to help. She’d also been curious. Because when she’d come back from the lab in the dark hours of dawn, his truck had not been there. And that only added to the strange cocktail of anxiety skittering through her system.

But taking him that dolly was definitely a mistake. Because seeing Scott McIntyre at the door, ruffled, sleepy, and all get-out sexy, in the same clothes he’d worn the night before, had stirred something else deep within her.

Something that manifested in a potent fusion of basic female desire and a maternal need to care. Both were parts of herself she’d locked away more than ten years ago.

In a few short hours Scott McIntyre was digging them out. Scratching at her veneer. And she knew what lay beneath was too raw and malignant to ever be exposed.

Besides, she couldn’t afford to be distracted now. Her beetle project was close to completion.

And she was getting married in the morning.

Skye shoved her emotions aside, pushed open the lab door and shrugged into her white coat. She was early, but Charlotte, her assistant, had arrived even earlier and was already busy at her microscope.

“Hey, Charly, getting a head start?”

The blond woman looked up, smiled. Skye had allowed herself to get close to Charly, closer than she really was comfortable with. A part of her craved the kind of open, genuine and honest friendship so many women shared. The other part of her was afraid she’d let something slip. She wished, at times, she could let her guard drop, her hair loose and just be free to share. Staying vigilant required energy. Concentration. Sometimes she just got tired.

Very tired.

Maybe that’s why she was marrying Jozsef. She could be with him, play the part of a regular woman, without opening up. He was like that. And marrying him would help seal her cover. Help her hide.

“What’re you doing here, Skye? Working right up until the day of the wedding? You should be pampering yourself at the spa, hon. Not poking at beetles and grubs.”

Skye made a face, motioned with her eyes to the ceiling. “Marshall wanted to meet with me this morning, discuss the project. Besides, I need to check on their progress.”

“The critters are doing just fine. You’ve worked magic again, Doctor. There’s nothing more for you to do but wait for the first shipments to mature.”

“Let’s hope they can stand the cooler temperatures.”

“That little gene seems to have done the trick. The control group is still thriving.”

The phone on the wall rang. “Yeah,” said Skye, reaching for the receiver, “but the ultimate test will be in the field. Dr. Van Rijn,” she said crisply into the receiver.

“Marshall, here. You ready to meet?”

“I’ll be right up.”

She hung up, rolled her eyes heavenward. “God has spoken.”

Charly grinned. “Have fun…oh, I almost forgot, Jozsef was here earlier.”

Skye stopped dead in her tracks. “Jozsef?”

Again?

“Why?”

“Looking for you.”

Skye frowned. “He knew I was home.”

“He probably forgot. The guy’s excited. Give the poor man a break. Tomorrow he gets a wife.”

Skye turned, started to push the lab door open but stopped midway, her mind racing. “What time was he here?”

“Jozsef?”

“Yes. Jozsef. Who else?” She heard the snip in her voice. So did Charly, from the look on her face.

“I don’t know. He was already in the lab when I arrived. Security let him in like always.” Charly stood. “What’s eating you?”

Skye shoved the door fully open. “Nothing. Wedding nerves.” But that little niggle was back, biting, probing deeper into the dark depths of her subconscious. She forced it down. She had work to do. An agricultural epidemic to halt. She strode down the corridor to the elevator.

The director of Kepplar Biological Control Systems was waiting.




Chapter 3


Marshall Kane stood at his office window, heavy brow crumpled down low over small dark eyes. Skye noticed the lines on the sides of his mouth were etched deeper than usual.

“Dr. Van Rijn, come in. Take a seat.”

Skye sat, noting the formal use of her title.

Marshall remained standing, a hulking silhouette in front of the gray morning light. “Thanks for coming. I know this is a busy time for you what with the wedding and all.”

Skye nodded. “What’s up?”

He rubbed his jaw. “Last year this was a purely Canadian problem. Now it’s a bloody international one. I got word last night that the whitefly epidemic has found its way into southern Washington greenhouses. And this morning, I’m told it’s been detected in Northern Oregon. Inside and outside the greenhouses. It’s like a goddamn army marching south. It’s like nothing I’ve seen.”

“It’s nothing any of us has seen, Marshall.”

“It’ll be hitting the U.S. produce basket before we know it. If California takes a hit, the whole damn nation will take a hit.” Marshall moved from the window, seated himself behind his massive glass desk. “Think a minute about the financial implications, Dr. Van Rijn. A Japanese-only embargo of California fruits and vegetables could cost more than 6,000 jobs and over $700 million in lost output. An international embargo of California fruits would cost the state maybe 35,000 jobs and more than $3.8 billion in revenues.”

Marshall leaned forward, elbows on his desk, hands spread flat out in front of him on the glass. “But a total quarantine of California fruits, in which shipments and sales within the United States are embargoed, would result in hundreds of thousands of jobs lost and up to $20 billion in lost revenues.”

“You’re forgetting the hit the Canadian greenhouse industry has already taken, sir. And with all due respect, we are not responsible for the spread of the whitefly to the U.S.”

“No. We are not.” He raised his hand, leaving a steamy imprint on the glass. “But just think about the implications for Kepplar if we are successful in halting the little bastards.” Marshall had a greedy gleam in his small dark eyes. Beetle eyes, thought Skye. He was like a fat hungry bug himself. He picked up his silver pen, punctuated the air as he spoke. “There’s a lot riding on your project, Dr. Van Rijn. The U.S. Department of Agriculture is watching us. Our first beetle shipment goes out to Agriculture Canada for mass dispersal in two weeks, right?”

“Correct. We’re on target.”

“Good, because the U.S.D.A. is waiting to see how effective we are. If they like what they see, there’s another big contract in the works for Kepplar. A U.S. contract. We’ll make headlines, Doctor.”

Skye nodded. She liked the money that came with success. It helped her buy freedom. But she shunned the publicity. That could cost her dearly. She shifted to the edge of her seat, leaned forward. “Marshall, I don’t need to tell you I’m still unhappy with the early target date. And I know I don’t need to warn you no project is without risk, including this one. Ideally, I’d like more field trials.”

“Nonsense. The contained trials had excellent results. We haven’t got time for more. The risks are minimal. I’ve read your report.”

“Any time an alien species is released into an ecosystem there’s a risk the new bugs could become pests themselves. Or worse, become a vector for another disease.”

“Dr. Van Rijn, you are a pessimist. This bug was bred in our labs. It’s clean. There’s minimal risk of transmitting new disease.”

“I’m no pessimist, Marshall. I’m a pragmatist. Yes, we bred the bug here. Yes, it’s clean. But we started with a bug imported from Asia—”

“It went through the requisite quarantine process.”

“There’s always risk when meddling with nature.”

Marshall rolled his silver pen tightly between his thumb and middle finger. “But you have a fair degree of confidence in this project?”

“I do.”

“And the first colonies will be ready in two weeks?”

“Yes. But as I said, I’d like more—”

“Good. Because the last thing our southern neighbor needs right now is this army of whitefly marching south from Canada and heading straight for their produce basket. They’re already scrambling with the damned cattle plague. Now this. It’s straining diplomatic relations and they’re looking for scapegoats.”

“I’ve seen the papers. The Americans figure we should have moved earlier to control the epidemic in our own backyard. But these things know no borders.”

“Well, neither will our predator bug so it better damn well work.” Marshall slapped the pen onto his blotter. “If it does, Kepplar is made. If not, we go under.” His beetle eyes bored into her. “This is make or break, Doctor.”

“I read you, Marshall.” Skye felt anger starting to bubble. She had no doubt it would be her who took the fall should the project fail. Not Marshall. Not Kepplar Biological Control Systems. Not Agriculture Canada. She’d be the one hung out to dry. Held out to the media as the pathetic scapegoat who failed to avert an economic crisis.

She stood. “Anything else?”

“No. Thank you, and, um, congratulations, with the wedding stuff and all.”

It took all of Skye’s control to walk quietly out of Marshall Kane’s office, to close the door gently. But once shut, she stormed down the corridor. No elevator for her. She needed to work out her adrenaline on the stairs.

For Marshall, it always came down to the bottom line—cold hard cash. Personal acclaim. For her, it was the satisfaction of making something work. For finding a way to kill a parasite. To stop a blight from spreading.

And this whitefly had certainly become a blight on North America’s agricultural map. Skye knew of about twelve hundred different species of whitefly, but this was not one of them. It was a new species. A voracious species that could withstand extreme temperatures. And as yet, no one knew where it had come from and no one had isolated a natural predator to counteract it. So she had set out to create one, adapting a tiny black Asian beetle and breeding it in her lab. Her work was so promising that last year the feds had started taking a keen interest. And early this spring, the Canadian department of agriculture had ordered a massive beetle shipment from Kepplar for large-scale release across the country.

Marshall was still basking, gloating, shareholders patting him on his back for her hard work. Now it looked as though he had set his sights on U.S. contracts. He had even bigger fish to fry. More shareholders to woo. Damn him.

Skye couldn’t care less if Marshall took credit for her work. It helped keep her out of the media, below the radar. But now he was rushing this project. He was running risks she was uncomfortable with. The margin for error was too great.

And failure would make headlines, place her in the international spotlight. She couldn’t have that. She couldn’t let the last decade go to hell in a handbasket now.

She ran down the stairs, working off her fury with physical motion. It always boiled down to this. One way or another she was always running from her past, the threat of exposure. By God, she wished she could stop running.

By the time she got back to her lab she’d found a measure of outward control. She snapped on her gloves and got back to work, avoiding Charly’s questioning eyes. By the time Skye looked at the clock again it was after five. She flipped the switch on her microscope. “That’s it. I’m done and I’m outta here. I need my beauty sleep tonight.”

Charly got up, gave her a kiss on the cheek. “There’s my girl, clocking out at a decent hour for a change. I’ll be at your place at the crack of dawn with champagne and croissants.”

Skye laughed. “That’s all I need, a loaded maid of honor with croissant crumbs down her cleavage. I’ll be happier if you make sure those adult beetles get packed nicely into those bottles with vermiculite while I’m away.”

“We’re on it. No worries. That first shipment will be gone and released before you get back from your honeymoon.”

“Yeah.” She mumbled to herself as she slipped out of her lab coat. “That’s exactly what worries me.”



Scott washed and rinsed the blue cereal bowl for the third time. The kitchen sink was the best vantage point. From here he could watch the early morning wedding activity next door, and keep an eye on Honey in the yard.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d adopted such a domestic pose. It was in another life. When he was happy. When Leni cooked and he cleaned up and little Kaitlin chattered from her high chair.

Before the “accident.”

The old pain began to pulse at his temple. He pressed two fingers hard against the throb and for the billionth time cursed Rex…himself…the whole bloody world.

The damned wedding next door was bashing on bolted doors to memories. The woman next door had woken the sleeping monster within him, and it thrashed like a caged beast.

Scott slammed the cereal bowl into the drying rack, picked up a glass, rubbed viciously with the dishcloth.

It was nine years ago his wife and baby girl had been blown up in their car. The Plague Doctor’s men had done it. Scott’s family had died because of his job.

Because of him.

Because he hadn’t backed down from hunting one of the world’s most wanted men. He’d helped Rex take down the Plague Doctor in White River just over three years ago. But the global significance of their victory had rung hollow in Scott’s soul. It hadn’t brought his family back. It had done nothing to quell the desire for vengeance that pumped through his veins, or to fill the bitter, aching void in his heart. Nothing to dull the sharp edge of guilt that sliced at him. And seeing Rex so happily reunited with Hannah, the mother of his son… It had burned a hole clean through him.

Rex had saved his family.

Scott hadn’t.

The failure couldn’t be more stark.

And he couldn’t stand to have his face rubbed in the sharp gravel of that reality. So he’d taken one job after another out in the field, in the far wild corners of this earth. Anything to keep him away from a place that had once been home. Anything to keep him from looking in the mirror, facing himself.

Scott’s jaw clenched as he watched a cab pull into the driveway next door. A trim blonde climbed out, paid her fare and trotted up the steps to Skye’s front door. He watched the door open in welcome, Skye’s dark head appear. This morning the doctor wore a soft yellow robe. Cinched at the waist. Bare feet. He saw her laugh, hair falling around her face. The happy bride-to-be.

Scott crushed the glass in the reflexive power that surged through his hands and swore at the sharp pain. That bride-to-be wasn’t going anywhere but the chapel today, of that he was certain. He was wasting time washing dishes, watching her house, thinking of the past.

He glanced down, slightly bemused at the fresh dark blood welling from his hand. He flexed his fingers, testing his injury. The pain in his flesh was nothing compared to the twisted mess in his chest.

He chucked the dishcloth into the sink.

He’d go check out the town, buy some supplies. And when it got closer to wedding time, he’d go wait at the church, see who was arriving. He’d had enough of peeking through drapes. He wrapped a handkerchief roughly around his bleeding hand, grabbed his cane and keys, stepped out onto the porch and whistled for Honey.

To his surprise, the dog bounded instantly to his side. It gave him an unexpected stab of satisfaction. He ruffled the fur on her head. “Come, you silly pooch. We’re going to get some supplies then we’re gonna head on down to the church and watch a wedding.”

Shopping done, Scott and Honey drove to the only chapel in town and pulled into a parking space across the street, under the boughs of an old cherry tree frothy with pale pink blossoms. Scott opened his newspaper, turned to the business pages, took a bite of dried sausage, and began to read. And wait.

A wet splotch of drool hit the far edge of the business section. Then another. He looked slowly up from the newsprint into pleading brown eyes and doggy breath.

“Jeez. Okay, you have the sausage then.”

Honey inhaled the piece whole, tail thumping down on the front seat.

“You didn’t even blink, Honey. Was it worth it?” Scott wedged the business section onto the dashboard, opened a bottle of water. “Okay, Honey, this is your car water.” He held up the bowl they’d just bought at the Haven General Store. “And it goes in your new car bowl. Got it?” Scott sloshed water into the bowl, set it on the floor of the truck. “Careful now, don’t knock it over.”

The darn hound was hard work. He’d gotten used to caring only for his own needs. Hadn’t had to think about making anyone else happy for a long, long time.

Not even a dog.

He watched as Honey lapped up the water. And suddenly he was seeing a black Lab. Merlin—the dog he’d owned when he was eleven. The dog he and his dad used to take on fishing trips. And that made him think of the times he had gone fly-fishing with Leni, before Kaitlin was born.

Scott blinked, rubbed his face. Guilt bit at him. He hadn’t seen his dad or his mum since the funeral. He’d cut everyone out. Everything that made him think of Leni and Kaitlin, of the role he’d played in their deaths. He’d sliced out the very core of who he was.

Scott cleared his throat, retrieved the business section and glanced across at the chapel. He had to focus.

But there was still no action. He turned his attention back to the paper, scanned the headlines.

There was another article on the devastating U.S. beef crisis. And a smaller one about the whitefly epidemic sweeping south. His eyes widened. “Hey, look at this— Kepplar has been contracted to develop a predator bug for this whitefly thing. Our Dr. Van Rijn is in charge of the project.”

Honey burped. Scott looked up, frowned. “You know, Honey, it’s a conspiracy. Rex figures by giving you to me, you’ll make me go fully nuts. Soon I’ll be talking to myself. Then they can happily institutionalize me. Zero guilt for Bellona.”

Honey perked up, but not because of Scott’s scintillating conversation. Her interest was captured by sudden activity outside the church. Cars started arriving. Small groups of people were entering the chapel.

Scott closed the paper, folded it, watched the action across the street. Two men in suits climbed out of a red convertible parked directly in front of the church. Scott studied them, but he couldn’t see the groom.

Then a Harley, identical to Skye’s, rumbled into one of the parking spaces behind the convertible. Another man in a suit. He carried his helmet under one arm, entered the church.

The activity seemed to die down a little. Scott glanced at his watch. It was almost six-thirty now. By his count there were at least forty wedding guests already waiting inside the church for the bridal party to arrive.

Then he saw it.

A sleek, white limousine cruised down the street, pulled to a stop in front of the chapel. It had no adornment. No silly paper flowers. No ribbons. For some reason, Scott thought this was appropriate and in keeping with the direct and no-nonsense nature of the woman he’d recently met.

A photographer snapped the scene as the driver’s door opened. An elderly gentleman stepped out, dapper in a crisp gray suit. Scott recognized him from the general store. The man walked around the vehicle to open the passenger door. A slim blonde stepped out, the same one Scott had seen at Skye’s house this morning. A long dress the dark blue of midnight skimmed the curves of her body. It was draped in a way that reminded Scott of ancient Greece. She was followed by a miniature version, maybe six years old, with wild fair curls. The little flower girl clung to a simple basket of petals.

Then came the bride.

Dr. Skye Van Rijn stepped out of the bridal vehicle and took the old man’s arm.

And she clean stole Scott’s breath.

She was an ancient Greek goddess. An Aphrodite. A high priestess in virginal white. She stood tall, elegant, strong, the simple yet exquisite fall of her dress in the style of old Athens. Her rich dark hair was loosely piled upon her head, held with a tiny silvery-white wreath of leaves. Loose, smoky tendrils curled down, teasing her shoulders. Her arms were bare. Behind her the small stone chapel was silhouetted against the evening sea and a spring sky turning pale violet as the faraway sun set. Scott could think only of white doves and peace offerings and the gods of Mount Olympus. The bug lady looked like she should be marrying Zeus, for Christ’s sake. Not some guy called Jozsef. The woman was a dream. Brains. Beauty…

And a suspect.

Keep that in your confounded brain, Agent.

But he couldn’t tear his eyes from Skye as the blond woman helped her with the back of her dress. He watched as she climbed the stairs, passed through the chapel doors.

He watched the double doors swing shut behind her. And he imagined her walking down the aisle. “Lucky bastard,” he muttered, resting his head against the truck window.

Honey thumped her tail.

“Not you, you hairy mutt.” Scott eased his aching leg into a more comfortable position and closed his eyes. He took himself back. Back to his own wedding all those years ago. In his mind he saw Leni walking down the aisle. Toward him. A spectral, shimmering vision of white. But he couldn’t see her properly. He strained to make out her face, her features, to call out to her. But she was gone. In a searing flash of white flame. His eyes snapped open. His hand clenched on the door handle. Perspiration pricked along his brow.

He was dwelling again where he feared to tread. This mission was going to drive him clear over the edge. The sooner he unearthed the bug lady’s secret, the better. Then he was outta here. And out of the damn country. He had to get himself back into the field. The international one. Not this domestic crap.



“You look beautiful, Skye. What made you go for the Greek theme?” Charly fidgeted with the train of Skye’s dress for the umpteenth time.

Skye sighed, exasperated. “I’ve told you a hundred times. I just like it. Quit trying to distract me.” They’d been waiting in the little antechamber way too long. The organist was going through her repertoire yet again.

Charly’s little niece, Jennifer, sat patiently on a stiff wooden chair, swinging legs that didn’t reach the ground, wilting faster than her basket of petals.

Mike Henderson, the owner of the Haven General Store, a long-time local and dear acquaintance of Skye’s who’d been more than delighted when asked to give her away, opened the door a crack, peeked into the chapel. “He’s still not here.”

“What’s keeping him?” Charly asked.

“Damned if I know,” Skye snapped. She thought of Jozsef. Of his recent behavior. His hesitation when she asked questions. His unusual appearances at the lab. The increasing frequency of his trips abroad. His growing self-indulgence. Her own insecurities. Her incomprehensible, primal feelings for her new neighbor. And suddenly Skye couldn’t take any more. Anxiety, the likes of which she hadn’t felt in a decade, swooped down on her, clawed at her heart.

The urge to run swamped her.

She took a deep breath, stepped forward. With both hands, she threw open the antechamber doors, glared at the rows of pews filled with her close acquaintances. Not friends. Acquaintances. Colleagues. Dear people. But not family.

Not friends.

Everyone turned to stare at her.

She read shock, pity, on their faces. Skye took one tentative step into the chapel. The organist broke into the strains of the wedding march.

Here comes the bride.

Skye took another step, then another and another. The organ music sped up to match her increasing pace.

All dressed in white.

Skye lifted her dress up about her knees, stormed down the aisle, heart pounding, vaguely aware of Charly running after her.

A murmur rippled through the guests like storm wind through a forest of trees. Some jumped to their feet as Skye marched past them. The crazy organist madly beat at the wedding march tune, trying to match Skye’s pace. She finally gave up in a discordant thrash of keys as Skye reached Jozsef’s best man, who stood patiently near the altar.

Silence now hung thick, anticipatory, under the dark curved beams, the stained glass.

“Where is he?”

“Skye, I’m sorry, I don’t know. We tried calling his home, his cell—”

“For chrissake, you’re the best man, Peter. Isn’t your job to see that the groom gets to the damn church on time?”

“I’m sorry, I—”

“Forget it. I made a mistake. Give me the keys.” She held out her hand. It trembled violently.

“They’re my bike keys.”

She dropped her voice to a harsh whisper. “You gonna humiliate me further or are you going to give me those keys?”

Peter fumbled in his pocket, extracted the keys. “Skye, I’m pleading with you. Let’s take the limo. You’re in no state—”

“You expect me to leave in the bridal vehicle? You’re nuts. Just give them to me.”

Peter reluctantly held them out. She snatched them.

Charly tried to take her arm. “Skye, please—”

She shrugged her off, hoisted her dress up with one hand and turned to face the small crowd. “That’s it, folks. Party’s over. Thanks for coming. Maybe next time.”

But there’d never be a next time, another wedding, not as long as she lived.

Skye stormed down the aisle, heading for the massive arched chapel doors, a chorus of shocked murmurs flowing in her wake.



The chapel doors flung open. Scott jerked to attention.

He realized with a shock that he’d dozed off.

He squinted, trying to make sense of the vision in front of him.

The Greek goddess stormed out of the church, down the stone stairs, dress hiked up about her knees. He rubbed his fist in his eyes. Maybe he was still asleep.

He watched in numb fascination as the bride lifted her dress, straddled the motorbike and kicked it viciously to life.

Tires screeched as she pulled out of the parking space and smoked down the road, hair, ribbons of white fabric fighting in the wind behind her.

“Oh, sweet Mother Mary.” He snapped into action, fired the ignition.

“Buckle up, Honey. Looks like we got us a runaway bride.”




Chapter 4


Scott floored the gas, swerved out onto the coastal highway in hot pursuit of the bride bent low on the Harley. Honey skidded across the seat, bashed against the passenger door as the truck hugged a corner.

“Sorry, bud. Hang ten.”

The road grew narrow, climbed, hugged cliffs that dropped sheer to the ocean. Skye veered to the right, following the curve of the twisting tar ribbon.

His hands tensed around the wheel.

She leaned low into the bend, naked knee almost skimming the tarmac. Scott winced, prayed her long dress wouldn’t catch on anything. If she wiped out at this speed, she’d be grated to shreds. And that laurel garland on her wind-whipped tresses was nowhere near a helmet.

But by God, the woman could ride. She looked as though she’d been born with a machine between her legs. She was one with it. And it looked as if nothing else but speed mattered to her right now. Speed and escape.

From what?

He matched her pace.

She veered sharply off onto a dirt track.

He rammed on the brakes, skidding sideways onto the shoulder.

He could see a plume of dust as she followed a rough switchback down to the sea.

“Hold on to your teeth, Honey!” Scott gunned the gas, kicked up dirt, fishtailed back onto tar and swerved onto the rutted track.

It was pocked with small craters, rock. He squinted into the dust. He’d have to slow down if he was going to make it down alive. Damn, he’d lost sight of her.

By the time he reached the isolated cove at the base of the dirt track, the bike was propped on its stand alongside a gnarled arbutus tree.

Scott opened his truck door and stepped out into a cloud of settling dust. Honey followed, staying close at his feet. She seemed to sense this was no time for play. “Where is she, girl?” he whispered to the dog at his side. Then he saw her in the dim evening light, across the white sand of the cove near a rock at the water’s edge.

She was frantically tugging at her clothes, shedding layers as though she was yanking and discarding parts of her life. She tore at the garland in her hair, tossed it to the sea. Wild wind-knotted curls fell loose below her shoulders.

Scott swallowed.

Her back was to him. She had nothing on now, save for a scrap of lace cut high away from the graceful curve of her buttocks. And she wore a white bra, the strap thin across the olive skin of her back.

“Sweet Mother Mary,” he whispered to no one in particular. Then he saw the lacy wedding garter around the top of her lean thigh.

What happened, Doctor? What happened to your wedding?

He watched, immobile, as she rubbed her hands through her hair, shook it free. Then she stepped into the water. Even from this distance, he could see the shiver that ran through her body. Then she took another step.

And another.

And she didn’t stop until she was waist deep. Scott watched as she dived, sleek, into the steel-gray water. He held his breath as the calm ocean swallowed her, leaving nothing but ripples where she’d last stood.

Then he saw her head come up yards away. She struck out with a strong, smooth crawl. And she was going.

Going.

Straight out to sea…

Scott came to his senses in that instant.

The woman was suicidal.

She had no intention of coming back.

He started to run down to the water, buckled in pain. He turned back, hobbled to the truck, grabbed his cane. He might not be able to run with his crippled leg, but by God, he could swim. He knew once he hit the water he’d get to her in no time.

But when he looked again, he saw her dark head over the gentle swells. And he saw that she had turned and was swimming back to shore.

The relief was overwhelming. He stopped, held back, retreated to his earlier vantage point under cover of the orange-skinned arbutus, heart beating wildly.

He gave her the space she seemed to need. But still he watched. He could leave. But he told himself it was for her own safety.

He told himself this was his assignment.

These were his orders.

To watch the doctor.

But never, not once in the course of his undercover work, had he ever felt so much like a voyeur. He was looking into some very naked, private and anguished moment in this exquisitely beautiful woman’s life. He felt both privileged and dirty. As foul and titillated as a damn Peeping Tom.

He wiped the back of his hand hard across his mouth, realized his heart was still hammering in his chest. He sucked down a deep breath of salted sea air, strained for calm. She was emerging from the water, a spectral vision in the dusk. He could see now how her bra was cut low against the firm swell of her breasts. Water shimmered down her flat belly. The garter was gone. Left to the sea. Her hair was slick as a seal’s. She ran her hands up over her face and over her head. Her chin was held high and she was breathing the night air in deep. He could see her chest rise and fall from the exertion of her swim, her ride…whatever had made her flee.

She sat on the rock, upon the remains of her wedding gown, facing the ocean, her back to him.

She sat like that for a long time, until it got dark. There was pale light from a fat gibbous moon. It shimmered like silver sovereigns scattered in a path over the bay. Scott could see Skye’s silhouette against the water. Honey made a plaintive little noise at his side. It was getting cold. Still the doctor sat, damp, on her rock, wearing nothing but her underwear.

Scott crouched next to Honey, spoke softly in her ear. “Wait for me in the truck, pooch. I think the lady out there needs some help.” Either that or she was going to get pneumonia.

Scott let Honey back into the truck, grabbed his old brown leather jacket, made his way slowly over the sand of the cove. She didn’t seem to hear him approach. She was shivering, holding her hands tight over her knees.

“Skye,” he whispered behind her. A jolt cracked through her body at the sound of her name. But she didn’t move otherwise.

“It’s okay, Skye.” He carefully positioned his jacket over her shoulders, lifting her wet hair away from her back. A small noise escaped from somewhere deep in her throat at his touch. It was so primal, so basic a sound of need, it sliced clean through to his core.

“Skye, I’m going to take you home. You need to get dry. Warm.”

She turned then to face him.

He sucked in his breath.

Her face was pale as porcelain in the moonlight. Her eyes dark and big. Mascara traced sooty trails of tears and saltwaterdown her cheeks.

She looked like a broken doll.

“Oh, Skye…” He didn’t plan it, just did it. Gathered her into his arms. It was the right thing to do. The only thing. And he held her like that, under the moon, wondering what in hell he’d gotten himself into.

“Skye, I’d carry you if I could, but I can’t, with this bloody leg. Lean on me and I’ll lean on my crutch and we’ll both get there. Together.”

She did as he asked. In silence.

Honey’s face was eager in the truck as she saw them approach. Scott helped Skye into the passenger seat. She climbed in, grasped on to Honey as if for warmth, for tactile comfort.

“Is that your bike?”

She shook her head.

“Okay. So we’ll leave it here. Is there someone I can call to come and fetch it?”

She nodded.

“Fine. I’ll call whoever it is when we get home.”



Scott pulled into Skye’s driveway, heater still cranked.

“No!”

It was the first time she’d spoken since the beach.

“Not here. Not my house…please.”

He looked at her. She was still shivering under his leather jacket, arms still wrapped around Honey. “Where?”

“Anywhere but here.” She looked away, out the dark window. “The wedding stuff. The caterer’s stuff…it’s all in there. In my house.”

“I see. Is there anywhere else, anyone you want to stay with?”

She shook her head.

Scott backed slowly out of Skye’s driveway, turned down his. He couldn’t think of another plan. The woman was in shock. And if she didn’t get some clothes on, her core temperature up soon, she’d be dealing with hypothermia, as well. If she wasn’t already.

Scott ran a hot bath, then fished around in his closet for something for her to wear. It all looked foreign to him. Rex had provided him with a “writer’s” wardrobe. Scott found a pair of sweatpants, a T-shirt and a fleece sweatshirt. She would swim in them, but they’d keep her warm.

While she bathed, he built a fire. He heated soup and poured a large brandy. This he pushed into her hands when she walked into his living room.

“Here. Want some soup?”

She looked deep into his eyes, as if seeing him for the first time. “Scott, thank you. I—I don’t know what to say…”

“It’s okay. Come, sit here by the fire.” He pulled the sofa up close to the warmth of the flames. She sat. Her hair hung in damp, dark waves, her silver eyes were wide, startling against her impossibly thick dark lashes and pale skin.

She took a deep sip of the brandy, swallowed, coughed, eyes watering. Honey settled at her feet, curled into a ball. Scott watched the blush of color creep back under those high cheekbones, into that lush mouth.

He tore his focus from her lips, seated himself in the chair on the opposite end of the hearth. “What happened? Why’d you run?”

She didn’t look at him, just stared into the flickering flames, shaking her head.

“Skye?” he said softly.

Her eyes looked slowly up into his. He swallowed sharply. What he saw there was vulnerable, raw. She’d dropped the veil. She was all naked emotion as she looked at him. It threw him completely.

“He…he didn’t show.” Her voice was thick. “Jozsef left me at the altar.” Moisture pooled along the bottom rims of her eyes, making them glimmer like quicksilver in the fire-light. It spilled over onto her cheeks into shimmering trails.

Something snagged in his chest. He took a shallow breath, came quickly over to her side, put his arms tentatively around her. “It’s okay, Skye. Take it easy. You don’t have to talk now.” He lifted a hand, hesitated, then let it gently stroke her dark hair. His breath caught in a ball. It was soft. So soft under his palm.

“I—I should’ve seen the signs…” A soft sob jerked through her body. Tears spilled softly over her face.

“Shh.” He pulled her close, enveloped her in his arms. Her scent surrounded him, a clean freshness mingled with the sophisticated scent of brandy and the faint saline of seawater. He held her a little tighter, stealing her fragrance with a flare of his nostrils.

She relaxed slightly, rested her dark head against his chest. It was a movement so innocent, so trusting. He couldn’t seem to breathe normally. He allowed his cheek to brush softly against her head, to feel the sensation of her hair on his face.

And something swelled painfully inside him, brought a sharp prick of emotion to his eyes. He hadn’t held a woman like this in a long time. Not since his wife.

His jaw tensed.

Sure he’d held women in that time—but not like this. Not like it mattered.

He’d fought hard against this very feeling, this aching sense of vulnerability. He’d gotten himself out of civilization. He’d left home, family, friends—anyone who reminded him. He’d blocked it all out by fighting. Fighting against bio crime, terrorists, the world, himself, his guilt…against finding himself in a moment like this.

His heart beat a wildly increasing pace against his ribs.

And now he was here.

He felt afraid—of himself, of feeling. But the instinct was overpowering. He gave in to it furtively. He closed his eyes, allowed the sensation of her body, warm against his, to sink into him, through him. He nestled his nose softly against the top of her head, drank in the silkiness of her thick dark hair, of the little breaths that shuddered intermittently through her body as she fell asleep in his arms. He held her, listening to the pop and crack of flames in the hearth, to the sounds of the night outside.

He didn’t want to think of anything, only of how it felt to hold a woman in his arms. A woman who needed him.

Honey gave a little whimper. Scott’s eyes flickered open. The dog watched him with her liquid brown pools.

God, he’d fallen asleep with her. The flames were faint glowing embers, the cool night air creeping in as their quavering watch against the cold dwindled.

Shocked, Scott edged out from under Skye’s weight, careful not to wake her.

She murmured.

“Shh. Sleep,” he whispered.

She stirred. “The…the bike, Peter Cunningham’s bike—”

“Shh. Not to worry. I’ll call him. Get some rest. I’ll get you a blanket.”

She nodded, snuggled deeper into the sofa.



Scott covered her with a blanket, stoked the fire, flicked the living room lights off, leaving only the shimmying copper flames and dancing shadows on the walls. He stared down at her. She looked like something unreal. So exotic, so striking…yet fragile, vulnerable.

How, wondered Scott, could anyone in their right mind ditch a woman like Skye Van Rijn? How could a man leave a woman like this at the altar?

Then with a rude jolt, he remembered his mission. He dragged his hand hard through his hair, reached for his cane, went to look for the phone book.

He called Peter Cunningham from the kitchen.

“Thank God she’s all right.”

“Yeah. Your bike’s fine, too.” Scott told him where he could pick it up.

“Who did you say you were?”

“Scott McIntyre, her neighbor…a…a friend.”

“You weren’t at the church?”

“I was late. Caught her bolting, so I followed her.”

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line. “The cops are out looking for her.”

“She’s okay, Peter. She’s sleeping, but I can wake her if you want…or you’re welcome to come ’round. Send the cops, whatever.”

Peter hesitated. “I’ll get Charly to come ’round. I think she’d prefer that.”

“Fine. Any idea what happened to her fiancé?”

Peter cleared his throat. “After the church, when I got home, I checked my voice mail. There was a message from Jozsef. He’s gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“Skipped town. Vamoose. Decamped—”

“I got it. Why’d he go?”

“Lord if I know. I thought I knew this guy…thought he loved her. I thought—”

“He say where he was going?”

“No. I went to his place to see if I could catch him, but he’d already cleaned out. I mean totally.” He hesitated. “We’re all terribly sorry for Skye. I just can’t believe this. We were worried sick. Thank God she’s all right.”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll let the cops know you found her…and thank you.”

“Sure.” Scott hung up, then checked to make sure Skye was still sleeping. He closed the heavy kitchen door, activated the scrambler and called Rex.

The Bellona boss picked up on the first ring. “Hey, I was just about to call you. Bloody good hunch on Danko, old chap.”

“Meaning?” Scott spoke quietly.

“He’s linked with several offshore companies who’ve made a killing from this U.S. beef embargo. And get this, they’re companies Bellona has suspected of having financial ties to the Anubis group.”

Scott’s fingers tightened around his sat phone. “You’re kidding.” Heat pulsed through his veins. Images seared through his mind. The Anubis cell in the Thar that he’d been hunting. His blown-out knee when he’d gotten too close. “These links,” he said. “Anything proven?”

“Not yet. Working on it. But it appears we’re not the only ones interested in Danko. The U.S. Securities and Exchange Commission is nosing around. These particular companies Danko is aligned with also happen to have a vested interest in seeing the North American produce market go down the tubes.”

He whistled softly. “You think Danko and these companies are tied somehow to the Rift Valley Fever and this whitefly thing?”

“Hell knows, but I’m joining the dots and it’s shaping up to be a pretty darned interesting picture, especially when you throw Dr. Van Rijn into the mix. If the whitefly get much further south, Danko and his bunch stand to make another killing from investment into the stock of U.S. competitors.”

“Danko must have gotten wind of the S.E.C. probe.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s split. Left town.”

Silence. “What about the wedding?”

“He left our doctor high and dry at the altar.”

“And where is she?”

Scott glanced at the kitchen door. Behind it the broken bride lay sleeping in front of the fire. He cleared his throat. “She’s still here.”

“You getting close?”

Too close.

“Close enough. She took it pretty bad, the whole wedding thing.”

Scott could hear the hesitation on the other end of the line. It wasn’t like him to get personal. Rex knew that. “Yes. Well, good…and keep me informed.”

“No worries. I’ve got my eye on her.” I’ve just got to keep my hands to myself.

Scott flipped the phone shut, shoved his feelings brusquely into a dark corner of his brain, ran through the cold facts. This possible Danko-Anubis tie threw everything into stark new light.

How was Skye connected?

He shoved open the kitchen door, limped slowly into the living room. Soft amber light glowed from the dying embers in the hearth. But the room was still a cocoon of warmth. Honey was having little doggy dreams at the foot of the sofa, her paws quivering in imaginary chase. Skye was curled like a child on the couch, dark hair soft across her face, blanket falling to the floor.

Scott lifted it to cover her properly. As he did, he caught the scent of his own soap. Then he caught something else.

A tattoo.

He stilled.

His baggy gray track pants had slipped low on her slim hips, exposing a tiny image on the smooth olive-toned skin near her hipbone. He bent closer.

His breath caught in his throat.

It was the stylized head of a jackal on the body of a man. Black and angular. Egyptian style. Bared teeth. Long, pointed snout. Ears like horns.

Anubis!

Scott’s heart thudded hard and quiet against his chest. This was too much to be coincidence.

Dr. Skye Van Rijn bore the ancient Egyptian symbol hijacked by La Sombra the mysterious mastermind behind the vast and growing shadowy Anubis organization. A group that had begun colluding with international organized crime.

But instead of a staff, the Anubis on her hip was depicted with a long, slim sword.

Scott gritted his teeth, yanked up the blanket, dropped it over her, spun around and grabbed the heavy iron fire poker.

He dropped to his haunches and jabbed the poker at the glowing logs. He thrust more fuel onto the rising flames, yanked the fire curtain shut, then slumped into the armchair beside the hearth.

He stared at the mysterious woman asleep on the sofa opposite him. Calm and innocent in repose. But who would she be when she woke?

One of La Sombra’s soldiers?

He flopped his head against the back of the chair, closed his eyes. Little was known about La Sombra apart from the code name given him when he trained under Castro’s regime on the Isle of Pines.

Authorities did not know his real name. Nor his nationality. And no one knew where The Shadow was based. It was believed he moved around, adopted different identities, and only those in his closest confidence knew it was he who called the shots. His cells, stationed around the world, were so tightly structured that none of the members knew who delivered the orders and who controlled whom.

La Sombra was the genius who’d stepped into the confusion created by the demise of the Soviet Union and the dissolution of the Warsaw Pact. He began to consolidate a loose net of international terrorist groups that were spawned during the 1960s and 1970s. Groups that were left retarded or disenfranchised and directionless with the collapse of the Soviet empire. No matter the religion or ideals of these various groups, La Sombra had reinstated a flow of funds and given them common cause, a reason to unite and cooperate in a massive international web…to fight what he called the American Evil, or Western Imperialism.




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