Sworn to Silence
by
Vickie York


SILHOUETTE BOOKS

"Who are you really, Donovan?"

When Erin felt his body touching hers, she looked into the eyes of
someone she didn't know.  "Sometimes you seem as familiar as someone in
my own family.  But right now I feel I scarcely know you."

His expression softened, changing him into the man she recognized.  He
drew her into his arms.  "We've only been together a few days," he
said.  "It's natural to have feelings like that."

With his body hard against hers, Erin couldn't force herself to move
away.  "If you're a true undercover agent, your name probably isn't Dan
Donovan," she whispered.  "Who are you really?"

"I'm the man who loves you" he whispered back, his voice thick.

Dear Reader,

Welcome to Silhouette Intrigue!  If you're in the mood for a sexy,
ragged LAWMAN (and who wouldn't be!) then meet Dan Donovan in Sworn to
Silence.  He gets rescued by Intelligence Officer Erin Meyer--and as
author Vickie York worked in intelligence herself, you can understand
where she got that idea from!

The disappearance of two young girls prompts a passionate liaison
between Detective Caroline Triece and her new partner Austin Lomax in
Into Thin Air by Karen Leabo.  Also, look out for Twice Burned from
Pamela Burford, the second book in the DOUBLE DARE series.  Zara
Sutcliffe, the wild twin, gets into trouble with ex-FBI agent Logan
Pierce... What could be more romantic and mysterious than travelling in
time to meet your man?  That's what happens in the first TIMELESS LOVE
story entitled The Desperado by favourite Intrigue author Patricia
Rosemoor.

We're sure you'll love all February's Intrigues, so happy reading!

The Editors

Sworn to Silence

VICKIE YORK

Intrigue

DID YOU PURCHASE THIS BOOK WITHOUT A COVER?

If you did, you should be aware it is stolen property as it was
reported unsold and destroyed by a retailer.  Neither the author nor
the publisher has received any payment for this book.

All the characters in this book have no existence outside the
imagination of the author, and have no relation whatsoever to anyone
bearing the same name or names.  They are not even distantly inspired
by any individual known or unknown to the author, and all the incidents
are pure invention.

All Rights Reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in
part in any form.  This edition is published by arrangement with
Harlequin Enterprises H B.V. The text of this publication or any part
thereof may mt be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any
means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording,
storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the
written permission of the publisher.

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of
trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated
without the prior consent of the publisher in any form of binding or
cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar
condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent
purchaser.

Silhouette and Colophon are registered trademarks' of Harlequin Books'
S.A."  used under licence.

First published in Great Britain 1998

Silhouette Books', Eton House, 18-24 Paradise Road,

Richmond, Surrey TW9 1SR

Betty Ann Patterson 1997

ISBN 0 373 22421 4

46-9802

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Machays of Chatham PLC, Chatham

For PEG AND LARRY McCOOL Who enjoyed Ireland with me

And for LYNNE AND MICHAEL GRAHAM, our Irish hosts

Prologue

Final instructions for the assassin's next contract arrived early one
morning at an elegant old brownstone house in Falls Church, Virginia.
Alone in the high-ceilinged gold-and-white reception room, the killer
known as Chameleon studied a printed copy of the terse radio message.

Neutralize Dun Aengus's Man At Noon On Green Day.  Meet Him On The Left
Side Of The South Entrance To The Federal Shrine.

Though decoded, the words remained obscure--a testimonial to his
employer's caution.  But Chameleon had already received a letter
translating the key terms--Dun Aengus's man, green day, and federal
shrine--so he understood the instructions clearly.  After memorizing
the message, he tore it up and tossed it into the blazing fire.

THIRTY MILES AWAY at Fort Meade, Maryland, a National Security Agency
analyst stiffened as he skimmed through a printout of the same radio
message, intercepted and de-crypted that morning by the secret agency.
Did neutralize mean kill?  he wondered, reading the words more
carefully.  Probably not, he decided.  Neutralize might well refer to
some mind-changing act rather than assassination.

Even more of a puzzle, there was no way to determine the date and place
for the scheduled action, whatever it was.  Without additional
information, the message was meaningless.

"More nonsense from Dublin," he muttered to himself.  With a few
strokes on his computer, he ordered distribution of the message to the
intelligence officers working the Irish section of the State
Department, Central Intelligence Agency and Pentagon.  Maybe they could
figure out what was going on.  He sure as hell couldn't.

But as the message flicked off his screen, the NSA analyst couldn't
help wondering if some unsuspecting person had just been targeted for
murder.

Chapter One

By the time Air Force Lieutenant Erin Meyer reached Washington D.C."s
National Cathedral, she was already wishing she hadn come.  There's not
one chance in a thousand somebody's going to be killed here today, she
chided herself as she wheeled her car onto the access road.

Yet here she was on the other side of the District, squandering hours
of precious time on what was Probably a noble fool's errand.  And all
because of a few cryptic sentences she'd read yesterday in an
intercepted message from Dublin.

Driving slowly in front of the broad stone steps to the cathedral's
south entrance, Erin carefully scanned the portico.  Although this St.
Patrick's Day was cold and blustery, the usual throng of visitors
trooped up and down the staircase.

Off to the left at the top of the stairs, her Searching eyes focused on
a tall, lone man, briefcase in hand, glancing to his right and left as
though looking for someone.  Even as she watched, he yanked up his coat
sleeve to peer at his wristwatch.  Her breath caught in her throat.
Could he be the one?  He was standing on the left side of the entrance,
just as the message had specified.

A chill swept through her.  Though he leaned casually against the stone
edifice behind him, the alert way he studied the faces of the crowd
told her he was waiting for someone.

Quickly Erin searched the knots of visitors, looking for someone
else--anyone--who might be a possible target.  No one stood alone the
way this man did.

Nervously, she checked her watch.  Almost twelve.  The message had
stipulated noon as the time for the neutralization.  If she was going
to act, it had to be now.  At this very instant the man at the top of
the stairs could be the target of a marksman's weapon.

Erin's muscles tightened.  Could he be Dun Aengus's man?  If so, what
was his relationship to her new stepfather, Patrick O'Shaughnessy?
Patrick's nickname was Dun Aen-gus, a childhood term of endearment
bestowed by his mother who'd compared her four-year-old's strength and
fortitude to that of an ancient Irish fortress.

If someone associated with Patrick was targeted for assassination, did
that mean Patrick was, too?  And what about her mother?

Lord, Erin hoped her mother's impulsive marriage to the Dublin
millionaire--less than six months after her first husband died--hadn't
put her in danger.  Erin's intelligence training had heightened her
already keen instinct for trouble.  The instant she'd read the message
she knew something was wrong in Dublin.

She'd tried to ignore her feeling, called herself paranoid, and told
herself Dun Aengus must refer to somebody or something else,--perhaps
the stone fortress where Patrick's' nickname originated.  Maybe the
fortress was the federal shrine mentioned in the message as the place
for the neutralization.  If so, it couldn't be the National
Cathedral--the first place that had popped into Erin's mind.

But last night Erin had had horrid dreams about some-one--was it her
mother?--being killed at the National Cathedral.  The dreams convinced
her she had to act.  No matter how cryptic the words in the message,
her gut instinct couldn't be ignored.

But she'd have to go to the cathedral alone.  Her commander would think
she was a nut if she asked for Pentagon help based on such a nebulous
intercept.  Worse, he'd probably suggest she'd he wasting valuable time
by going to the cathedral herself on a wild-goose chase--in effect,
ordering her to stay at her desk.

Slowing her car to a crawl, she surveyed the man standing alone at the
extreme side of the steps.  There was an air of isolation about his
tall figure.  In his black overcoat, against the cathedral's
light-colored limestone wall, he was a perfect target.

If her interpretation of the message was right, he was about to be
killed.  How could she help?  She was only an intelligence analyst who
wrote reports and prepared briefings.  Swallowing hard, she tried to
force down the beginning of panic welling in her throat.

Behind 'her, somebody honked, urging her to hurry.  Quickly she turned
in front of an oncoming car into the no-parking area in front of the
stone stairway and braked to a stop without turning off the engine. The
man at the top of the stairs glanced toward her and then away, still
searching the crowd.

Erin got a quick first impression of big bold features and curly black
hair.  Not a handsome man, but powerful-looking.

An Irishman, she guessed, afraid she'd been right about the message. If
this man was associated with Patrick, he would logically be Irish.
Erin's parents had been born in Ireland, and she could spot a fellow
countryman from a hundred paces.

Leaving the engine running, she shoved her door open and scrambled out
of the car.  Cold wind whipped through her gabardine uniform, chilling
her to the bone.  She raced across the sidewalk toward the massive man
at the top of the stairs.  He stared directly down at her.  Frantically
she motioned him toward her.  A look of momentary interest crossed his
rugged face, but he didn't move.

He was a big man, and she admired the way his black overcoat clung to
his powerful shoulders, the way his white scarf framed his broad chin.
In another place and time she might have flirted with him.  But not
now.  Now she had to get to him in time.  Breathing hard, she started
up the stairs.

He's massive, all right, she thought, her gaze fastened on him.  A
great target.  She had no idea what she'd say, knew only that she had
to get him away from here without mentioning the highly classified
intercept.

"Come here," she yelled at him, but still he didn't move.  Hurtling the
steps two at a time, she was halfway up when he finally took a step
toward her, a frown on his face.  A heartbeat later she heard it, the
sharp crack of gunfire.  Two shots.  One right after the other.
Limestone splintered on the wall where he'd been standing only an
instant before.  Thank God she'd come.  If he hadn't moved, he'd be
dead or seriously injured.

Beside her on the steps, a woman screamed, her terror piercing the air
like a dreadful sword.

A man yelled, "Watch out.  That guy's got a gun."  There were more
screams and a child cried out.

Heart pounding, Erin whirled around in a desperate attempt to spot the
assassin.  Someone grabbed her arm from behind, iron fingers wrapped
around the dark fabric of her uniform suit sleeve.  In sudden panic she
jerked around, her free arm raised to defend herself.  It was the man
she'd come to save.

"Quick.  Run for your car."  His controlled baritone vibrated with
authority.  "This way.  Down the side stairs to the grass."  His hand,
massive and strong, turned her away from the direction of fire to the
curve in the steps.

Icy fear twisted around Erin's heart.  Could they escape an armed
assassin?  Running in her high-heeled pumps, she had to take two wobbly
steps to every one of his.  His hand moved from her arm to her waist,
and she felt him close beside her, partly shielding her with his big
frame.

They crossed the grass at the foot of the stairs to the concrete
sidewalk.  People were still screaming, and Erin got a vague impression
of bodies hurtling away from them.  They pounded down the concrete to
her waiting car, the door still open, engine running.

"Get in," he barked.

Lungs bursting, Erin leapt inside and slid across to the passenger
seat.  He bounded in behind her and slammed the door shut, putting the
briefcase between them.

"Down on the floor," he ordered, glancing over her head through the
passenger window.  Outside, a solid line of vehicles inched toward
them.  Since she'd driven her car across traffic to get to the steps,
they were locked-in tight.  Erin gulped air into her suffocated lungs.
Were they trapped?  Would the assassin try to shoot the man--and
her--while they were inside the car?  Erin's mouth felt dry, and she
had a hard time swallowing.

"Down!  Now!"  With one quick movement he grabbed her arms and swung
her down and around so she was on the floor facing the front seat.  His
huge hands had lifted her as easily as if she were a child.

An instant later he jerked the transmission into reverse and shot
backward across the sidewalk and lawn.  Swiveling the car around, he
shifted again, blared the horn, and lurched ahead toward the
bumper-to-bumper traffic.

Crouched on the floor, unable to see, Erin expected to hear the
grinding rasp of metal on metal and braced herself for impact.  Instead
she felt the car turn and move steadily ahead, apparently merging with
the line of vehicles on the access road leaving the cathedral grounds.
She smelled exhaust fumes from the slowly moving cars, heard the
approaching scream of sirens--but no more gun shots.

Erin poked her head up.  Instantly his paw of a hand pushed her back
down.  A tremor swept through her.  Was the assassin behind them now,
determined to deliver on his contract?

"Stay down until we get away from here."  The authority in the
stranger's baritone voice matched the steely strength in his hand.
"Then we'll talk."

WHO THE DEVIL IS SHE?  Dan Donovan glanced down at the silky smooth,
flame red hair beneath his hand and from there to the silver bars on
her shoulders.  Whoever she was, she'd done him one hell of a favor.
How she'd managed to show up exactly when she did was the first thing
he needed to find out--after she told him her name.  From her car's
parking tag, he figured she worked at the Pentagon.

Lifting his hand from her head, he turned right off the access road,
heading north on Wisconsin Avenue.  The sirens screamed much louder
now.  In a minute the authorities would be at the cathedral.  Thank God
he wouldn't have to talk to them.  The last thing he wanted to do right
now was lie to the police about his business there.

Glancing away from the street, Donovan checked the rearview mirror.  No
one appeared to be following.  With one quick motion he tossed his
briefcase onto the back seat next to her uniform cap and overcoat,
giving her more room to sit down.

As soon as his hand returned to the steering wheel, she peered up at
him from the floor.  Her oval face with its high forehead, sparkling
blue eyes and prominent features glowed with vitality.  Framed by that.
shining mass of red hair, her face was distinctive, one he wouldn't
soon forget.  Too bad she wore her hair tied back.  Loose, it would
swing luxuriantly around her shoulders.  Donovan felt a stab of remorse
that he'd never see her with her hair down, would never meet her again
after this one brief encounter.

"Is anybody after us?"  In spite of the fear in her voice, it sounded
lilting, musical, more like a girl's than a woman's.  But she was no
adolescent.  When she was running up the stairs toward him, his
discerning eye had noticed the l gentle swell of breasts and hips in
her fitted uniform.  Now, seeing her up close, she looked older than
he'd first thought.  Though she had a flawless scrubbed-clean
complexion, he sensed a maturity beyond her years in the confident tilt
of her head, in the direct way she met his eyes.  Midtwenties, he
estimated.  Closer to thirty.

"We're okay.  Nobody seems to be tailing us," he said, flashing his
friendliest, most congenial smile.  Donovan was well aware of how that
smile affected women.  He used it purposely so she'd trust him enough
to tell him what she was up to.  If that meant turning on the
charm--well, he was an expert.  And, if the truth be known, he rather
enjoyed it--especially when he ran into a woman with such obvious
assets.

Her eyes widened, but otherwise she seemed unaffected by his smile.
Gracefully she managed to twist herself up onto the seat and fasten her
seat belt without showing a hint of thigh.

TOO bad, he thought, imagining her long slim legs bare to the hip. With
her sylph like figure, she was built for speed, a Thoroughbred who'd
come racing to his rescue.

How the hell had she managed to appear on the cathedral steps in the
nick of time the way she had?  The sooner he found out, the better.  If
she knew about his noon appointment, she was probably connected with
whoever had tried to rob him of the cash in his briefcase.  That must
be what the two shots were all about: someone in the crowd wanted him
out of action so an accomplice could grab his case.  Maybe she was the
accomplice and had backed out at the last minute.  Since she was so
noticeable in her uniform, that seemed unlikely, but it was too soon to
rule out any possibilities.

Had something other than robbery been the motive for the shooting?  Not
likely, he told himself.  In spite of Donovan impressive enemies list,
only a few people knew he'd be at the cathedral today at noon.  One of
them must have decided to steal the cash.

Donoran felt the woman's eyes on him but kept his gaze trained on the
street ahead of the car.  "I owe you one, Lieutenant," he said,
flashing her another appealing smile.

She didn't smile back.  "Who are you and why was somebody shooting at
you."?"

Her directness caught him by surprise and, for half an instant, he
hesitated.  He started to make up a name, intending to tell her a few
lies and walk away after he tried to find out who she was and her
connection to the thieves.  She probably wouldn't tell him, but he
wasn't worried.  With his resources he could probably find out about
her in short order.

But he decided not to give her a false identity.  Sometime in the past
few minutes he realized that, to his chagrin, he'd changed his mind
about seeing her again,

"My name's Donovan," he replied.  "As for the rest of your question, I
was hoping you'd tell me what was going on at the cathedral.  I haven't
the faintest idea.  But since you arrived in the nick of time to warn
me, you must know something I don't."

Her eyes widened and, though she tried to hide it, he heard her quick
gasp for breath.  He was right.  She must be connected with the thieves
and was scared he'd find out.

"You've got it all wrong, Donovan."  Her voice quivered with what he
interpreted as forced sincerity.  "I wasn't heading toward you.  I was
picking up a friend for lunch.  She was standing behind you under the
portico."  He could tell she was lying no matter how hard she tried to
sound sincere.

"Why couldn't your friend walk down the steps to the car?"  Though he
knew she was lying, Donovan kept his tone carefully neutral.  She'd
been calling to him, not someone else, when she'd run up the stairs
toward him.  But the last thing he wanted was a confrontation.

To his surprise, she smiled convincingly.  "She couldn't walk down the
steps because she's nearly blind-works in the cathedral gift shop.
She's probably worried sick about me right now after what happened."

"Then it was just a coincidence that you appeared when you did?"
Donovan tried to act as if he believed her.  He'd studied every person
who came near the cathedral entrance that morning.  No woman, blind or
otherwise, had stood anywhere in his vicinity.

She let her breath out in a small sigh.  "Of course it was a
coincidence.  How in the world could I know somebody was going to shoot
at you?"

He shrugged.  "Lots of ways.  You might have a friend who knew somebody
was gunning for me and talked too much.  You might have planned the
robbery yourself and changed your mind.  You might--"

"Oh, stop," she interjected.  "Do I look like the kind of person who
would be involved in an assassination?"

"Is that what it was?  An attempted assassination?"  He eyed her
shrewdly, suspicious of the rosy blush coloring her cheeks.  She knew
more than she was telling, that's for sure, and had probably used
"assassination" to throw him off the track.

"As for what kind of person you are--how would I know?  I don't even
know your name."

Her flush deepened.  "Erin--Erin Meyer.  Sorry about that, Donovan.  I
should have introduced myself sooner."

"I'm glad to meet you Erin," he said, really meaning it.  The vitality
in her face attracted him the way no woman had in a long while.  If the
attraction continued, maybe he'd put on the charm and find out what
kind of woman Erin Meyer was... After flicking the cat's turn signal,
he swung off Wisconsin Avenue onto the scenic Rock Creek Parkway that
paralleled the Potomac.  On this blustery March day, skeletal trees
along the roadway showed no sign that spring was only a few days
away.

"Of course, I'm just guessing about the assassination," she went on.
"If you don't agree, who or what do you think was behind the shots?"

"Robbery," he declared flatly, deciding she already knew about the
money.  If he leveled with her, maybe she'd level with him.  "I'm
carrying a lot of cash in my briefcase.

Somebody must have decided to steal it, even if they had to kill me."

"But you said you had no idea why you were attacked."  Bright blue eyes
stared at him quizzically.

Donovan grinned.  "That was before we were introduced.  A man has to be
careful what he says when he's carrying a lot of cash."

She hesitated a moment.  "If this was an attempted robbery, shouldn't
we notify the police?"

As she made the suggestion, Donovan sensed she wasn't any more eager to
involve the authorities than he.  Why?  he wondered.

"No," he said.  "If I report this, the police would want to know to
whom I was giving the money."

"Is that what you were doing at the cathedral?"  Erin glanced toward
the back seat where the briefcase lay next to her flight cap and
overcoat.  "Waiting for the person getting the money?"

"Right," he said cheerfully.  "Since you just saved my life, I'll let
you in on my secret."  He pulled over to the side of the road. Ignoring
the four lanes of traffic whizzing by them, he turned off the
engine..

"I'll take these keys," he said, putting them in his overcoat pocket.

"What are you going to do with them?"  The thread of tension in her
voice told him she was wondering if his secret posed a threat to her.
He smiled to himself.  Keep her guessing.  It would serve her right for
lying to him.

Opening the car door, he looked at her over his shoulder.  "I stopped
so you could drive.  After all, this is your car."

Jingling the keys in his pocket, he walked around the front of the
Buick to the passenger's side and got in.  "And a lovely car it is,
too."

She stared at him from the driver's seat.  "It's my one extravagance. I
couldn't afford it on a lieutenant's pay, but my father left me some
money when he died."

She sounds defensive, he thought, even more certain she was linked to
the thieves.  Must be afraid I'll think she got the car illegally.  If
she was involved in robberies like the one against him, that would
explain her timely arrival at the cathedral and her lies about why she
was there.  But why warn him instead of snatching the briefcase?

"Your father died recently?"  he asked, hoping to catch her in another
lie.

Her clear blue eyes narrowed.

She's like a beautiful Thoroughbred filly with a luxuriant red mane, he
thought.  But his Thoroughbred was getting impatient.

"Let's cut the chatter, Donovan.  You've made sure I'm not going to
drive off with your briefcase full of cash, so give me the keys."  Erin
stretched out a slender hand.

Silently he handed them to her, deliberately letting his fingers slide
slowly across her palm.  Startled, she jerked her hand back.  After a
quick glance at him, she started the engine and glided into traffic.

"Since you've told me about the cash, why not let me know the whole
story," she said, her voice as steady as a TV news anchors.  "Who were
you giving the money to and why?"

ERIN GLANCED AT Donovan's rugged Irish face.  She could practically see
the wheels spinning in his head trying to come up with a believable
answer to her query.

He was lying about the cash, she thought, and was not above exerting
his considerable charm to make her believe him.  His stunt with the
keys had been a transparent attempt to convince her he really was
carrying a large amount.

A disturbing thought assailed her.  What if he was telling the truth?
Maybe she was sitting next to a criminal who'd just robbed a bank.  She
couldn't dispel the notion, much as she tried to convince herself that
men in cashmere overcoats didn't run around with briefcases full of
cash from a bank robbery.

But whatever he was up to, she doubted he'd tell her, no matter how
grateful he was to her for saving his life.  Thank the lord he hadn't
wanted to call the police.  She'd never have been able to explain her
timely arrival at the cathedral-not without revealing the top secret
intercepted message, something she could never do.

"I'd planned to give the money to a congressman," he said, finally
answering her question.

Another lie.  "Congressmen have offices," she said sharply.  "Why the
cloak-and-dagger act in front of the cathedral?"  The shiver of
apprehension running down her spine was on the verge of turning into
outright fear.

He lifted a dark bushy eyebrow.  "You've heard of baksheesh?  The money
in this briefcase represents my employer's gratitude for a favor
rendered by said congressman.  For obvious reasons he didn't want the
cash delivered to his office or picked up by an aide."

Aghast, Erin stared at him.  In her book, anybody who bribed
congressmen was a crook.  Why was he admitting the crime?  And where
had the money come from?

"I suppose he chose the cathedral because he figured a church at high
noon was the least likely place to stumble upon a colleague," Erin said
sarcastically, swallowing her fear.  Donovan didn't sound threatening,
but she couldn't relax until she figured out what he was up to.

"Exactly."  The roguish smile on his face was reflected in his eyes and
voice.

Seeing his smile, Erin suddenly wished she were back at the Pentagon
where she belonged.  The sooner she got rid of him, the better.

With an effort she tried to concentrate on driving but could still see
his face in her mind while watching the traffic on the parkway.  His
hair was too black and curly, his teeth were too white, and there was a
rampant sexuality in his lusty gaze.  If she didn't watch her step
she'd find herself falling for another egotistical Irishman.

To Erin's surprise, she found herself half believing his story, and
berated herself for being conned.  The intercepted message had said
nothing about a robbery, only a neutralization.  And where was the
assassin?  Could he be somewhere behind them right now?  Anxiously she
glanced in the rearview mirror but saw nothing suspicious.

"The congressman must have done your employer an awfully big favor,"
Erin began slowly, masking her fear.  "Your briefcase is pretty
large."

He pulled thoughtfully at his earlobe.  "My employer's in heavy
construction.  The congressman got him a contract worth millions."

Erin stiffened, her hands clenching the steering wheel until her
knuckles turned white.  Though she tried to hide her reaction, she
couldn't help herself.  Her mother's new husband, Patrick, operated a
global construction company out of Dublin.  Could he be bribing
politicians for lucrative contracts?

Beside her, Donovan chuckled.  "Don't act so surprised.  Paying
baksheesh is part of doing business these days."

"It's also illegal," she protested hotly.  Though Erin had met Patrick
only briefly in Washington before her mother's wedding two weeks ago,
she'd been drawn to the beefy, charismatic Irishman on sight.

"That's why I didn't wait around for the police."  Donovan winked at
her like a fellow conspirator.  "Bribes may be illegal for a
congressman but not for my employer.  If he wants to give away a little
spare cash as a present to a friend, that's his business."

"And just who is your employer?"  As soon as Erin asked, she wished she
hadn't.  She didn't want him to suspect she had more than a casual
interest in his answer.  Worse, she hadn't needed to ask.  She could
easily find out if a man named Donovan worked for Patrick by calling
her mother in Dublin.

"With a little digging, you can find out who my employer is with no
help from me,?"  he taunted.  "But I'll tell you and save you the
trouble if you come clean with me.  Tell me why you showed up when you
did and why you thought the shooting was an attempted assassination
instead of a robbery.  Then I'll tell you who my employer is."

Erin could feel his eyes on her face, gauging her reaction.  She didn't
turn toward him.  There was no way she could tell him about the message
without revealing special or communications intelligence.  This would
be a crime punishable by jail and a big fine.  Besides, her
self-protective instincts were urging caution until she learned exactly
who Donovan was and what his relationship was to Patrick.

"I already told you the truth," she lied.  "I was meeting a friend for
lunch."

"We both know that's not true," he said easily.  "No woman was standing
behind me.  If she'd been there, I would have seen her."

"Then she must have stepped back inside to get out of the wind."
Sucking in her breath, Erin turned off the parkway and onto Wisconsin
again.  They were in Bethesda, Maryland, a suburb of Washington, where
expensive motels and businesses lined the street She headed back toward
Washington.

"Where's your hotel, Donoven?"  she asked, determined to change the
subject.  Now that she'd done her noble duty, she wanted to get away
from this arresting man and back to her secure Pentagon cubicle before
she revealed some: thing she shouldn't.

Hearing his smug chuckle, she realized she'd already revealed something
she shouldn't.

"How did you know I was based out of town?"  he asked.  "There are a
couple of big construction companies with offices right here in
Washington.  How did you know I was staying in a hotel?"

"You look like an out-of-towner," she' lied, her temper rising.  Why
did he have to catch every tiny mistake she made?  "If you'd like to
question everything I say, go ahead.  Maybe I'll answer and maybe I
won't."

"Hey, I'm sorry," he said, sounding instantly contrite.  Erin didn't
believe him for an instant.  Men like Donoven didn't say they were
sorry unless they wanted something from a woman.

"You saved my life and I'm grateful," he acknowledged.  "If you don't
want to tell me the whole story behind what you did, so be it,"
Shrugging his shoulders, he held his hands out, palms up.  "I'm sure
you have a good reason."

Though mollified, Erin kept her eyes on the street, not daring to meet
his direct gaze.  He had a way of seeing through her that both
attracted and frightened her.  This whole situation frightened her--the
intercepted message, the aborted assassination, the possible connection
with her stepfather, and not being able to report what happened to the
authorities for security reasons.

Just who was this roguish man by her side?  Who wanted to kill him and
why?  Until she had the answers, Erin wasn't about to confide in him.
She desperately needed to be alone to think things through.

"I really was meeting a friend for lunch," she insisted, determined to
stick to her story.  Even though he suspected she was lying, he would
never know for sure.

Half an hour later, after Erin dropped Donovan at a five-star hotel in
downtown Washington, she felt strangely let down when he didn't ask for
her telephone number.  If her mother confirmed that he worked for
Patrick, she'd simply have to take the initiative and arrange to see
him again.  As her only link to possible danger threatening her family,
Donovan might be hiding information she could use.  She had to find out
more about him.

IN HIS SEEDY HOTEL ROOM, the slender, wiry actor surveyed his prominent
chin and bulbous nose in the bathroom mirror.  Nobody who got a good
look at that face would ever forget it.  It was a true masterpiece.
But-then all of the actor's faces were unforgettable, masterpieces.
With good reason the press had dubbed him Chameleon, and the name had
stuck.

Without removing the disguise, he returned to the bedroom and carefully
loaded two cartridges into the empty chambers of his .357 Magnum
revolver.  He'd missed his target by a hair, squeezing off only two
shots before the crowd panicked, blocking his aim.

How that fool female lieutenant managed to show up when she did, he had
no idea.  But he intended to find out.  With her car's model and
license number, he'd obtain her name and address in short order from
his information broker.  Through the woman, he'd find his target again.
She'd made him miss this time.  He wouldn't again, even if he had to
kill both of them.

Chapter Two

Inside the hotel's luxurious peach-colored marble lobby, Donoran went
directly to a pay phone.  Without identifying himself, he asked for Mr.
Owens, a code for Donoran's Operation.

A moment later the familiar voice of his in-house contact, Michael
"Essinger, came on the line.  "Owens here."  "We need to get together
ASAP," Donoran growled.  "Did you have problems with the congressman?"
Even though this call was highly unusual, Essinger's voice showed no
emotion or curiosity, only cold-blooded interest.  Good old Mike.
Always the professional, a man Donovan could count on.

"I nearly got blown away by someone trying to rip off the cash.  An air
force lieutenant--a woman--warned me in the nick of time, or I'd be in
a drawer at the city morgue right now."

"How did she know?"

"That's what I want you to find out.  She wouldn't tell me."  Out of
habit, Donoran surveyed the phone alcove, keeping a watchful eye on the
stocky man and teenage girl who were the only other occupants. Lowering
his voice, he raised his hand to shield his mouth before he spoke
again.  "Her name is Erin Meyer.  She's a first lieutenant working at
the Pentagon.  Get me the entire story on her from the day she was
born.  I want to know how and where she fits."

An image of Erin's tall slender form flashed in Dono-van's mind.  For a
luxurious moment he let himself dwell on the gentle swell of her hips,
on her rich glowing hair.

"You think there's a connection between her and your current
assignment?"  For the first time, Essinger's voice showed a flicker of
interest.

"Got to be.  She had to know about the robbery to get to the cathedral
when she did.  There ain't no coincidences in this business, buddy. How
long to get together a package on her?"  Donovan paused, remembering
how slowly the wheels at the agency seemed to turn these days.  He was
still waiting for biographical material on O'Shaughnessy's new wife,
information he'd asked for more than two weeks ago.

"This is an emergency, Mike," he said, "Get your people off their duffs
so I'll know who the lieutenant is before she dies of old age."

Essinger sighed into the phone.  "Sorry about the delay in that other
request, old man.  Our research people were hit hard in the last
cutback."

"There better not be a delay this time."

"There won't be.  I'll have it for you tomorrow if I have to keep
somebody up all night.  Ten a.m. Lion cage at the

ZOO."

"I'll be there."

After he hung up, Donovan took another penetrating look around the
alcove.  A third person had entered, a matronly woman with a load of
packages.  At the phone next to his, she began dialing.  Without being
obvious, he left the alcove and went to the restroom.  She probably
wasn't interested in his conversation, but he was taking no chances.  A
few minutes later when he returned, she'd gone.

He dialed another number.  "Congressman Wiley, please," he told the man
who answered the phone.

"The congressman is out to lunch.  Can I take a message or have him
return your call?"

Donovan knew damned well where Wiley was and it wasn't out to lunch. He
was scurrying away from the National Cathedral as fast as his skinny
legs would carry him so nobody would connect him with the noon shooting
incident.

"I'll call back," Donovan said, hanging up before the aide could press
him for more information.  Damn!  He'd hoped Wiley would have enough
sense to go straight back to his office where Donovan could reach him.
Obviously that was an optimistic assumption.  Held have to spend the
rest of the afternoon tracking the congressman down so he could deliver
the promised baksheesh without attracting undue attention.

Donovan reached for the telephone book on a ledge under the counter.
Would Erin Meyer be listed?  There she was, Lieutenant Erin M. Meyer
with an address in a pricey condominium building near the Pentagon.
She'd said her father left her moneY.  He'd find out if she was lying
tomorrow in Mike Essinger's biographical report.

But why wait until tomorrow to learn where she worked?  Donovan glanced
down at his watch.  A mere twenty minutes had passed since she dropped
him off.  She wouldn't be at her desk yet, even if she went directly
back to work.  Good, he could call her office without talking to her.

Quickly he contacted the information operator at the Pentagon and got
Erin's extension.  When he dialed the number, the secretary answered as
he hoped she would, by giving the name of the organization instead of
the phone number.  "Western European Branch," she said.

A Wave of understanding hit him.  She worked for the Pentagon
Intelligence Agency.  So that's how she'd found out about the shooting
in time to warn him.  She hadn't been involved with the thieves after
all.  That insight made him breathe easier.

Instead of hanging up without a message as he'd intended, he left his
name with Erin's secretary and said he'd call back later.  If she'd
seen something about the planned robbery in her traffic--an intercepted
message probably--why hadn't anybody at the CIA seen it and let him
know?

And Why had she been ready to risk her life to save a total stranger?
Knowing she wasn't involved in the robbery, he saw no reason to wait
until he read the biographical report to talk to her again.  He'd worm
the information out of her over dinner tonight.  Since she'd wear
civilian clothes, she'd probably loosen her mane of red hair.  He'd
been picturing her with it tumbling about her shoulders ever since he
first saw her.  Why not get a firsthand look?

Donovan caught himself whistling a merry Irish tune as he walked away
from the alcove.

GOOD RIDDANCE, Erin huffed to herself as she drove away from Donovan's
hotel.  So what if he hadn't asked to see her again?  The last person
she needed in her life right now was a charming Irish rogue, she told
herself, but couldn't deny her disappointment.

And she did need to find out if there was a link between him and her
stepfather.  If Donovan was somehow a threat to Patrick and her mother,
Margaret, Erin needed to warn them.  And that meant she might have to
see Donovan again.

AnnoYed yet vaguely excited at the thought, Erin glanced at her watch.
Not yet two, so it would be nearing seven in Dublin.  A good time to
call her mother.  She and Patrick would be having before dinner
cocktails with friends.  Erin knew they entertained a lot because
Patrick told her he wanted to show off his new bride.  At forty-four
Margaret, an Elizabeth Taylor look-alike, was still incredibly
beautiful.

Once inside her condo, Erin headed for the sleek kitchen with its
polished black stone countertops and sparkling white cabinets.  Quickly
she fixed herself a cup of tea, settled herself on a stool at the
counter, and dialed her mother's number in Dublin.

Through the sliding glass door across the dining room, she could see
the stark outline of the Washington Monument framed against an azure
sky.  On a hill in the far distance stood the National Cathedral.  Erin
sighed.  From now on, every time she looked out that window and saw the
cathedral, she'd remember this day and her traumatic meeting with
Donovan.

"O'Shaughnessy residence," said a masculine voice Erin recognized as
belonging to the butler.

"Robert, this is Erin.  Is my mother there?"  Erin had never been to
Dublin, never met Robert or the rest of the household staff, but had
talked to them so many times, she felt she knew them.  Unable to shake
the feeling that her mother still needed looking after, Erin phoned her
almost every day.

"Yes, Miss Meyer, I'll get her," the butler said.

A moment later she heard her mother's honey-flavored contralto voice.
"Hi, darling.  Is something wrong?  You usually call later."

"Nothing's wrong, Mom.  But there's something you can tell me." Heating
her own high-pitched voice, in sharp contrast to her mother's, Erin
winced.  She hated her voice, had since she was a teenager Why couldn't
she have been blessed with her mother's resonant tones?

"Anything, love.  I'm so pleased there's something I can help you
with."  If anybody else had made such a gratuitous promise, Erin would
have doubted their sincerity.  But not her mother.  She meant every
word.  Though inclined to be flighty, she was the most honest person
Erin knew.

"I was wondering if a man named Dan Donovan works for Patrick," Erin
said.

"I'm terribly sorry, darling, but I can't answer that.  I don't know
any of Dun Aengus's men."

Erin stiffened.  Dun Aengus's men.  It was almost the same wording used
in the intercept.  Could her mother have known about the message the
NSA had intercepted?

Don't be absurd, Erin told herself.  My morn and Patrick had nothing to
do with that message.  Just the same, a kernel of doubt formed in her
mind.

"Could you ask him for me?"  she queried aloud.

Her mother hesitated.  Was she reluctant to ask her new husband such a
simple question?

"You know how Dun Aengus keeps his business totally separate from the
family," Margaret said, still hesitating.  "I know absolutely nothing
about Shamrock Construction except that Dun Aengus is the president of
the board.  He might think I'm snooping if I start asking questions."

Contrary to her mother's assumption, Erin hadn't been aware of the
separation between family and business.  She took a deep breath, trying
to be patient.  Margaret always agonized over her decisions, especially
small ones like this.

Forcing a teasing lightness into her voice, she coaxed, "Tell him I met
a man who says he's with Shamrock Construction, and I want to be sure
he's on the up-and-up before I see him again."  It wasn't the exact
truth, but close enough that Erin didn't feel guilty.

"Aha!"  Margaret said.  "Mr.  Donoran sounds interesting

"He is, but I won't see him again if you don't ask Patrick about him
for me."  Erin interjected a forlorn note into her voice and took a
long swallow of tea, knowing her last comment would send Margaret on
her way to Patrick.  Her mother's fondest dream was to see Erin settled
down and having children.

Picturing Donoran's massive frame, Erin sighed, not at all certain she
could handle a houseful of little Donorans.  Her mother was back before
Erin could expand on the fantasy.

"Yes, darling, your Dan Donovan told---"

"He's not ray Dan Donoran," Erin interrupted, annoyed and pleased at
the same time.

"At least not yet," her mother added.  "He works for Dun Aengus all
right--is a lawyer on his staff here in Dublin.  His parents were born
in Ireland, too, like yours.  Dun Aengus hired him last year to handle
American contracts."

Erin received this news with a tumble of confused thoughts and
feelings.  Since Donovan was her only link to possible danger
threatening her mother and Patrick, she'd have to see him again.  In
spite of the warmth coursing through her at the thought, instinctively
she knew he was dangerous.  Better not get involved with another Irish
rogue, she told herself.  If she was foolish enough to fall for him,
she'd wind up getting hurt.

But Erin sensed a darker danger in learning more about Donovan.  If he
was simply following Patrick's orders when he delivered illegal bribes,
that meant her stepfather was a crook.

A cold knot formed in Erin's stomach.  Had her mother's impulsive
marriage linked her to a criminal?

No.  It couldn't be.  Her fingers tightened around the receiver.

"Are you still there, darling?"  A worried quiver crept into her
mother's voice.

Suddenly Erin wanted desperately to see her face, to feel her arms
around her.  "Yes, Mom, I was just wishing I could see you talk to you
in person.  I miss you and want you to know I'm here for you if you
ever need me."  Erin found herself gripping the receiver with iron
fingers and forced herself to relax.

"You sound like you're wasting perfectly good time worrying about me
again."

In spite of herself, Erin had to smile at the teasing tone in her
mother's voice.  She had always claimed that most of Erin's worries
were unnecessary.

"Guess I'm still the family worrier," Erin agreed.  "But You seem so
far away."

"Worry no more, darling.  I'm in safe hands with Patrick here in
Dublin."

"I'll try not to, Morn.  I just wish you were closer."  "Me too, Erin.
Have fun with your Mr.  Donovan.  Patrick says he's coming back to
Dublin tomorrow afternoon so that gives you tonight.  If you like him,
maybe you can arrange to see him when you come to Dublin on leave next
summer."  She paused.  "I love you sweet girl."

"I love you too, Mom."  Erin hung up the receiver after promising to
call back the next night with a detailed report on tonight's date.

Shaking her cramped fingers to restore circulation, Erin propped her
elbows on the countertop, bowing her head and allowing the shadows she
had pushed away earlier to move in.  She couldn't ignore her feeling
that something was wrong in Dublin.  Seriously wrong.  And whatever it
was might well be linked to Donovan.  Troubled thoughts swirled in her
mind while she fixed herself a sandwich and, a little later, while she
drove back to work.

Before she phoned him, she'd better do some checking, Erin told herself
grimly as she hiked in to the Pentagon from North Parking.  Maybe
Central Intelligence had a file on Dan Donovan and on the Shamrock
Construction Company..  Any firm that bribed to get contracts might be
involved in something even more underhanded.  A Shamrock executive
working with Donovan without Patrick's knowledge might be behind the
bribes.  That must be the explanation, she thought, refusing to believe
her stepfather could be involved.

"IN ADDITION TO the messages on your desk, a man named

Donovan called.  He said he'd call back later."  The Western Europe
Branch secretary, a fiftyish woman named Rosealee Dugan, eyed Erin
knowingly.  "Sounded like a personal call."

In spite of herself, Erin felt heat in her cheeks.  Donovan must want
to see her again.  Good.  She wouldn't have to initiate the date after
all.  She couldn't help smiling at Rosealee smug expression.  If the
secretary only knew.  Erin bit the inside of her cheek.  It was best
the prey came to her.

After she'd answered the messages on her desk, she called her
counterpart, Maxaline Fallon, at the CIA on the office secure phone.
Like Erin, Max was the desk officer for the United Kingdom and Ireland.
Asking Max, a CIA analyst, to check the files for her would save Erin
the trouble of requesting them through official Pentagon channels.  It
would also avoid potentially embarrassing questions about why she
wanted them.

Erin had met Max when they were both political science majors at
Georgetown University.  Now they' talked on the secure phone almost
every day to coordinate articles and briefing items.  After exchanging
preliminary greetings, Erin got down to business.

"Can you do me a big favor and check out a couple of names, Max?.  I'd
like to know if the agency's got files on them and any info you can dig
up."

"Sounds like something personal," her friend returned, a worried tone
in her voice.  "You know the agency's policy about that."

"Not to worry," Erin insisted.  "Since it's about Ireland-our mutual
area--nobody has to know it's personal but thee and me."

"So shoot," Max said, with her usual dry wit.  "But if my butt ends up
in a sling, I'm going to hold you personally responsible."

"No chance," Erin promised, laughing.  "The first name to check is the
Shamrock Construction Company with headquarters in Dublin.  The second
is Patrick O'Shaughnessy, who runs the company as president of the
board."

Though there was no one else inside the cubicle where she sat, Erin
lowered her voice.  Checking on her mother's new husband made her feel
sour inside, and she didn't want anyone to overhear.

Max whistled softly under her breath.  "Your stepfather.  Whew, Irish,
you're really treading on thin ice."

"Nobody knows this is personal but you and me," Erin repeated firmly.
"The third name is Daniel Donovan, a lawyer who handles American
contracts out of Shamrock's Dublin office."

"Ah, now we come to the crux of the matter.  Mr.  Daniel Donovan must
be a handsome Irishman.  Does he know you're his employer's new
daughter?"

"I'm not anybody's new daughter."  In spite of herself, Erin couldn't
help snapping her reply.

Max chuckled.  "But you have met Mr.  Donovan and want to find out more
about him.  Am I right?"

"No comment," Erin said.  "Just check the files for me, will you
Max?"

"Touchy, aren't we?"  Her friend laughed again.  "Well, this is one job
I'll enjoy doing.  It's about time you stopped pining for that rat,
Brian, and started dating again.  Is he still pestering to get you
back?"

Erin didn't like being reminded of Brian, an attractive navy
lieutenant.  He'd kept her on the string until she'd found out about
two other women he also claimed to be serious about.

"I'm through with fast-talking Irishmen."  Even as Erin spoke, she knew
Donovan was just the same as Brian--exciting, adventurous and out to
get everything he could from a woman.  She almost told Max to forget
it, but her mother's beautiful oval face appeared in her mind.  If
Patrick was unknowingly involved with crooks, Erin had to find out and
warn him and her mother.  "How soon can you get back to me?"

"I'll start checking right now," Max returned.  "If we've got anything,
I should be able to tell you by tomorrow morning, but I can't promise.
Our research people are really behind."

Back at her desk Erin spent what remained of the afternoon working on
another special briefing and trying to get Donovan's compelling face
out of her mind.  With his deep chin and bold nose, he impressed her
more as strong and rugged than handsome.  But no sweet-talking
Irishman, especially Dan Donovan, was going to catch her
unawares--emotionally or otherwise.

Why didn't he call back?  Now that the regular staff had left for the
day, time was running out.  She couldn't afford to wait much longer
before calling him herself.  When the phone finally rang, she snatched
it up.  Her heart gave a little leap when she heard a man's voice.

But it wasn't Donovan.  It was the Security guard at the agency's main
entrance.  "Mrs.  Fallon is here from the CIA," he announced.

Erin's stomach tightened.  Max?  Why hadn't she called first? Something
must be wrong.

Grabbing her uniform jacket from the back of her chair, she shrugged it
on while she hurried to the agency's main entrance.

Max sat in a plush chair facing the entrance.  She jumped to her feet
when Erin burst through the door.  Dressed in a skirt and sweater, she
looked out of place in the businesslike waiting area.  "We've got to
talk, Irish."

"Not at my desk," Erin said, when Max started toward the entrance.  "I
need a break."

"Good."  Max turned toward the nearest corridor.  "You can walk me to
the River Entrance.  My cat's parked illegally outside."

"So what's up?"  Erin asked anxiously, when they'd reached the
corridor.

Max scowled.  A small woman with an elfin face, her scowls were as
frightening as growls from a toy poodle.  But this time when Max
scowled, Erin felt shivers of dread run down her spine.

"What's up is our little game," Max spluttered.  "You know those three
files you wanted?"

Apprehensively, Erin nodded.

"The agency's got files on those three names, but they weren't
available to me."

Puzzled, Erin' stared down at her friend.  "But you've got all the
clearances, just like I do."

"Not all," Max corrected.  "I've got no idea what the covert operations
people are up to.  That stuff's off-limits to me."

"Then you think Patrick and Donovan are involved in a covert
operation?"  Lowering her voice, Erin couldn't mask her surprise.

Max shrugged.  "Who knows?  My best guess is that they're informants
for our agents in Dublin."

"So why couldn't you tell me this on the phone?"  There had to be more
to Max's story.  From the grim look on her friend's face, she guessed
the rest would be unpleasant.  Today was going from bad to worse.

"Because we plunked our big feet right in the middle of something very
smelly," Max said, her high heels clicking on the marble floor.  "I'm
sorry, Irish.  Right after I put in a request for those files I
received an order to report to the director's office."

"As in CIA director?"  Every muscle in Erin's body tightened.  Max's
summons meant something was very, very wrong.

"Exactly.  He wanted to know why I requested the files.  Said he'd
already talked to my supervisor who told him I wasn't working on
anything connected with Shamrock Construction."  She paused and Erin
saw the contrition in her eyes.  "I had to tell him I was getting them
for you."

She looked so upset that Erin put an arm around her thin shoulders and
gave her a hug.  "Don't worry about it, Max.  What can they do to me?
So it's.  against policy to use classified material to check up on
family and friends.  Well, so what?"  Erin had never had a lot of
respect for the government bureaucracy.  If some colonel wanted to give
her a slap on the wrist for this minor breach of policy, so be it.

"I'm in the air force, remember?"  Erin said to herself as much as to
Max.  "They can't fire me or put me in jail just for asking to see a
couple of files.  The one I'm worried about is Patrick.  Is he really a
CIA informant, doing something so secret the agency has special files
on him and his company?"

But walking back to her office after Max left, Erin found herself
worrying not about Patrick but Donovan.  Now that she knew he might be
a CIA informant--a snitch selling secrets to CIA agents--she realized
his life might still be in danger.  Maybe he was right when he called
today's shooting an attempted robbery.  But what if he were wrong? 
Just the thought that this vital man with such a lust for life could
have that pulsating life extinguished by an assassin's bullet chilled
the very heart of her.

At her desk, Erin studied the message again.  No mention of a robbery.
Only an order to neutralize Dun Aengus's man.  Since today's attempt
had failed, would there be another?  Some way she had to warn Donovan
his robbery 'theory might be wrong--yet another compelling reason she
couldn't let him leave Washington without talking to her.  Even if he
was involved in something shady, she couldn't let him be killed.

AFTER DONOVAN HANDED the briefcase full of cash to its intended
recipient, he couldn't wait to get back to the hotel to shower.  There
was something slimy about doing business with a creep like this
congressman.  Donovan had to accept the sleaziness connected with his
work, but he didn't have to enjoy it.

Too bad he'd told Erin about the payoff, he thought as he rode the
subway from Arlington under the Potomac to the District.  He'd figured
she already knew about the cash, and that telling her the truth might
inspire her to tell him how she showed up at the cathedral in the nick
of time.  He'd sure been dead wrong about that.

In his room, he noticed the message light flashing on his phone.  Erin
must have got his message and decided to call back.  Remembering her
vitality, the way the sun glinted on her flame red hair, he smiled to
himself.

Quickly he tapped in the two-digit number to collect his messages.
"Four thirty-five p.m.," a recorded voice said.  "Call Mr.  Owens ASAP.
End of messages."

Dammit It wasn't Erin after all.  Now he'd have to put off his shower.
An order from his contact at the agency couldn't be ignored, much as
Donoran might want to.

Downstairs in the lobby, he dialed the agency and asked for Mr.  Owens.
Obviously waiting for Donoran's call, Mike Essinger picked up the
receiver on the first ring.  "Thank God!"  he said.  "I hope you
haven't talked to the lieutenant again."

"No, I just got back from the rescheduled meeting with our friend."
Donovan leaned closer to the pay phone in the lobby alcove.  For Mike
to show such emotion, something very definitely was up.  And it
involved Erin Meyer.  Were the lieutenant's pretty fingers as dirty as
his own?  "We need to talk before you see her again."  "What makes you
think I'd want to see her again?"  "I got a look at her picture."

"Well, well, well.  So you got her picture for me, too, did you?"
Donovan found himself grinning as the image of his crimson-haired
Thoroughbred flashed before his eyes.  "You really went all out on this
one."  Intrigued, Donovan swung around with his back to the phone and
rested one elbow on the counter behind him.

"We had good reason to be thorough.  Meet me in an hour outside
Blackie's on M Street.  We'll take a walk around the block and I'll
brief you."

"Fine."  Hanging up, Donovan swore softly under his breath.  He' wanted
to hear about Erin from her own lips, not Mike Essinger's.

After taking his usual precautions to avoid being followed, Donovan
arrived at the restaurant a few minutes before eight.  He joined the
small crowd of patrons on the sidewalk outside, and, without being
obvious, searched for Essinger's big, blond frame.

A moment later a black sedan pulled up at the curb.  The back door
opened and Mike leaned out and beckoned.  Donovan strode to the car and
got in.  After he shut the door behind himself, the vehicle glided
sedately into traffic.

"Change your mind about the walk around the block?"  Donovan asked.

Essinger nodded without smiling.  For a big healthy male with
everything going for him, he had to be the glummest man Donovan knew.

"The car is more secure than walking," Essinger said succinctly.

Without asking, Donovan knew the vehicle had been debugged and the
driver was clean.  He stared at Essinger's unsmiling face.

"So what's the connection between the lieutenant and Patrick
O'Shaughnessy?"  The question had gnawed at his insides since Erin Myer
had saved him from an assassin's bullet.  "It's not enough that she's
the military analyst for Ireland at the Pentagon Intelligence
Agency."

"So you've already found that out," Essinger said with a hint of
admiration.  "She's also O'Shaughnessy's new wife's daughter."

"Damn!"  Donovan pounded his fist in his palm.  He would have known who
Erin was if the agency researchers had been on the ball with his
request for information on the new wife.  "Then why isn't her name
Sullivan, like her mother's?"

"Her mother was a hippy back in the sixties.  She kept her maiden name
when she got married.  The daughter took the father's."  Essinger
paused, fingering the manila folder on the seat beside him.  "What do
you think of the lady?"

"I've never met the woman," Donovan said, mentally cursing the agency's
researchers for being so slow.

"You haven't met O'Shaughnessy's new wife?"  Essinger's voice held a
touch of disbelief.

"No, and I probably never will," Donovan replied firmly. "O'Shaughnessy
keeps his business and family carefully separated."

"Like the mafia?"  Essinger said quizzically.

"Exactly."  Donovan felt his stomach tighten.  "He also delegates
authority--like a mafia don--so he can claim ignorance if Shamrock
Construction is caught doing something illegal.  I'm still not positive
he's the man we're after."

"It might be someone else in the organization?"

"Or in the household," Donovan added.  "I haven't ruled out that
possibility, either."

"What do his family and friends call O'Shaughnessy?"  Essinger asked.

"You mean a nickname?"  Donovan re, turned, puzzled by the question. "I
suppose they call him Shawn, the way we do at work--when we see him.
He's not around much."

The car was getting hot.  Donovan took off his overcoat and laid it
beside him on the seat.

"Ever heard anybody call him Dun Aengus?"

"Not that I recall."  Donoran stared at Essinger's face, glowing
whitely in the reflected light from the oncoming traffic.  "Is it
important?"

"Here.  Read this."  Essinger handed him a piece of paper and a pen
flashlight.  "We think this is how your lieutenant found out somebody
was gunning for you."

Quickly Donoran read the paper.  It was a copy of an intercepted
message sent from a broadcasting entity in Dublin to an unknown
receiver here in Washington.  After finishing, he felt anger boiling up
inside him.  Though he tried to control it, it spilled out into his
voice.

"If you guys knew about this, why the hell didn't you warn me?"  His
angry gaze met Essinger's regretful one.  "You geniuses at the agency
almost got me killed."

Chapter Three

"Sorry."  Essinger's voice was so soft Donovan could barely hear it.
"We didn't make the connection between you and the message."

"You didn't make the connection?"  Donovan slammed his fist into his
hand again.  "Excuse me, Mike.  How many undercover agents does the
bloody CIA have in Dublin?  How many were planning to be in Washington
on St.  Patrick's Day?"

"You've got to admit the message' wasn't all that clear about the time
and place," Essinger said, his voice rising.  "Your lieutenant did a
lot of guessing to get to the cathedral today at noon."

Donovan bit back an oath.  "If that message was clear enough for her to
figure out, it should have been obvious enough for your mental giants
at Langley."

"She had information we didn't."  Essinger's blue eyes met Donovan's
head-on.

Donovan could hardly believe his ears.  He stared incredulously at his
contact.  "You mean the nickname?  You had a hell of a lot of
information she didn't--what I'm doing in Dublin, for starters."

"Maybe she knows more than you think," Essinger suggested, with a sage
nod of his blond head.  "She's part of the clan now.  Both she and her
mother are probably in cahoots with the new man of the family."

Sliding away from Essinger, Donovan leaned against the car door.  "I've
already.  told you I've found nothing to incriminate O'Shaughnessy.
Besides, if he sent-the message, he'd never use his own nickname--too
incriminating."

"But it was in code.  He didn't expect anyone but the recipient to read
it."

"True," Donovan agreed reluctantly.  "Since his family nickname was
used in the message, the person we want might be part of the
household--not the business."

"O'Shaughnessy's the only person who's part of both the business and
the household," Essinger pressured, his square face gleaming whitely in
the lights from an oncoming car.  "Whoever sent this message is gunning
for you.  Does anybody suspect you're a plant?"

Donovan glanced at the message again, then shook his head.  "Definitely
not.  I'd never have been trusted with this delivery job today if
anybody in the organization had the faintest suspicion I was
undercover.  I still think the motive for the shooting was robbery.
Somebody at Shamrock found out about the cash delivery and decided he
needed the money more than the congressman."

"Have any idea who?"  Essinger asked.

Donovan shook his head.  "No, but I'm betting it was somebody in the
household, someone I don't know."

"The message doesn't say anything about a robbery."  Essinger bent
forward and spoke to the driver.  "You can start back downtown, Ed."

Obediently, the driver swung the car around a co ruer and started
toward Donovan's hotel.

Donovan shrugged his shoulders.  "This message set the time and place.
Period.  The other details must have been worked out elsewhere.  That's
why it says nothing about the robbery per se."

"Maybe you're right," Essinger said thoughtfully.  "You carried a lot
of cash, and stealing it's a damn good reason for somebody to take a
shot at you.  Was the cash clean?"

As clean as a whistle.  I took it out of a Shamrock safe-deposit box in
Washington this morning."

"Whoever's running this operation knew better than to use dirty money
to pay off the congressman."  Reflecting, Essinger leaned forward, one
hand on his hip.  "Though it's too late to pull you out now without
arousing suspicion, maybe we were barking up the wrong tree by getting
you on the company staff.  Like you said, the person we're after might
be part of the household.  Any way you can get an in ?"

"Not likely, unless..."

"Unless what?"

"The new wife.  Since her daughter saved my life, she'll at least want
to know who I am."

"And she probably has a good idea what her husband's up to."  Essinger
studied Donovan's face.  "The daughter can give you the in you're
looking for.  How soon do you have to be back in Dublin?"

"My plane leaves tomorrow afternoon."

"That gives you tonight."  Essinger frowned as though daring Donovan to
protest.

But protest was the farthest thing from Donovan's mind.  His anger
vanished, and he couldn't help smiling.  "Why Mike, old buddy, are you
suggesting a reputable CIA agent prostitute himself in the line of
duty?"

Essinger didn't smile back.  "It wouldn't be the first time."  He
handed Donovan a sealed manila envelope.  "Take a look at this
biographical report on the lieutenant.  Then do whatever you have to to
know her personally.  Maybe she'll tell her mother about you and
that'll give you an entree to the household.  Even if she doesn't,
you'll still have a good excuse to get acquainted with the old lady."

Donovan reached out and shook Essinger's hand.  "Thanks, good buddy.  I
can't think of an assignment I'd like better."

Still smiling, Donovan leaned back, relaxing against the plush car
seat.  He visualized Erin's trim form and flaming hair.  Yep.  A
perfect assignment.

FOR A LONG MOMENT Erin stared at the phone on her desk, poised to tap
out the numbers for Donovan's hotel.  She had to see him tonight, had
to find out what she could about Shamrock Construction and her new
stepfather.

If both Patrick and Donovan were CIA informants, as she suspected, the
reason for the assassination attempt against Donovan became
disturbingly clear.  Somebody had found out.  And if somebody wanted
the snitching to stop, Patrick was in even greater danger than Donovan.
Both men had to be warned.

She reached for the receiver.  Before she could pick it up, the phone
rang.  Her heart skipped a beat.  Something told her it was Donovan.

"Lieutenant Meyer," she said quickly.

"Donovan here," he returned.  His voice sounded exactly as she
remembered: resonant and impressive with a touch of laughter.  She was
so happy to hear him she felt like hugging herself---or better yet,
caressing him.  Now that he'd called her, she was saved the
embarrassment of chasing after him.

Though Donovan was a rogue, Erin knew she had to see him tonight.  His
and Patrick's lives--and maybe her mother's as well--might depend on
what she could find out from him, and how much she could tell him.

"Have you had dinner?"  he asked, his hearty voice sending an excited
ripple down her spine.

"No, just a sandwich, I'd love to have dinner with you."  Maybe she
shouldn't appear so eager, but Erin didn't believe in beating around
the bush.  The sooner they talked, the better.

"Good!"  he exclaimed.

She thrilled at the gladness in his voice.

"How soon can I pick you up?"

Mentally Erin measured the work left to do.  Like magic, the briefing
had shrunk to manageable proportions.  "Nine o'clock at my condo."

"I'll be there."  He was about to hang up.

"Wait!"  she cried, suddenly worried that something would go wrong and
he wouldn't show up.  "Do you know my address?"

"I found it in the phone book."  He paused.  "Bring a good appetite."

Erin couldn't stop the sudden rush of excitement that shot through her
at the thought of an evening together.  Too bad Dan Donovan was
dangerous ... in more ways than one.

WHEN HE LEFT the phone alcove, Donovan glanced around as was his habit.
No one was near.  He puckered his lips and began whistling as he strode
away from the alcove.

Erin was dying to see him.  He could hear it in her voice, in the
breathy way she talked.  In his mind he pictured her long slim legs
when she ran toward him up the cathedral stairs.  Their date promised
to be one of the most interesting assignments he'd had in a long time.
Undercover work might have its sleazy side, but occasional rewards like
tonight made the business easier to swallow.

Walking across the lobby to the elevators, he resisted the urge to sink
down on one of the luxurious silk-covered sofas and rip open the sealed
manila envelope Essinger had given him.  Erin's bio would have to wait
until he got upstairs.

Inside his room, he switched on the floor lamp, settled in a
comfortable armchair, and skimmed through the report with the speed of
an experienced undercover operative.

Erin was illegitimate, he read with interest, born to Margaret
Sullivan, the teenage daughter of Irish immigrants, and a young soldier
named Kevin Riley from nearby Fort Benning, Georgia.  Riley, who
shipped off to Vietnam without marrying Margaret, was killed in
action.

Probably didn't know she was pregnant, Donovan thought, forcing down a
flicker of sympathy for the two young lovers.  He was constantly
annoyed with himself for letting things like that get to him.

As he continued reading, Donoran saw no reason to feel sorry for Erin's
mother.  A year after her daughter's birth, she had married George
Meyer, an army major fifteen years older than she.  He had adopted Erin
shortly after their marriage.  While still on active duty as a
lieutenant general, he had died suddenly less than a year ago.

Donovan looked up from the report.  So that's where the name Meyer came
from.  Erin had taken her adoptive father's name even though her mother
had retained her maiden name, Sullivan.  With no other children,
General Meyer had left Erin an estate believed worth about half a
million dollars, mostly invested conservatively.  His widow got the
rest.

After scanning the report one last time, Donoran tore it up in small
pieces and flushed it down the toilet.

DONOVAN HAD TO BE the sexiest man she'd ever seen, Erin decided,
settling next to him in the back seat of the taxi.  His black overcoat
clung to his broad shoulders, and his green tie made his blue eyes take
on a buoyant greenish hue.  Smiling, he beamed the full Donovan charm
straight at her.  Even though she suspected he flashed smiles at every
woman he met, she couldn't help smiling back.  He fairly bubbled with
Irish good spirits.  His infectious charm warmed her in spite of the
blustery March weather and her determination to stay on course.

Seduced by his charm, Erin forced herself to concentrate on her
objectives for tonight: warn him yesterday's shooting might be an
assassination attempt, find out what illegal activities he was involved
in and determine what threat he and his associates posed to Patrick
and, by extension, to her mother.

"Where to, fair lady?"  he asked.  "You're the native in these parts."
"On St.  Patrick's day, there's no place like Georgetown," she replied,
laughing.  "We can barhop until we find a good place to eat."

"A woman after my own heart," Donovan said cheerfully.  "Georgetown,"
he told the cabbie.

The middle-aged driver turned in his seat to stare at-them.  "That
place is a madhouse tonight."

"I know."  Erin smiled fondly, remembering her days at Georgetown
University.  Georgetown was the historic original area of Washington
where the university was lOCated.  Its main street--Wisconsin
Avenue--boasted upscale shops, pubs and restaurants.  "You can let us
out before we get to Wisconsin."

"You sound like you've been to Georgetown before on St.  Patrick's
Day," Donovan commented, as the taxi sped toward Memorial Bridge.

"Yes, I went to Georgetown University.  We all used the wearing of the
green as an excuse for a big celebration--but then almost any holiday
was."

You're already having too good a time, she warned herself, fighting the
glow of his nearness.

"The cab 'driver's right," she said, more to dampen her own enthusiasm
than his.  "The streets around the university will be jammed."

"You must have majored in something like POlitical science to get your
job at the Pentagon Intelligence Agency."  His tone sounded
matter-of-fact.

She nodded, matching his casualness with pretended candor.  "How did
you find out where I worked?"

"Simple."  Something inside her melted when he flashed his broad smile
at her again.  "From your parking sticker I figured you were assigned
somewhere at the Pentagon.  So I checked with Pentagon Information.
Voila!  They gave me your extension."

"Why didn't you just ask me for my phone number?  Wouldn't that have
been easier?"  Growing more suspicious, Erin struggled to maintain her
casual tone.  Why had Donovan gone to 'so much trouble to get her
number when he could have had it by asking?  Erin had the uncomfortable
feeling that he'd been checking up on her--the same way she'd been
checking on him.  But that didn't make sense.  She told herself not to
be paranoid.

He assumed a woebegone expression.  "But what if you'd refused to give
it to me.  My heart would have been broken."

"Be serious, Donovan.  I really want to know why you didn't ask me."
Erin leaned toward him, ever more certain he'd been checking up on her.
She'd have to watch her step tonight.

"All right then.  Since you insist, I'll tell you."  His intense blue
eyes stared into hers.  "The only reason to ask for your number would
be to see you tonight.  Not a good idea since I'm leaving Washington
tomorrow afternoon.  One night together wouldn't be enough for me,
Erin.  When a lady attracts me as much as you do, I want to see more of
her than that--much more."

The not unpleasant melting sensation Erin had felt before flowed
downward, pooling in her loins.  Embarrassed by his frankness, she
looked at her hands, clasped neatly in her lap.

"So what changed your mind about phoning me?"  Listening to his
seductive voice, she reminded herself he was a scoundrel involved in
making illegal bribes.

"After you dropped me off this afternoon, I found out something
interesting about you that gave me hope."  Apprehensive, Erin held her
breath.  "What... ?"

"After a little research, I found out you're General Meyer's daughter,"
Donovan continued.

Letting her breath out in a long sigh, she scowled across the taxi seat
at him.  "So that's how you spent your afternoon?  Checking up on me?"
She wasn't sure whether to be pleased or annoyed that he'd gone to the
trouble.

"Damned right."  Matching her scowl, he tugged his earlobe with his
fingers.  "I wanted to find out everything I could about the lady who
saved my life.  Do you blame me?"

Embarrassed by his gratitude, Erin was glad for the semi-darkness in
the taxi that hid the flush on her cheeks.  "So whom did you ask about
me?"

"Nobody," he replied, after a moment's hesitation.  "I figured somebody
who saved a stranger on the steps of the National Cathedral might have
performed other deeds worthy of media attention.  So I spent a couple
of hours in the morgue at the Washington Post."

Comprehension swept over Erin.  Searching newspaper files was so
logical, she had to believe him.  "And of course you.  read the article
about my father's death.  It mentioned both me and my mother."

"Yes," he.  said, nodding.  "And Margaret Sullivan, the general's
widow, just married my boss, Shawn O'Shaughnessy."  Obviously proud of
his detective work, he moved closer to her on the taxi seat.  "So
there's a good chance we'll see each other again in Dublin when you
visit your mother--if things go my way, and you want to see me again."
His dark blue eyes clung to hers, as if analyzing her reaction.

Erin nodded.  She couldn't stop herself.  He might be a scoundrel, but
she couldn't help reacting to his bold good looks, to the controlled
strength she sensed in his muscular body.

"I just found out you worked for Patrick this afternoon myself," she
said breathlessly, impressed that he'd discovered the connection
between them.  "When I talked to my mother."  '

"Then you've already told your mother about me?"  For some reason this
seemed to please him.  Maybe he figured a good word from
O'Shaughnessy's wife would give him an in with his boss.

"Yes," she said lightly.  "I talk to her almost every day."  "Lo and
behold, my employer's new wife turns out to be your mother.  My, my,
my.  Isn't it an amazing Coincidence that we ran into each other at the
cathedral this morning?"  His eyes were completely guileless.  But Erin
heard the teasing tone in his voice and realized he knew her daring
rescue was more than a coincidence.

"It wasn't exactly a coincidence," she began, an unwelcome warmth
flooding her face again.  What was there about this man that kept her
continually flushed with embarrassment?

"Faith!"  he exclaimed, imitating an Irish accent.  "Then 'twas a tiny
fib you were tellin' me about the blind woman in the gift shop?"

In spite of herself, Erin had to smile at his perfect Irish brogue.
Sobering, she glanced at the taxi driver.  Though his back was to them,
she suspected he'd listened to everything they said.  Her explanation
would have to wait.

"I'm ashamed to say you're right," she admitted.  "I'll tell you the
whole story when we get to Georgetown?"

THE IRISH AND THEIR admirers--everybody who wore green once a year on
St.  Patrick's Day--turned out in force in Georgetown tonight.  Added
to them were the thousands of students who milled in the streets
blocking traffic, roaming in packs from bar to bar, drinking green beer
from foam cups.  This time of night, the area was strangled by total
gridlock.  The cab couldn't get near Wisconsin Avenue.  They got out
blocks from where they wanted to be.

"Sure you don't mind walking?"  Donovan eyed Erin's long slim legs and
high-heeled pumps.  With her red hair bouncing over the shoulders of
her white leather coat, she looked even better in civilian clothes than
he'd imagined.

"Not if you don't mind slowing down so I can keep up with you."  She
didn't seem put off by the prospect of barging into the huge crowd
ahead.  In the distance, he heard loud music and laughter as people
looking for a good time choked the main street.

With a jolt, Donovan realized he'd been paying more attention io Erin
than to vehicles in their vicinity.  Had they been followed?  Well,
they'd be less obvious targets once they melted into the crowd.
Deliberately he set as fast a pace as Erin could manage.  ;

"So give," he said, wondering if she'd tell the truth about getting her
information from an intercepted message.  Not if she's a loyal
American, he thought, well aware of the stringent security restrictions
'that guarded communications intelligence.  "What's the story behind
your timely arrival at the cathedral?"

She hesitated.  He thought she was going to chicken out on him and not
answer.  "Since you know I'm an analyst at the Pentagon Intelligence
Agency, you've probably already guessed," she said in her lyrical
voice.

"Why don't you tell me, so we can see if I'm right?"  "I can't give you
any specifics about sources," she began slowly.  "Most of the material
I work with is classified."

Good girl.  He thought, unexpectedly relieved she wouldn't identify her
source.  "Then tell me what you can."

"I saw references in my reports that made me think one of Patrick's
associates would be the target of an assassin today near the National
Cathedral.  When I saw you alone and obviously waiting for someone, I
suspected you were the one."

"Then it was more an off-the-wall hunch than anything definite?"  he
asked.  Though she referred to reports, she must have based her hunch
on that one intercepted message, just as Mike Essinger thought.

Erin gave a self-conscious little laugh.  "It was so off-the-wall that
I didn't bother trying to tell anyone.  If I'd told my division chief
what I was going to do, he would have thought I was a real nut case.
The report was so iffy, I almost didn't go."

"Lucky for me you did."  He watched an embarrassed smile tremble over
her lips and had an urge to embrace her.  With her hair curling over
her shoulders, she looked unexpectedly vulnerable.  Catching her hand,
he drew it over his arm so they could walk faster.  Erin brushed
against his side, and a warm protective feeling washed over him.  Damn.
If they'd been followed, she was in as much danger as he.  Why hadn't
he been more alert to nearby vehicles while they were in the cab?

When they reached the milling crowd on Wisconsin, they threaded their
way single file through the shoulder-to-shoulder mass of humanity.

"I know the bartender at Mickey's Pub," Erin said over her shoulder.
"They've got great steaks.  He'll find us a table."

Donovan held tightly to her hand, enjoying the excuse to touch her.  He
knew if they got separated, they'd never find each other again.

"Let's go for it," he yelled at her back, admiring the way she
maneuvered through the crowd.  Kids holding sloshing cups of beer
stumbled into her, but none of the green liquid spilled on her white
leather coat.  Donovan's cashmere overcoat already had soaked up two
major spills.  The yeasty smell made him thirsty and even hungrier than
before.

When they finally reached Mickey's, Erin pushed the stained glass door
open and they went in.  After the bright streetlights outside, the
place seemed dark and hot, and the beer smell that had enticed Donovan
in the cold March air hung heavily in the jammed room.

People were packed three-deep at the bar.  Standing on her tiptoes,
Erin waved at one of the bartenders.  Grizzled, his hair iron gray, he
looked like the Ancient Mariner compared to the other two
bartenders--and to most of the tavern's other patrons.  Donovan watched
him meet Erin's eyes and incline his head toward a half-open door at
the end of the bar.

Edging after her through the crowd, Donovan let his gaze swing over his
shoulder to the throng behind him.  Most were students, if the
Georgetown and George Washington logos on their sweatshirts could be
believed.  He stiffened.  Standing near the street entrance lounged a
man whose face he recognized.  Donovan caught only a glimpse of his
profile as the man looked away, but he'd seen that bulbous nose and
jutting chin yesterday on the cathedral stairs, only seconds before the
shots were fired.

The assassin.  It had to be him.  The same man showing up at two such
different places was too much of a coincidence.  Though the man wore a
college sweatshirt under an open ski jacket and did his best to melt
into the crowd, Donovan knew he wasn't wrong.  His sharp eyes and
strong survival instinct had saved him too many times to doubt them.
Somehow the assassin had managed to follow them here.  Sometime tonight
he planned to finish his contract.

If Donor, an hadn't been with Erin, he would have set a trap for the
bastard, one that would have put him in either the morgue or a
hospital.  But with Erin here, he'd have to wait.  He balled his hands
into fists.  Dammit.  The SOB might be after her, too, since she was
now part of O'Shaughnessy's familY.  His clenched fists made him
realize he no longer held Erin's hand.  He stiffened, his body rigid
with fear.

Where was she?  Somehow her hand had slipped out of his grasp, and he'd
lost sight of her.  Then he noticed her standing near the door to what
was probably the restaurant section of the pub.  A pack of unruly
students stood between them.

"Hey, take it easy, man," one said, as Donoran elbowed his way
through.

"Sorry," he flung over his shoulder with a broad smile.  The last thing
he needed was a confrontation with a drunk college kid.  He reached the
door half an instant behind Erin.

"Is there a back way out of' this place?"  he asked, as they entered
the dining room.  With a practised eye, he glanced around.  Dark heavy
wood furniture.  Tablecloths.

Dim lights.  Though crowded, it wasn't as chaotic as the bar.

Erin gave him a curious look.  "Why?  Do we need to leave in a
hurry?"

"A big hurry," he said.  "The guy who shot at me is out front."

Her eyes widened.  "What're we going to do?"

"Run like hell."

Chapter Four

Straight ahead, at the rear of the dining room, Erin spotted a door
with an Exit sign.  Donovan jerked her hand, pulling her toward it.

"Hurry!"  he yelled.

As she started running, her arm hit something solid.  A man swore.  She
heard a tremendous clatter but didn't look around to see who or what
she'd struck, only kept her eyes glued to Donovan's broad back.  Terror
sat on her shoulder like a grinning gargoyle.  Gasping for breath, she
took the last few steps to the exit door.

Emergency Only, a sign read.  Ahead of her, Donovan shoved the door
open.  Instantly the blaring screech of a security alarm rent the chill
night air.  Thank God!  Now that an alarm had sounded, the police would
be coming soon.  But would they be in time to save them from the
monster behind them?

A heartbeat later, Donovan yanked her through the door and slammed it
shut behind them.  Then he began to run, pulling Erin along behind him.
Her legs felt like chunks of wood, and her feet--in high heeled
pumps---had no feeling at all.  She stumbled, started to fall, but he
caught her upper arm.  She gasped, panting in terror.

"I've got you!"  he exclaimed, holding her erect.

"Go without me," she screamed.  "He's after you not me."  But Donovan
held tightly to her arm.

"Keep running," he yelled.

Behind her, Erin heard a door slam and knew instinctively that the
assassin had joined them in the dark alley.  If Donovan were a CIA
informant, maybe he had a gun.  If he didn't, they were finished.
Mickey's Pub stood in the center of a long block of buildings with no
space between them.  All the rear doors would be locked from the
inside.  There was no way they could get out of the alley before the
assassin got close enough to aim and fire.  In this dark place her
white coat would attract him like a beacon.

They were done for.  Despair and bone-chilling fright swept over Erin
as she realized they had no escape.

Then, directly ahead, a sliver of light angled into the alley from an
open door, cracked slightly to let in the fresh night air.  Donovan
headed for it and yanked the door wide open.

Erin blinked at the brightness.  Black images swam before her eyes.
Donovan slammed the door shut behind them.

"Hey, you can't cut through here," someone said in a deep bass voice.
Erin's eyes focused on a huge man in a cook's uniform.  His towering
white hat made him appear even more immense.

"Help us," she screamed, her heart beating frantically.  "Somene's
trying to kill us."

"He's armed," Donovan shouted.  Even as he spoke, bullets pierced the
door, destroying the lock.

"Move!"  the cook yelled at his two helpers, who were nearly as big as
he.  "Get on either side of the door--flat against the wall."

When the door burst open, the three men were waiting,

as if they'd done this before.  The assassin bolted right into their
arms.  Erin got a good look at him.  Of medium height, he had a wiry
build.  But his nose and chin were so predominant she knew she'd
recognize him anywhere.

Working with easy coordination, the two assistants held him while the
head cook delivered a smashing kick to his groin.  The assassin let out
a piercing scream.  His weapon clattered to the floor.

"Damn you" he raged at Erin as he doubled over.  "I'll get you for
warning him."  His odd toneless voice, with its promise of vengeful
violence, echoed in her mind like some appalling screech.  She'd never
forget it as long as she lived.

The cook picked up the gun and tossed it to Donovan.  "If you folks
want to hold him for the police, go back to the alley.  We've got a
houseful of hungry people to feed.  But we'll get this creep out of
here and call 911 for you."

With a mighty heave-ho, the two assistants tossed the injured man
bodily through the door.

Certain the assassin was too badly hurt to leave the alley, Donovan
paused to shake the cook's hand.  "Thanks, friend.  We owe you-one.
That guy was out to kill us."

"No thanks needed," the big man returned.  He grinned, showing gleaming
white teeth against his dark skin.  "We threw him out the way we do
drunks who spot our open door.  Now, get the hell outa here so we can
get back to work."  He shoved the alley door wide-open.

Erin followed Donovan through.  She expected to see the assassin's
crumpled body lying outside, but nobody was there.

A jolt of pure fear shook her body.  "Where'd he go?  He looked so---so
crippled--how could he have got up and walked away?  What if he's
hiding in the shadows, waiting for us?"  She couldn't believe her
squeaky voice.  "He might have another gun."

Donovan spun around, his back to the wall, and peered up and down the
alley.  "He's gone.  Dammit!"  The kitchen door still stood ajar.
Taking Erin's hand he pulled her back into the room.

"Our bird flew the coop," Donovan told the cooks, as he and Erin walked
past stainless steel counters laden with food.

The head cook's face showed surprise.  "Then I won't bother calling the
police.  I should've kicked him again.  He must be one helluva actor.
From the way he yelled, I thought the kick I gave him would send him to
emergency."  He nodded toward a swinging door.  Erin and Donovan went
through to a dimly lighted hallway.

Glancing nervously over her shoulder, Erin half expected the assassin
to come charging through the swinging door.  Now that they'd reached
relative safety, her legs felt weak.  She grabbed Donovan's arm, afraid
of failing.

He stared down at her, his eyes wide with concern.  "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," she answered, swallowing her fear, but she still clung to
him.  They had a way to go before they were home free.  She didn't want
to slow them down any more than she already had.

"Good girl," he said, but his blue eyes held hers, as though he felt
her fear.  Firmly gripping his arm, she let him lead her out to the
street.

"We really should report this," Erin said, after they'd joined the
milling crowd.  Though not sure she was ready to face a police
interrogation and the publicity that might follow, her strong sense of
right and wrong told her the police should be informed.

But when Donovan explained again that he didn't want the bribed
congressman involved, she didn't press the point.  Civilian authorities
would want to know how she showed up at the cathedral when she did.  If
she lied or refused to talk to protect the top secret message, she'd
find herself in legal hot water--something she didn't need right now,
and neither did Donovan.  Anyway, the assassin was either gone, or had
melted into the disorderly throng.

Wisconsin Avenue had become even rowdier and more crowded now that
midnight was approaching.  Slowly they made their way up the hill
through the crowd.  Donovan finally flagged down a cab on M Street.
With great relief, Erin climbed inside.

They changed taxis' twice before heading across the Fourteenth Street
Bridge to Virginia.  Near Bailey's Crossroads they found an all-night
restaurant that seemed strangely empty after the Georgetown crowds.

Once settled in a booth with a cup of hot coffee in her hands and
Donovan beside her, Erin felt some of the tension drain out of her. She
was aware of his nearness, of the faint wool smell from his jacket now
that he'd removed his overcoat.  They'd just been attacked by an
assassin.  They'd had to run for their lives.  But with Donovan next to
her, she had the illogical feeling that no one could hurt her.

He shot her a piercing glance.  "You're okay, aren't you?  It's not
every day an armed man comes after you."

"I'm fine."  She was thankful her voice didn't quiver.  "But you owe
me, Donovan.  Tell me what's going on.  Twice in one day that man comes
after you.  And this time you didn't have a briefcase full of cash--so
robbery's out."

He gave her such a quizzical look that Erin wondered if she'd said
something wrong.

"I honestly don't know what's going on," he said, his dark eyebrows
slanted in a frown.  "Before tonight I would've sworn the motive was
robbery, but now I'm not so sure."

Doubt deepened the lines on his face.  Erin eyed him anxiously,
wondering how to warn him he'd been targeted for assassination.  She
had a sudden impulse to smooth out the creases in his forehead and
around his mouth with her fingers.  Instead, she put her hand on the
table next to his, wanting to touch him, but careful not to let her
skin brush his.

"Have you got enemies who might hire someone to kill you?"  she
asked.

"Every lawyer's got enemies," he returned.  "And several of mine would
like to see me dead.  The trick is knowing which one."

After a quick sideways glance at her, he closed his hand over hers. His
warmth seemed to travel Up her arm and race through her bloodstream.

Glancing down at their hands, intertwined on the table, Erin took a
deep breath.  He was accepting her warning better than she'd hoped, but
she had to be sure he understood exactly what she was saying.

"Then you agree the noon shooting might have been an assassination
attempt instead of a robbery?"  she asked anxiously.

"Is that what your intelligence report said?"

His reply was so quick that she pulled her hand away and took a long
swallow of hot coffee to give herself time to think.  Did she dare
answer him?  Yes, she decided, as long as she didn't reveal the report
was an intercepted message.

"My source used the word neutralization," she said.  "In my book, that
means assassination."

He nodded, his eyes brimming with understanding.  "You must have been
scared witless knowing a paid hit man was after us in that dark
alley."

"Not so much at first," she said, looking down at her coffee cup. "Then
I realized you weren't armed."

He lifted a heavy eyebrow and Erin's heart dropped.  Had she put her
foot in her mouth again?

"What made you think I might have a gun?"  he asked quietly.  "Did your
mother say something about O'Shaughnessy's people carrying weapons?"

"Why--why no, she didn't."  Puzzled, Erin stared at him.

"Then why did you think I had one?"  Though his smile was as charming
as ever, she sensed his uneasiness.

"I--I guess you just look like a man who would own a gun," she said
lamely.  She couldn't very well tell him she suspected he was a CIA
informant who might carry a weapon.  That information was sure to be
classified.

"C'mon now, Erin," he said in his beguiling way.  "After what we've
been through tonight, surely you can trust me with the truth."  Tilting
his head to one side, he waited expectantly.

What harm would it do to tell him she knew he was an informant?  she
wondered.  Telling him couldn't possibly hurt Patrick or her mother.
And it might make him more open with her.  She had to take a few risks
if she expected to learn anything of value from him.  And rogue though
Donovan was, Erin yearned to trust him and feel closer.

But did she dare?

CHAMELEON REPORTED his St.  Patrick's Day failures after he left
Georgetown.  Following the usual procedure, he used a pay phone to call
Dublin.  The number he dialed, reserved for his use only, was answered
by a machine that recorded his short message.

Mission unsuccessful, he said into the phone.  First try foiled by
female lieutenant who knew time and place.  Traced woman and, through
following her, located Dun Aengus's man again.  Second try also
unsuccessful.  Request instructions.

From downtown Washington, Chameleon drove to the brownstone house in
Falls Church, Virginia, where he'd received orders for this contract.
During the half hour ride, a message answering his phone call had
arrived.  As usual, he saw no one outside the shadowy building 'or
inside the elegant gold-and-white reception room.  Beyond, in the
spacious living room, a fire crackled in the marble fireplace.

The message, in an envelope addressed to Mr.  Smith, lay on a small
table in the high-ceilinged reception room.  Chameleon ripped the
envelope open.

Mission terminated, read the printed words on the page inside.
Never--repeat--never make second try if first fails.  Report to
office

ASAP.

From a previous letter, Chameleon recognized office as the code word
for his contact in Dublin.  Humiliated, he strode out of the building
to his car.  He'd just been reprimanded for tonight's work in
Georgetown.  And he knew who to blame.  Orders or no orders, he'd get
even with the lieutenant.  There were some things he did on his own,
just for the fun of it.  Taking care of the woman would be one of
them.

But first he had to get to Dublin.  Was he finally going to meet his
elusive employer face-to-face?

DONOVAN EYED Erin's untouched food.  She'd drunk most of her coffee,
but hadn't done more than poke at the slice of ham and scrambled eggs
on her plate.

Damn!  He hoped she was ups.  et by the lies she'd told' him and not by
their frightening experience tonight.  Once Donovan realized his
question about the gun made her nervous, he was determined to put on
the pressure until she told him the truth.  But he didn't want to scare
her, not after what they'd just been through.  He'd question her in his
own uniquely beguiling way, he decided, so she'd end up wanting to tell
him why she thought he had a gun.

"So you think I look like a man who would carry a gun."  He forced a
woebegone expression that women found hard to resist.  "I'm not sure
whether to feel glad or sorry."  '

She glanced at him without smiling.  "I shouldn't have said that,
Donoran."

"But that's what you believed."  He moved closer to her on the bench
seat, close enough to feel her body heat.  To his dismay, his own body
responded with the beginnings of an arousal he seemed powerless to
control.

"What I need to find out now is why you thought so.  It could be
important, Erin.  Since somebody's gunning for me, I need to know
everything you can tell me."

Erin's wide-eyed expression reflected a confused mix of dismay and
apprehension.  Her hair was tousled, her face ruddy in the restaurant's
bright lights.  Wearing her green silk dress, she looked more like a
fashion model than an air force lieutenant.

Donoran reminded himself that, in spite of her alluring appearance, she
was a military officer with information he needed.  She wanted to talk,
he could see that.  But something was tying her tongue.

"If you're holding back information because it was in that classified
report, just tell me generally without identifying your source," he
urged.  Forcing himself to ignore the warmth in his loins, he took a
long swallow of coffee.  "The way you did before."

Since Donovan had read the intercepted message, he knew it contained
nothing specific about him personally.  Could she have seen something
else that identified him as a man who would carry a weapon?

Not likely, he told himself.  Central Intelligence received the same
reports the Pentagon did.  If Mike Essinger had seen anything about
Donovan, he'd have mentioned it.  Still, the agency.  researchers
hadn't been on their toes lately.  Perhaps key intelligence had been
overlooked.

"The information wasn't in the report I told you about," she replied.
Her voice was so quiet he had to strain to hear her.

"Doesn't matter where it came from."  Doing his best to reassure her,
he caught her hand again.  She didn't pull away.  "Just tell me what
you know."

From her nearly imperceptible nod, he knew she'd made up her mind to
tell him.  Though he didn't let his relief show, he could feel it
bubbling inside him along with his heightened awareness.  Just touching
her hand stirred him anew.

"This is more about what wasn't there, than what was."  An impish smile
replaced her confused look.

Understanding flooded in.  "You checked up on me?"  She nodded.  "With
the CIA biographical people.  Don't look so horrified.  You did the
same thing to me at the Post morgue."

Donovan twisted his face into what he hoped was a congenial smile. Damn
those researchers if they'd let anything slip.  This was
O'Shaughnessy's stepdaughter, for Lord's sake.  If she knew he was a
CIA agent, his cover was blown for sure.  Maybe it was discovered
already.  He couldn't rule out the possibility that someone in Dublin
was on to him.  Since Donoran had been given today's sensitive delivery
to the congressman that wasn't likely.  But after two assassination
attempts in twelve hours, he couldn't rule out even the remotest
possibility.

"So what did you turn up in your fact-finding mission?"  He kept his
tone bland with a hint of teasing so she wouldn't see how uneasy he
was---or how she aroused him.  "I found out you have a CIA
connection."

"What kind of connection?"  Since he'd promised not to ask about her
sources, he avoided asking where she got that notion, much as he wanted
to.

"I'm just guessing, of course, but I think you're an informant for the
agency."  Removing her hand from his, she peered at him, her head
tilted, as if expecting him to confirm or deny the charge.

"That's not very flattering," he said with a pretend frown.  "An
informant is a snitch who tells tales out of school.  Do you think I'm
ratting on your stepfather to the

CIA?"

Slowly Erin cut a small piece of ham and lifted it to her lips. Donoran
didn't seem nearly as upset by her revelation as she thought he would
be.  Was that a tacit confirmation?

"No, I don't," she said honestly.  "I think you're informing on
somebody besides my stepfather."

"Then you don't think your stepfather knew about today's delivery to
the congressman?"

He turned toward his plate, and Erin couldn't see his expression.  But
if she wanted to get information out of him, now was her chance.

"No, I don't think Patrick knew," she said.  "But what I think doesn't
matter.  You're the one who' works for him, so you're the one who
knows.  You tell me if my stepfather knew about the delivery."

He rubbed his earlobe in a gesture she recognized as something he did
when concentrating.  Then he looked directly at her.  Erin trembled
inside at the magnetic power in his blue eyes.  Outwardly, she forced
herself not to move or look away.

"So, speak," she said.

Still holding her gaze, he nodded slowly.  "There'd be hell to pay if
the press found out about the bribe.  But from Shamrock's view, the
money was simply a gift."

"You haven't answered my question," she said..  "Did Patrick know?
Answer or I'll tell him You're a CIA informant."  Erin knew it was
risky, threatening Donovan like that.  But she held the trump card, and
she wanted him to know it.

Though he took a deep breath, his eyes didn't release hers.  "If you
do, whether it's true or not, I'll lose my job.  Maybe a lot more An
unfounded rumor connecting me to the CIA might be behind the shootings.
I haven't always worked for your stepfather, you know.  Somebody else
might think I'm snitching on him or her."

A wave of remorse swept over Erin.  Lightly she put her hand on his
arm.  He'd taken off his overcoat when they entered the restaurant, and
she felt hard muscle beneath the fabric of his suit coat.  That turned
her on even more than the feel of his hand holding hers.  Annoyed at
the Sexual awareness rippling through her, she pulled away.  He didn't
try to stop her, but his knowing glance told her he guessed her
feelings.

"I'm sorry, Donovan," she said, annoyed with herself for threatening
him.  "I'll never tell anyone about your CIA connection, whether you
answer me or not."

He grinned at her and her heart sang at the humor in his eyes.

"In that case, I'll answer," he said, finishing the last of his food.
"I work directly under a man named Collins, the firm's lead attorney.
He gives me my orders.  On the rare occasions when your stepfather
shows up, he talks to Collins, not me, I suppose it's possible
O'Shaughnessy knew nothing about the bribe, that it was somehow
arranged by Collins without your stepfather's knowledge."

A huge weight shifted off Erin's shoulders..  "Patrick would never do
anything illegal."

"Your stepfather's a shrewd businessman," Donovan returned quickly.
"I'd bet a year's pay that nothing goes on in Shamrock Construction
that he's not aware off"

"Maybe yes, maybe no," Erin said.  "The fact is you can't prove he knew
about that bribe---or anything else illegal."

While Donovan paid the check, Erin slipped into her coat,
congratulating herself as she tied the belt securely around her waist.
She'd already learned something important, and the evening wasn't over
yet.  By the time they reached her condo, she'd find out even more
about her stepfather's company--and about this enigmatic Irishman.

DONOVAN CALLED THE TAXI from inside the restaurant, but they waited for
it outside in the shadows just beyond the brightly lighted entry.

Though after 1:00 a.m."  the ever-present hum of traffic on nearby
Route 7 and Highway 50 saturated the night air.  The wind had died,
allowing exhaust fumes to settle over the business areas between the
two major thoroughfares.

Donovan was tempted to go back inside the restaurant, but he didn't
suggest it.  They could talk more openly outside, with less fear of
being overheard.  And they needed to talk.  Or rather, Donoran needed
more information, and he didn't have much time left to get it.

How had she found out he was connected--as she put it--to the CIA The
agency researchers might not be up to par these days, but they'd never
reveal anything so sensitive.

And why was Erin showing so much loyalty to a stepfather she hardly
knew?  Was there a connection between Erin and Patrick O'Shaughnessy
that Mike Essinger hadn't uncovered, a connection that existed before
O'Shaughnessys marriage to Erin's mother?

According to Essinger's report, Margaret Sullivan had met O'Shaughnessy
only two months before she married him.  Had she known him previously,
perhaps even worked with him before?  As a lieutenant general's wife,
she could have been very useful to a man like Patrick O'Shaughnessy. 
So could Erin, an air force lieutenant with the special clearances
required of an intelligence officer.  Because if the mother had known
him before, most likely the daughter had, too.  Could all three of them
be working together now?

It was an interesting thought, one worth following up.  Though Donovan
had no proof, he couldn't shake his deep-down belief that O'Shaughnessy
was a key player in the worldwide conspiracy he'd been assigned to
investigate.

He turned toward Erin, standing beside him.  In the shadowy
semidarkness, her flame red hair reflected the flashing neon sign over
the restaurant's brightly lighted entry, giving her an unearthly glow.
The awareness he'd felt in the res-tau tant returned, and a renewed
warm sensation coursed through him.  If he could inspire a similar
desire in her, maybe she'd trust him enough to confide in him.

Moving closer, he brushed her shoulder with his upper arm.  The touch,
light as it was, aroused an immediate response.  Dammit.  The contact
was supposed to arouse her, not him, at least not any more than he
already was.

He beamed his most high-voltage smile.  "Even though you've discovered
my secret, I hope that won't stop us from getting together next time
you're in Dublin."

A triumphant sparkle appeared in her clear azure eyes.  "Then you admit
you're an informant?"

"You've caught me dead to rights," he lied.  Better she thought him a
snitch than a bona fide agent.  "What I can't figure is how you found
out.  That kind of info's in the burn-before-reading category."

"I've got all the clearances," she said impishly.

"Not that one."  He shifted uneasily, wondering just how much she
knew.

"You're right, of course.  I never saw the files, but I found out they
were restricted."

Relief surged through him.  So that's why she guessed I

was an informant.

The headlights from a car turning off Route 7 shone on her face,
highlighting her aristocratic nose, her generous mouth, her flawless
skin.  Too bad they hadn't met in more agreeable circumstances.  With
an 'assassin tailing him--and maybe her, too seeing her again, either
here or in Dublin, reeked of danger to both of them.

The car swung into the restaurant driveway and moved slowly toward
them.  Damn!  It was the taxi.  Just when she was starting to talk.

"Files?"  he asked, wondering who else she'd checked up on.

"Yes."  She looked away, acting embarrassed.  "I asked to see Patrick's
file, too, if the agency had one on him."

"Thought both of us might be up to something, did you?"  After her
protestations of undying loyalty to her new stepfather, Donoran
couldn't resist the dig.

Without meeting his eyes, she answered.  "Since you were doing
something illegal by bribing that congressman, I'm ashamed to say I was
afraid maybe he was, too."  Nervously she clasped and unclasped her
hands.  "When I found out both your files were restricted, I figured
you were both informants.  What in the word is going on at that
company, Donovan?"

The taxi pulled up at the curb.  Donoran opened the back door, and Erin
slid in, with him behind her.  He gave the driver her address.

"Probably nothing," he said, after he'd closed the door.

"But be a good girl and keep quiet about this, just the same."

"You have my word," she said.  "Scout's honor."

Donovan didn't believe her for an instant.  The first.  thing she'd do
When she got home tonight was call her mother in Dublin to report that
both Donovan and her stepfather were CIA informants.

Inwardly, Donovan groaned.  With his cover as good as blown, the
investigation would have to stop, the two years he'd put into it
wasted.  Worse, O'Shaughnessy would know the CIA considered him a prime
suspect in the conspiracy.

But there was no reason to waste what was left of tonight.  He slid his
arm around Erin's shoulder.  "I know a better way to cement our
agreement than with scout's honor."

Her eyes widened and he heard her quick gasp for breath, but she didn't
back away.  With one quick motion, he pulled her into his arms.  A
faint scent, like a sea breeze tinged with lilies, swirled around him.
Crushing her close, he felt her slender body move against him, felt her
arms holding him tightly around his neck.

Intoxicated, he tilted her head up and lowered his mouth to hers.  Her
lips parted willingly, and he tasted her sweetness.  Then he did
something so out of character that he would never have believed it
could happen.  He lost control of himself.  His usual carefully managed
hunger overpowered him.  He drowned in her kiss, in the feel of her
against him.  Nothing made sense but Erin, the softness of her lips,
the smell of her skin, the eager way she clung to him.  As her essence
swirled around him, he held her fiercely, desperately, as if the world
would die if she slipped out of his grasp.

The gentle hum of the taxi's engine slowed as the driver braked to a
stop at an intersection.  The change of motion brought Donovan crashing
back to reality--and apparently, Erin, too.  She tore herself away from
him, her eyes wide with surprise and warm with pleasure.

"Why--why did you kiss me like that?"  Her voice trembled with
emotion.

"Because I wanted to, of course."  He hoped his own eyes didn't reveal
the same shock that hers did.  In his thirty-two years, Donovan had
kissed many women, most of them forgotten a short time later.  But none
had affected him this way.  He wanted Erin.  Lord how he wanted her. 
He could still feel her arms around his neck, her mouth warm and moist
against his.  When he closed his eyes, all he could see was her face.

But he couldn't have her.  Not-as long as he was investigating her
family.  Even if he was taken off the case he couldn't have her.  She
struck him as a woman who wanted marriage, children.  He couldn't give
her that and sensed she wouldn't settle for less.  After an overly
protective mother and six older, suffocatingly vigilant sisters,
Dono-van wanted freedom.  No more women's apron strings for him, no
matter how enticing the package.

"Then that's the way you kiss every woman who attracts you?"  she
asked, her surprised look changing to a frowning, defiant one.

Donovan forced another quick smile of white teeth and charm.

"Of course not," he denied smoothly.  "Only the winners."

She took a deep breath, expelling it slowly.  "You're more of a rogue
than I thought, Donovan."  Disgust--or was it disappointment?--was
written all over her expressive face.

"Thanks for the compliment," he said, playing it lightly in spite of a
deep down sour feeling in the pit of his stomach.

At her condo she didn't invite him upstairs.  They said good-night like
two strangers who never expected to see each other again.

Chapter Five

A confused mixture of anger and regret swirled through Erin as she rode
the brass-embossed elevator to her floor.  Damn Donovan and his
hot-cold passion.  First he kissed her desperately, rapturously, so she
felt like he desired her more than any woman on the face of the earth.
Then he blandly told her he treated every woman who appealed to him the
same way.

No, not every woman, Erin remembered grimly.  Only the winners.  How
conceited could he be?

The elevator hissed smoothly to her floor, and she stepped onto the
carpeted hallway.  So welcome to the winners circle, Lieutenant Meyer.
Erin concentrated on the feel of the plush carpet beneath her feet in a
futile attempt to blot out the memory of his arms around her.

Well, maybe Donovan's other women friends put up with such bias6
treatment, but not Erin.  He could take his winner's roses and throw
them around somebody else's neck.

More and more Mr.  Dan Donoran reminded Erin of someone her mother had
described time and again over the years.

Kevin Riley.  Just repeating the name in her mind made her breath burn
in her throat.  The Prince of Rogues, himself.

Though her mother fondly pictured Riley as a charmer who could
captivate almost anybody, Erin considered him a cheat and a betrayer,
the kind of man who'd walk out on her mother, an innocent teenage girl,
after he'd got her pregnant.

Sure, he'd been assigned to Vietnam.  Granted, he hadn't known Margaret
was pregnant when he left.  But in Erin's mind these were phony
excuses.  No honorable man would take advantage of an innocent
seventeen-year-old girl for one weekend's pleasure.  At the very least,
he should have answered her letters.

Erin still burned with anger every time she thought of her beautiful
mother scrubbing hotel toilets to add a few dollars to Grandma and
Grandpa Sullivan's dirt-poor existence.  Uneducated, the Sullivans
earned a meager living cleaning third-rate motels.

Their poverty-stricken situation changed when Margaret met and married
Major George Meyer from nearby Fort Benning.  But nothing could redeem
Erin's resentment of her birth father.  Over the years it worsened,
festering inside her like an ugly cancer.  So why did she have these
feelings for a charismatic Irish rogue with a love-'em-and-leave-'em
philosophy exactly like her traitorous father's?

Through a sudden veil of tears, Erin found herself standing outside her
condominium door, key in hand, staring at the Oak panels.  Angrily she
thrust the key in the lock and pushed the door open.  Neither Kevin
Riley nor Dan Donovan was worth wasting tears on.  Inside, she blew her
nose, then flushed the tissue with the steadfast resolve never to shed
another tear over either man.

But dredging up the old story about her birth father had made Erin
anxious to talk to her mother.  She checked her watch.  After two, it
would be a little past 7:00 a.m. in Dublin.  Her mother was an early
riser, so this was a good time to call.  Half an hour later, dressed in
pajamas with two pillows propped up behind her in bed, she dialed her
mother's number.

Margaret answered on the first ring.  "Good morning, this is Margaret
Sullivan."  Hearing her mother's cheerful voice, Erin chuckled at her
greeting.  "Hi, Mom.  HoW'd you ever get Patrick to let you keep your
maiden name?"

"The same way I did your father--told him there'd be no marriage
otherwise."  Her husky laugh seemed as clear as if she were sitting on
the bed next to Erin.  "You have to be firm with men, darling.  They're
happier if you are."

"That's easy for you to say."  Erin settled herself against.  the
pillows.  "You've always been able to wind them around your fingers."

"You can, too," her mother said.  "After your date last night, I'll bet
your Mr.  Donoran is counting the days until he sees you again."

"I keep telling you Mom, he's not my Mr.  Donovan."  Erin's heart
dropped as she remembered his cool goodbye.  "We didn't hit it off."
Her face burned at the memory of his fiery kiss--and the bias6 way he'd
acted afterward.  "Tell me about it."

Erin hadn't intended to worry her mother with the harrowing story of
the day's happenings, but she changed her mind when she caught her
mother's enthusiastic interest.  Besides, if Margaret heard the story
secondhand, after Donovan reported what happened, she'd be worried
sick.

After first emphasizing that no one had been hurt, Erin described the
two incidents with the assassin.  When she'd finished, there was
absolute silence---one of the few times her mother had nothing to
say.

"Mom, are you there?"

"Yes.  But I'm so scared for you I can't talk."  Margaret's usually
firm voice sounded shaky.  "What did the police say?"

"We didn't report what happened, Mom."  She paused.  "I didn't tell the
police because of my work.  It would have jeopardized one of my
sources.  I'll have to handle the report through military channels."

"Because of your work?"  Margaret's voice lowered to a whisper.  "You
can't talk to the police because of your work?"

"That's right, Mom.;'

"Darling, you're scaring me.  You say this man was after Mr.  Donovan?
Are you sure it wasn't you?"

In her warm bedroom, a cold chill enveloped Erin's body.  She pulled
her blankets up higher and bunched them around her.  "Why do you say
that?"

"Well, I've noticed a stranger watching me from a distance since I've
been in Dublin.  He walks with a limp, so I can recognize him from a
long way off.  Maybe there's a connection between him and what happened
to you."

Jerking upright, Erin tensed with shock.  "You think somebody might be
after both you and me?"  Her fingers gripped the phone like a lifeline.
Her breath felt heavy in her lungs.  "Why in God's name?"

"We're both wealthy women," Margaret said, her voice still a whisper.
"Maybe someone plans to kidnap one or both of us and blackmail your
stepfather."

Slowly Erin expelled her breath.  "I'm positive the assassin was after
Donovan, not me.  But what about this stranger you've seen.  Have you
told Patrick?"

"I didn't want to worry him."  Margaret sounded apologetic.  She'd
always tried to spare those she loved.

Frustrated and scared, Erin didn't try to hide her alarm.  "Tell him,
Mom.  Today.  This morning."  She hoped the urgency in her voice would
impel her mother to immediate action.  "And tell him what happened to
me and Donovan.  I'm sure Donovan will report everything when he gets
back, but this will give Patrick advance notice.  I'd die if anything
happened to you."  Erin's voice wobbled with emotion.

"Nothing will, darling.  Remember, we've got lots of family here if I
need help.  For starters, there's Jean Magee and Bet Ryan, two first
cousins."

Listening to her mother rattle off relatives near Dublin, Erin slumped
against the pillows.  Much as Margaret tried to convince her nothing
would happen, Erin couldn't dispel the cold dread washing over her.

A stranger lurking in the distance sounded terribly threatening.  Her
mother wasn't paranoid.  Just the opposite.  She was too trusting.  If
her mother voiced concern about this stranger, she was really
worried.

Trembling, she said good-night and hung up the receiver.

THE MESSAGE LIGHT was flashing on Donovan's phone when he got back to
his hotel room.  For a fleeting instant, he let himself hope Erin had
called.  He couldn't get her face out of his mind.  He could visualize
her standing next to him now, her full lips glowing in the rosy light
from the bedside lamps.

Annoyed, he shook his head to erase the fantasy.  Of course the message
wasn't from Erin.  After the nonchalant way he'd reacted to their kiss,
he'd probably never hear from her again.  The message was from Mike
Essinger.  Cursing under his breath, Donovan went to the lobby phone.

"We've got to talk," Essinger said, waiting for the call even though it
was after two o'clock in the morning.

"Damned right we do.  I want to know how a certain lady found out about
some restricted files."

Donovan heard Essinger's discouraged sigh.  "Then you know about
that?"

"She told me.  What I don't know is why your mental giants told her the
files even existed."

"They didn't tell her," Essinger explained.  "They told our analyst who
went through the proper channels to get them.  Don't worry.  The
analyst's been warned not to say anything."

Donovan groaned.  "Obviously the analyst did say something."  Using
phrases that only his CIA contact would understand, Donovan repeated
Erin's assumption that both he and Patrick O'Shaughnessy were CIA
informants.  Then he reported tonight's attack by the assassin.

Essinger matched Donovan's groan.  "Damn!  Two years work down the
drain.  At least we think we know who your unpleasant friend is.  The
press calls him Chameleon.  Changes his appearance with every job so
he's a hard man to find.  Nobody knows what he really looks like. Doubt
he'll be after you once you're off this case."

Donovan's heart slipped down to his shoes.  "What do you mean off this
case ?"

"If the woman knows you're connected to us in any capacity, your
cover's blown.  She's sure to pass the word."

"Hold on a minute," Donovan said, as a new thought struck him.  "Maybe
we can make lemonade out of my lady's lemon.  As you say, she's sure to
let somebody know about the snitches she's discovered.  What if I talk
to the big man myself and tell him about the restricted files?  As far
as he's concerned, both he and I are under investigation since both our
files are restricted.  That puts me in as much hot water as he and, by
telling him, I've declared my loyalty."

"It might work," Essinger said, after a moment's silence.  "But it's
risky as hell?"

"It will work," Donovan insisted, convincing himself as much as
Essinger.  If he didn't find out who was behind the conspiracy, his
failure would bother him the rest of his life.

But if telling O'Shaughnessy about the restricted files backfired, he
could end up dead.

WHEN CHAMELEON RETURNED to his hotel room after his visit to the
brownstone house in Virginia, he stood under the steaming hot shower
for a long time.  The piercing shards of water stung the bruises on his
skin, flaming the unspeakable anger that rose deep inside him.

His target had escaped again, thanks mainly to the female lieutenant.
She had somehow managed to push her way into the crowded dining room
behind the bar, a room Chameleon hadn't known was there.  Even then he
would have easily killed them both in the alley if they hadn't found
that open door to the hotel kitchen.  To be tossed out of the place
like a drunken bum--such humiliation.  Then the rebuke that followed
from Dublin.  That's what had maddened him most.

Chameleon turned the shower water even hotter.  Twice this female
lieutenant, Erin Meyer, had interfered with his contract.  Did she have
any idea of the stakes involved?  Whoever she represented, she'd be a
dead woman the next time Chameleon caught her with Dun Aengus's man.

And just who was he, this man slated for neutralization?  Usually
Chameleon preferred not to know.  He deliberately arranged his
contracts so he'd be aware only of the detailed physical description of
the person to be killed, and the time and place for the action.  Things
were neater that way.

But Dun Aengus's man was different.  He'd made Chameleon angry,
something that rarely happened.  Now Chameleon had to admit he'd
failed.  More humiliation.  He'd have to arrange another contract in
the face of his defeat.

Turning off the shower, he stepped onto the cracked tile floor.  His
hip and shoulder ached where he'd landed in the concrete alley.  Ugly
bruises were already starting to show, mortifying reminders of the
day's failures.

At least he hadn't been seriously hurt by the cook's kick.  Thanks to
his actor's training, he'd known how to twist his body at exactly the
right moment and scream convincingly so he wouldn't be kicked again. If
he hadn't dropped his weapon, he would have shot both of them as soon
as they entered the alley.

Toweling his wiry body, he reminded himself that anger was a luxury he
couldn't afford.  At best, this was only a small setback.  Though he'd
never met his employer in Dublin--had no idea who he really was--he'd
worked with this man before and knew he'd be trusted with another
contract.  Next time Dun Aengus's man wouldn't get away.  And neither
would Lieutenant Erin Meyer.  Chameleon would see to that.

AFTER A COUPLE OF HOURS of anxious tossing, Erin's crisp
mauve-and-indigo patterned sheets were hopelessly tangled with her
blankets.  Finally she crawled out of bed.  Them would be no sleep for
her tonight.  Every time she closed her eyes she could see two faces:
her mother's and Dono-van's.  With both etched on her brain, sleep was
impossible.

Though it was only four-thirty, Erin decided to put on her uniform and
head for the Pentagon.  She could drown her worries in the ocean of
work waiting for her.

A cold mist rose off the Potomac as Erin trudged to the' Pentagon from
North Parking in the gray light of an early dawn.  Around the Tidal
Basin, Washington's cherry blossom jewels were waiting to burst into
luxuriant bloom.  Though spring was less than a week away, the blossoms
were still bound up in their protective wrappings.

Like me, Erin thought, feeling as closed in as the blossoms.  Only the
trouble with her was that--unlike them--she seemed destined to stay
forever in the bud, never blooming until some charming cad came along
like Donovan, with his broad shoulders and laughing blue eyes.

An artificial sun makes premature blossoms, she warned herself grimly,
remembering how his insensitive comment had jolted her back inside her
shell.  How could she have let him get to her like that?  And why was
she thinking about him now when her mother might be in trouble?

On this early mid-March morning, the Pentagon seemed almost deserted,
its systems humming like a giant machine running itself.  After passing
the guard at the River Entrance, Erin saw no one in the darkened
corridors until she reached Pentagon Intelligence, on the first
floor.

Though activity was more muted than at midday, individuals-most in
military uniforms--huddled in the corridors, papers and folders in
their hands.  It was yet another reminder that the military
intelligence agency never slept.

Remembering her own sleepless night, she felt herself frown.  Well, she
couldn't let lack of sleep affect her day.  And she couldn't let
thoughts of Donovan dampen her spirits.

Taking her uniform coat off, she hung it on the rack near the office
door.  Her desk was inside a partitioned cubicle with three other
analysts.  Nobody else was there.

But at the center of Erin's desk was a scribbled note.  She recognized
the handwriting.  Her division chief's.  He wanted to see her.  An
apprehensive tremor coursed through her.  What was Colonel Byrd doing
at his desk at 5:30 a.m.?  This seemed early, even for him.  Had he got
wind of the intercepted message and the shooting yesterday at the
cathedral?  Did he intend to chew her out because she hadn't told
him?

She shook her head, dismissing the notion.  She'd saved a man's life.
He couldn't fault her for that.

Carrying the intercepted message and this morning's briefing in a
manila folder, Erin headed for her division chief's office.  With his
door open, he saw her across the hallway and beckoned her inside.
Unsmiling, he watched her enter.

A well-built man with thick white hair and amber eyes, the colonel was
said to swoop down on wary subordinates like a diving eagle.  Chin
high, she resolved not to let him rattle her.  At his invitation she
sat down in the chair beside his desk.

"You're in early this morning, Erin."  He studied her face so intently
she felt warmth in her cheeks.  But she didn't look away.

"I tried to get you at home," he went on.  "When your machine answered,
I figured you might be on the way to work."  A frown line appeared
between his eyes.  "Do you usually come in this early?"

Why was he beating around the bush?  A flash of intuition told her this
early morning summons had nothing to do with the briefing in her
folder.

"No, sir," she replied.  "I wanted to put some finishing touches on
this morning's briefing."

When he leaned toward her, his eyes wide, she sensed he was about to
swoop.  Hurriedly she went on.  "I also wanted to report an incident
that happened yesterday."

With a smug nod, Colonel Byrd leaned back in his 'chair.  "Does the
incident have anything to do with those restricted files you requested
yesterday from Central Intelligence?"

So that was the reason for the summons.  Struggling to stay calm, Erin
took a quick gulp of air.  She should have guessed.  If Max had been
quizzed by the CIA director, Erin couldn't expect to escape official
scrutiny.

"Yes, sir, I requested those files after I received this intercept from
the National Security Agency."  She handed him the printout of the
intercepted message.

He scanned it and shook his head.  "It's gibberish, like ninety-five
percent of the stuff the NSA picks up."

"Not really, sir," Erin said.  "The way I interpreted the message was
that a man would be killed at noon on St.  Patrick's Day at the
National Cathedral."

"Gibberish," the colonel repeated.  But he didn't sound as sure of
himself as before.  "Don't tell me you went traipsing over there
yesterday?"

Erin nodded.  "If I hadn't gone, a man named Dan Donovan would have
been killed."

"So that's why you requested Donovan's file."  The frown lines on the
colonel's broad forehead deepened.

"Yes, sir.  Since somebody was trying to kill him, I thought the CIA
might maintain a file on him."

"And Donovan told you he worked for Patrick O'Shaughnessy in Dublin so
you requested that file, too?"

"No, sir," Erin replied honestly.  "Donovan didn't tell me who he
worked for or where.  I guessed it was O'Shaughnessy from the
message."

Colonel Byrd picked up the message and read it more slowly.  When he
put it down, Erin caught a perplexed look she'd rarely seen on the
division chief's face.  "How the devil did you know Dun Aengus was
O'Shaughnessy?"

Erin didn't hesitate.  "Because he's my stepfather.  That's his
nickname."  The colonel's face got so red, Erin thought he'd explode.

"Your stepfather?"  Standing, he glared at her as though she'd
committed an unpardonable sin.

When the colonel rose, so did Erin.  "I thought you knew, sir.  It was
in all the papers."

"What was in all the papers, Lieutenant?"

"My mother's marriage to Patrick O'Shaughnessy two weeks ago.  Since
she's General Meyer's widow, the marriage got lots of press, especially
in the military."

The colonel's' amber eyes narrowed, and he leaned across his desk
toward her.

He's starting to swoop, Erin thought uneasily.  But what could he do to
her for requesting a couple of restricted files?

"You're fired!"  he said flatly.  "Get your things together and get out
of my division."

Unflinching, she met his stare.  "I'm an air force officer, Colonel.
You can't do that."

"The hell I can't.  We may wear different uniforms, but I'm your
commander.  Even in the nineties, a commander still has some
authority."  Parts of his face had got so red, he'd begun to resemble a
turkey.

Erin's legs went weak.  "But I haven't done anything, Colonel."

"You've wrecked a covert operation that's taken' years to develop," he
bellowed.  "And your jaunt to the cathedral jeopardized a major source
of intelligence.  The communications network that sent the Dublin
messages will probably go dark when they figure out we're listening to
their broadcasts.  And they will figure that out.  There's no other way
you could have got to the cathedral in the nick of time the way you
did."

Abruptly he shut up, as though he realized he'd said too much.  Slowly
he sank back into his chair.  When he spoke again his tone changed from
hot anger to cool authority.

"Haven't you read agency rules about close relatives in our primary
areas of interest?  As soon as your mother mar-tied O'Shaughnessy, you
should have requested a transfer."

Erin's mouth dropped open.  What was going on?  That agency regulation
was loosely interpreted.  She knew several analysts who had relatives
in their analytical areas.

"He's not a blood relative," she returned, her spine stiffening

Colonel Byrd leaned back in his chair.  "Your mother is, and I presume
she's in Dublin with her new husband.  For God's sake, Lieutenant.
Nobody's closer than that."

Erin sallowed the sharp retort on the tip of her tongue.  She'd worked
hard on this job, put in hundreds of extra hours at night and on
weekends.  And now the colonel was tossing her out for an insignificant
breach of regulations.  She couldn't believe he'd take such drastic
action for so little reason.

"But where ... will I go?"

His scowl softened.  "Take thirty-days leave.  By the time you get
back, air force personnel will have you reassigned from the
Pentagon."

Erin managed to walk out of his office without flinching.  She numbly
cleaned out her desk before any of her fellow analysts arrived.
Humiliated, she trudged back to her car in North Parking.  Feeling as
though she'd been kicked in the stomach, she lay down on her freshly
made bed as soon as she got home.  What had just happened... and why?

BRIGHT SUNLIGHT STREAMED through the sheer curtains on

Erin's bedroom window.  Fighting the brightness, she reached for .a
blanket to pull over her head.  There was no blanket.

She opened her eyes.  Fully clothed in her uniform, she found herself
lying on top of her neatly made bed, her cheek on a comforter.

Now she remembered what had happened.  She'd been fired.  With that on
her record, she'd never make her next promotion.  Her career was mined.
She'd disgraced the name of the man who had adopted her, and she wasn't
sure quite how or why.

Lifting her head, Erin glanced down at her rumpled uniform, at the
nylon hose sagging around her ankles.  She sat up.  The clock on her
bedside table read after noon.  Quickly removing her wrinkled uniform,
she hung it in the closet.  In its place she put on freshly pressed
jeans and a blue long-sleeved sweater with a red-and-yellow pattern.
Something cheerful, that's what she needed, she thought, vowing to put
this too ming clash with the colonel out of her mind.

But try as she would, the scene kept repeating itself.  Why had he
taken such drastic action for a minor infraction of the agency's rules?
Why had he got so heated and angry?

As she busied herself making a tuna sandwich in the kitchen, Erin heard
his words over and over in her mind: his words about being fired; about
requesting a transfer after her mother's marriage.

But he'd said something else, something significant She'd overlooked in
her dismay about her career.  What was it?  Suddenly she remembered.
That a key communications network would probably go dark--stop
broadcasting--presumably because her trip to the cathedral would clue
the operators that someone was listening to their messages.  Even more
interesting, he said she'd wrecked a long-time CIA covert operation.

With her sandwich half made, Erin plopped down on a stool to think. How
could she possibly have wrecked a covert operation?

By meeting Donovan?  By recognizing her stepfather's name in the
message?  By finding out the CIA files on Donovan and Patrick were
restricted?  Or maybe all of the above.

Unable to sit still, Erin paced back and forth on the Oriental rug in
her living room.  If there was indeed a CIA covert operation in
progress at Shamrock Construction, what did that make Donovan and
Patrick?  Probably not informants, as she'd first thought.  But
something else, something far more threatening to Patrick and her
mother.  Could Donovan be a CIA undercover agent?

At first Erin fought the idea, wanting to believe she was wrong.  But
if he wasn't an informant, there could be no other reason for his
restricted file.  And what about the fact that her stepfather had a
file and that it, too, was restricted?  Could he, like Donovan, be a
covert CIA agent?  She shook her head.  It was beyond belief that
Patrick might be spying on his own company.  That left only one answer:
Patrickwas being investigated by Donoran, a CIA undercover agent.

Hurrying back to the kitchen, Erin finished fixing her sandwich and
took a big bite without really tasting it.  Was Donovan trying to trap
her stepfather in a sting operation?  Though Donovan had no proof, he'd
seemed certain Patrick knew the most intimate details of Shamrock
Construction's operation, details usually left to subordinates.  What
if Donovan was right and Patrick was a criminal?

Shuddering, Erin remembered her mother's words about the stranger.
Could Patrick himself be behind the stranger's scrutiny?  Could he be a
threat to her mother?  The bare possibility made Erin' want to dial her
mother right then and there to warn' her.

But she couldn't.  Telling Margaret about the covert operation might
expose her mother to even more danger.

Damn!  She wished she knew what kind of operation Donovan was running.
It couldn't be something as simple as tracking the corrupt bribery of
the congressman.  He already had the goods on Collins, the man who gave
him his orders for yesterday's job.  No, this had to be something else,
something much bigger.

Thoughtfully, Erin finished her sandwich.  One man could tell her what
she needed to know.  Donovan.  Was he booked on Aeroflot's flight this
afternoon?  The airline wouldn't tell her, but the clerk offered to
take a short message for Mr.  Donovan, if he showed up at the ticket
counter.

"Donovan, I'm on my way to Dulles Airport," Erin dictated into the
phone.  "Must see you before you leave.  Meet me at your boarding gate.
Erin."

Chapter Six

When the Aeroflot ticket clerk handed Donovan the folded sheet of
paper, his heart leapt--just as it had last night when he'd seen the
flashing light on his hotel phone.  But the message hadn't been from
Erin then and it wouldn't be now, he told himself.  Essinger must have
more last-minute words of wisdom.

After he'd checked his bag at the counter, he unfolded the note.  It
was from Erin.

Instantly his mind registered the significance of her words.  She
hadn't been as turned off by his comments last night as he'd thought
and was coming to the airport to bid him a fond farewell.

After a brief moment of elation, a sense of frustrated helplessness
swept over him.  Damn!  With an assassin stalking him, she was putting
herself in danger by coming.  Now that he had an in with Margaret
Sullivan he couldn't afford to jeopardize his investigation by getting
involved with O'Shaughnessy's stepdaughter.  Nor did he want to.  Erin
meant commitment, the last thing he needed.

But in spite of his doubts, he found himself grinning at the clerk like
a teenager.  "Thanks," he said, handing the man a ten-dollar tip.

Still grinning, Donovan stuffed the note in his pocket.  When he
pictured Erin's radiant face, her luxuriant mane of red hair brushing
her shoulders, he couldn't wait to see her again.

But this was a duty day, and unfortunately she'd be in uniform with her
hair tied up.  Had she left the Pentagon and driven twenty miles to
Dulles Airport simply to tell him goodbye?  Much as Donoran might like
to think so, a sudden gut instinct told him he shouldn't believe it.

Something was wrong.  Deep inside he knew.  That's why she was coming.
Remembering the firm set of Erin's jaw, the way her azure eyes blazed
with determination, he knew she'd never leave her desk without a damned
good reason.  Cursing himself for a conceited fool, he quickened his
pace toward the international boarding area.  Perhaps she'd already
arrived.

Across the mammoth terminal's upper level he caught sight of her,
standing near the metal detectors outside the international boarding
area.  In her jeans and brightly colored sweater she looked more like a
teenager than an air force lieutenant.  Even from that distance, he
could see her flaming hair hanging loosely on her shoulders.

Why wasn't she in uniform?

WATCHING DONOVAN HURRY toward her, Erin felt her pulse leap with
excitement, If only he were running because he cared for her and
couldn't wait to see her.  But that was foolish.  He must think she'd
uncovered new information about the assassin and was rushing' to find
out what.  His first words didn't dispel that assumption.

"What's wrong?"  he asked, not even breathing hard after his run across
the terminal.  "Why aren't you in uniform?"

"Because I was fired."  Erin forced herself to say the words coldly,
with no trace of pain.

He stared at her with such an unbelieving expression that it was almost
funny.  The lump in her throat disappeared.  Thank God he hadn't
sympathized, or she would have broken down.

"But that's impossible," he said, his eyebrows raised inquiringly.

She shook her head.  "Not according to my division chief.  He's having
me reassigned outside the Pentagon."  "But, why?"  Donovan ran his hand
along her arm.  Though Erin knew the gesture was an automatic reaction
to her bad news, she found his touch comforting.  "Colonel Byrd says I
can't work the Irish desk because I have close relatives living in
Dublin.  But I think that's just an excuse to get rid of me."

His blue eyes searched her face, reaching into her thoughts.  "Then
your transfer must have something to do with the restricted files you
asked for yesterday."

Erin took a quick gulp of air.  "That's what I think.  Do you have any
idea why asking for a couple of files should cause such a drastic
reaction?"

"Since you're related to O'Shaughnessy, maybe the CIA thinks you'll
jeopardize your stepfather's and my status as informants," he
volunteered, his startled expression relaxing into a smile.

"That must be it," Erin agreed.  While driving to Dulles Airport, she'd
decided not to tell Donovan she knew he was a CIA agent
investigating-her stepfather.  That information might come in handy
later.

"But I didn't ask you to meet me because I was fired," she said.

"Then, why?"

Erin saw the puzzlement on his face.  "Because I'm terribly worried
about my mother."

He glanced toward one of the terminal's big wall clocks.  "I've got
some time before my flight leaves.  Let's have a drink, and you can
tell me why you're worried."

Erin waited until they were seated at a tiny table in one corner of a
small concourse bar before repeating last night's phone conversation
with her mother.  When she described the stranger lurking in the
distance, Donoran leaned toward her, his intense blue eyes absorbing
her every expression.

"I'd feel better if you kept an eye on her," Erin said.  "Then you
could let me know if anything unusual hap-pens--anything at all."  She
paused, wishing his alert, interested expression were for her and not
the situation she was describing.  "I feel something's going on that's
dangerous for her.  This stranger watching her is a part of it."

"She doesn't recognize him?"  Donovan asked, his voice warm with
concern.  "Maybe it's somebody your stepfather hired to keep an eye on
her."

"That's possible," Erin admitted.  "She hadn't told Patrick.  But
surely he'd realize she'd be frightened by a strange man spying on
her.

Don't you think he'd let her knorr he'd hired a guard for her?"

"Probably."

When Donovan glanced around them, so did Erin.  The tables near them
were empty, and he sat back in his spindly wrought-iron chair, jiggling
the ice around in his drink.  She noticed that he'd only taken a sip or
two.  Obviously he, too, wanted to keep a clear head while they
talked

"Level with me, Erin," he said.  "Do you think your stepfather's a
threat to your mother?"

"Of course not!"  she exclaimed, almost before he'd finished the
question.  Too quickly, she thought.  Warmth crept into her cheeks, and
she looked down at her drink, away from his knowing eyes.

"C'mon now, Erin," he said.  "If you trust me to keep an eye on your
mother, you've got to trust me enough to tell me how you really feel
about your stepfather."

"All right, then," she said, feeling as disloyal as a Judas goat.  "The
thought he might be dangerous did enter my mind.  Morn had known
Patrick only a couple of months when she married him.  She was still
upset over losing my father--"

"The general?"  Donovan interrupted.

"Of course, the general.  He's the only father I've..."  She stopped in
mid-sentence.  A CIA agent could access all available information about
the people involved in his operation.  Donovan probably knew almost as
much about her personal history as Erin herself, including the part
about her birth father.

"You know, don't you?"  she asked, not sure whether to be relieved or
angry.

He jiggled the ice in his glass again, but didn't lift it to his lips.
"That General Meyer adopted you?  Yes, it was in one of the newspaper
articles I read yesterday afternoon?"

Erin knew he was lying about the newspaper article.  She'd read
everything printed about the general's death.  None of the articles
mentioned that his daughter was adopted.  But she didn't challenge
Donovan.  If he wanted to keep on Playing informant, well and good.
She'd use his subterfuge to her advantage later.

"Then you know I'm illegitimate?"  she asked, controlling her voice so
it didn't quiver.

His blue eyes pierced the distance between them.  "I thought it seemed
likely.  But whatever happened was a long time ago, Erin.  Let's focus
on the present."

"Then why did you bring up my adoption?"  She couldn't keep the
sharpness from her voice.

"Because I want you to stop worrying about your mom."  His gaze lowered
as did his voice.  "Now that you know I've done my homework regarding
her, maybe you'll trust me to keep an eye on things for you."

Taking a card out of his coat pocket, he wrote something on it.  Then
he handed it to her.  "Here's the phone number at my Dublin apartment.
Call me any time you're worded."

Confronted with his obvious concern, Erin's resistance crumbled.  She
found herself leaning across the table toward him.  "If only I could be
sure--"

"You can be."  There was a faint tremor in his voice as though some
emotion had touched him.  "At the slightest sign of trouble, I'll call
you."

Moving his chair closer to the tiny table, he leaned across toward her.
Erin felt an eager affection coming from him.  He drew so close she
could smell Scotch on his breath from the few sips he'd taken of his
drink.  An unwelcome surge of excitement lurched through her, but she
didn't back away.  For an instant she was conscious of the table
against her stomach, of her hands clasped tightly in her lap.  Then all
outside sensation faded.

Cradling her face in his hands, he pressed his lips against hers then
gently covered her mouth.  With the touch of his lips, a divine
sweetness unlike anything she'd ever experienced flowed through her.
Parting her lips, she leaned even farther forward to meet him.

For a few brief moments their lips joined, and Erin's veins turned to
liquid fire.  Never before had she felt such an incredible sense of
union with another human being.  She forgot where she was, and who she
was, only that Donovan was sending spirals of ecstasy through her. When
he finally released her, she couldn't believe the passion she'd felt
for him with only his hands and his warm, moist mouth touching her
face.

"That was goodbye," he said, his voice husky.  "I've got a plane to
catch."

"I'll come to the boarding area with you."  Erin stood up, surprised
that her legs were so steady.

"No."  He stood, too.  "Go talk to your mother and make sure she's
okay.  I'll call you tomorrow morning when I get in, right after I've
checked on her."

For a long moment,.  Erin stood in the crowded concourse, watching
Donovan's broad back until he turned away at the top of the escalator.
She knew he'd keep an eye on her mother as he'd promised.

If she'd played right into his hands by asking for help, so much the
better, she thought, still shaky from his kiss.  Let Donovan try to
trap Margaret in whatever operation he was running against Patrick.
He'd have extra strong motivation to keep an eye on her.  With a
trained CIA agent watching her mother--no matter what his reason, she
was bound to be safer.

Not until Erin found a pay phone to call Dublin did she let herself
consider the outlandish notion that her new stepfather and---even
worse, her mother, now that she was married to him--might really be
guilty of a crime.  Without strong incriminating evidence, why would a
secret government agency be devoting highly expensive resources to an
operation against them?

DONOVAN LEANED BACK in his first-class seat and surveyed the Virginia
countryside hurtling past his cabin window during takeoff.

She played right into my hands, he thought, still surprised at how well
the afternoon had gone.  With an open sesame to O'Shaughnessy's new
wife, he had the entree he needed to the household.  Erin would surely
notify her mother that he was a friend.  Once he'd gained Margaret's
trust, she and her husband would be that much easier to pinpoint as key
players in the con piracy he was investigating.

Strangely, the knowledge that he'd outfoxed Erin brought him no
satisfaction.  All he could think of was the shell-shocked look on her
face when she told him she'd been fired.

Much as Erin had tried to disguise her pain, her bland expression
hadn't fooled Donovan.  With a black mark like this on her record, her
career as an air force officer was over.  She'd probably never make
captain and would eventually be forced out of the service.  He admired
her fortitude.  Most men and women would have broken down in repeating
such devastating news.

Neither could he forget Erin's desperate worry as she related her
mother's fear of the stranger lurking in the shadows.  Was the stranger
tied into the Shamrock conspiracy?  Probably.  When Donovan ran an
operation, he ruled out no possibilities.

If somebody on O'Shaughnessy's staff was behind the conspiracy, that
individual might have hired someone to do harm to Margaret should
O'Shaughnessy refuse to cooperate.  That same individual might have
hired Chameleon.

With a start, Donovan realized he'd momentarily ruled out O'Shaughnessy
as the culprit behind the conspiracy.  Get real, Donovan, he told
himself, disgusted.  Even Erin had finally admitted her stepfather
might be a threat to her mother.

Even so, Donovan didn't think O'Shaughnessy had discovered he was with
the CIA.  Carrying cash to the congressman was too responsible a task
to be given to a suspected undercover agent.  Chameleon must have been
hired by someone else.  But who?  Very few people on the Shamrock staff
knew of Donovan's secret mission to Washington to bribe Wiley.

"Something to drink, sir?"

Donovan looked up into the pale blue eyes of a Russian stewardess.
They'd reached cruising altitUde.

"Coffee, please," he said.

She offered him a cup of steaming black liquid, with cream and sugar
alongside, on a silver tray.  Next to Donovan a man in a business suit
punched out numbers on a laptop computer.

Taking a sip of his coffee, Donovan tried to return to his analytical
line of thought, but he couldn't.  He kept seeing Erin's face, her skin
glowing with color in last night's cold air, or white with worry the
way it had been only minutes earlier.  Her image tugged at something
deep inside him.

Damn!  What was happening to him?  Something about Erin Meyer spoke to
him in a way no woman had before.  Maybe it was the proud way she
lifted her chin or the confidence in her stride--he couldn't pinpoint
exactly what attracted him most.  Or was it her smell: the fresh salty
perfume of the Irish Sea with a faint hint of lilies in bloom?

He breathed deeply, trying to recapture her fragrance in the stale
cabin air.  For a moment he had it, then the scent slipped away, a lost
figment of his memory.  But he couldn't lose Erin's face.  Thank God
there would soon be an ocean between them.  The last thing he needed
right now-was an adolescent crush on the stepdaughter of the man he'd
been assigned to investigate.

WHEN ERIN HEARD Patrick's butler say that her mother and Mr.
O'Shaughnessy were out for the evening, tiny fingers of dread crept
down her spine.  Not that their absence was unusual.  Her mother and
stepfather often were out when she called.  But something about the
definite way the butler pronounced the words made Erin wonder if he
were lying.

"Would you mind checking, Robert?"  she asked, leaning closer to the
mouthpiece of the airport's pay phone.  "I thought my mother planned to
be home tonight."

"I'd be glad to, Miss."  His words were even more definite.

Erin heard a muffled sound as he covered the mouthpiece, then a faraway
murmur.

"Someone is checking the bedrooms," he said.  "But I saw them go out
myself.  Would you like to wait for an answer?"  Clearly, he was trying
to make her think she was wasting both their time.

"Yes."  Erin drummed her fingers on the platform holding the telephone
book.  Maybe she was being unreasonably concerned, but the butler's
uppity tone bothered her.  Erin had always been sensitive to 'the
emotions of others.  And right now she sensed Robert was lying.  Or was
she imagining it?

"Did they say where they were going?"

Again--a hand placed over the receiver and muffled background noise.
"No, Miss.  The maid has checked and says they aren't in the house."

"Tell my mother to call me at home as soon as she returns," Erin said,
hanging up the receiver.

Back in her condo, she warmed a frozen dinner in the microwave but
could force herself to eat only a few bites.  When her mother hadn't
returned her call by seven, Erin dialed Dublin again.  Since it was now
midnight in the Irish capital, surely Margaret would be home.

But she wasn't.  Mr.  O'Shaughnessy had returned to the house alone,
the maid said.

Alarmed, Erin asked for Patrick.  In his cheerful tenor voice her
stepfather explained that Margaret had decided to spend the night with
her cousin, Jean Magee.

"I suppose you could call her there-if it's important," Patrick said,
hesitating.  "But the family goes to bed early."

Erin wanted to feel relieved that her mother was at Jean's.  But she
couldn't shake her apprehension.  '"My mother's never stayed away from
home Overnight since you've been mar fled Why tonight, Patrick?"

Closing her eyes, Erin had an image of Patrick shrugging his fleshy
shoulders.  Unconsciously, she compared his build to Donovan's.  Though
Patrick was heavier, they were the same height and had similar athletic
frames.  The image made her lose concentration and she scolded herself
for letting Donovan interrupt.

"When we got home from the Abbey Theater," Patrick answered, "she said
she needed some country air."

Erin froze.  "You let her drive to the country alone?"  Patrick's
high-pitched chuckle came over the phone line.  "Did you ever try to
stop that mother of yours from doing anything she wanted, Erin?"  He
paused.  "This isn't Washington D.C."  girl.  In Dublin our roads are
safe at any hour."

With a stranger spying on Margaret, Erin didn't believe her mother was
truly safe anywhere.  But surely Jean would have notified Patrick if
she hadn't arrived.

Sighing she told her stepfather good-night and hung up the receiver.
She'd call her mother at Jean's first thing tomorrow morning And
Donovan would be back in Ireland by then.  She fingered his card in her
jeans pocket.  If her mother so much as hinted anything was wrong, Erin
intended to ask for his help and maybe head to Ireland herself.

AFTER ONE STOP AT Shannon Airport on the Irish Republic's west coast,
Donovan's flight continued on to Dublin.

It was still early, not quite six.  He'd have time to shower and change
at his apartment before meeting O'Shaughnessy.

Before he left Dublin Airport, Donovan dialed Erin's mother.  The
butler answered.  According to him, Mrs.  Sullivan was visiting
relatives in the country.  The household staff had been instructed not
to give anybody their name or number over the telephone.  Donovan
resolved to follow up later, after he'd talked to O'Shaughnessy.

Two hours later, dressed in the dark business suit, white shirt and
conservative tie that was the unwritten dress code of Shamrock
Construction's home headquarters, Donovan was shown into
O'Shaughnessy's private office.

A robust man with a shock of graying brown hair, Erin's stepfather
leaned across his broad desk, his hand extended and an expansive smile
on his round face.  When Donovan shook the proffered hand, it felt
soft, cushiony, like a woman's.  But the grip was strong.

"Collins tells me you had some unexpected adventures this last trip."
O'Shaughnessy motioned to a couple of leather chairs near the
floor-to-ceiling bookcases across the room.  Settling his bulk in the
nearest chair, he nodded toward another beside it.  "He said there were
aspects of your trip you needed to discuss with me in private."

"That's right, sir."  Donor, an lowered himself to the chair.  Like the
rest of the room, it was well-worn but comfortable.

"Call me Shawn," O'Shaughnessy said.  "You've been on the legal staff
what?  A year now?  Time to call the boss by his first name."

"Thanks, Shawn."  Donovan matched O'Shaughnessy's smile, suspecting the
other man's was as phony as his own.  O'Shaughnessy's cherubic round
face and big-toothed smile would charm Godzilla.  But Donovan's trained
eye spotted a hard insensitivity that most people probably missed on
first meeting.

"So what's this between you and my stepdaughter?"

Before he answered, Donovan let his gaze swing deliberately around the
room.  The door to the outer office wasn't securely closed.  He got up
and shut it, then returned to his chair.

When he spoke, he lowered his voice.  "I'm sure Collins told you what
happened at the cathedral and later that night at Georgetown so I
won't--"

"Tell me one thing," O'Shaughnessy interrupted.  "How did my
stepdaughter know about the planned attack at the cathedral?"

Donovan lowered his voice even more.  "From an intelligence report.  I
tried to find out what kind of report, but that's all she'd tell me."

Most of the breath seemed to leave the other man's body as he expelled
a mighty sigh.  "Of course.  Now I remember.  She's with that damned
military intelligence agency in Washington.  That's how she got the
report."

His reaction seemed so genuine Donovan almost believed he'd forgotten
where Erin worked.  But that wasn't logical.  A brilliant man like
O'Shaughnessy would never forget his stepdaughter was an intelligence
analyst.  Could he be pretending so he could hide the fact that he knew
what the message said?

The alarm button in Donovan's brain flashed crimson.  If O'Shaughnessy
knew about the message, then he must be the one who had ordered his
assassination.  Maybe trusting Donovan with the cash delivery to the
congressman had been a ploy to cover the real purpose of the trip: his
own death.  If so, why had the assassin tried again that night, when
Donovan wasn't carrying the cash?

"At first I thought the motive was robbery," he said.  "But when there
was another attack that night, I realized the motive must have been
something else--maybe to kill me."

Donovan watched the older man's face redden with anger.  "Damned fool
must have made a mistake coming after you the second time."  Donovan's
internal alarm screeched even louder.  Could the assassin have been
acting against orders with his attack in Georgetown?  If so, how could
O'Shaughnessy know unless he gave the order?

As though he needed time to think, the older man settled back in his
chair and busied himself stuffing tobacco in his pipe and lighting it.
Fragrant smoke drifted around Dono-ran's head.

O'Shaughnessy puffed again, then cleared his throat.  "The fool must
have thought you were wealthy."

"Then you think the motive for both attacks was robbery?"

"Of course," O'Shaughnessy replied.  "What else could it be?"

He's trying too hard to make the motive look like robbery, Donoran
thought, all his senses still on red alert.  Every instinct in his
brain was telling him O'Shaughnessy was behind the attack.  Bail out,
his instincts screamed.  Better to fail at this operation than to end
up dead.  But he couldn't give up without one last try to gain
O'Shaughnessy's confidence.

"Maybe the attacks were tied in with that intelligence report your
stepdaughter received," Donoran said.

"She wouldn't tell you what it said?"

"No.  But since Erin is an intelligence analyst, and a good one,"
Donoran responded, "she tOOk one more step.  That's what I wanted to
talk to you about in private."

O'Shaughnessy's alert blue eyes narrowed and his skin crinkled into
crow's-feet beside them.  They were the only lines on his remarkably
smooth complexion.  "What'd she do?  Run some kind of check on you?,

"Not only on me," Donovan said.  "She asked the CIA for your file,
too."

The older man's gasp was so pronounced that Donovan doubted it was
faked.  "What did she find out?"

"The agency's got restricted files on both of us, Shawn.") "No
kidding!"  Again, genuine surprise.  Either Erin hadn't told her mother
yet about the restricted files, or Margaret Sullivan had kept her mouth
shut when she learned about them.

"Erin thinks we're both CIA informants," Donovan explained.  "My own
view is that somebody found out about our payoffs to congressmen and
other officials and commissioned the CIA to get the goods on us and the
people getting the baksheesh."  Donovan didn't believe anything of the
sort, but a bribery investigation was a passable explanation for the
restricted files, a reason that didn't reveal the conspiracy.

Shawn O'Shaughnessy's mouth dropped open.  "Payoffs?  What are you
talking about, Donovan?  Shamrock Construction doesn't have to bribe
anybody to get contracts.  We're the best damned company in the
business."  Donovan couldn't tell whether he was pretending ignorance
about the bribes.  An hour later, after he'd described the St.
Patrick's Day cash delivery to O'Shaughnessy in nauseating detail, he
was still uncertain.  Finally, Donovan returned to his office across
town.

To his astonishment, Jim Collins, the man who'd given Donovan his
orders about the cash delivery, was gone.  His staff said that he'd
been transferred to the Shamrock office in Dhahran, Saudi Arabia.

But Donovan wasn't fooled.  Collins had to go, no matter how loyal he
was, to prove O'Shaughnessy knew nothing about the bribes.  As far as
Donovan was concerned, Collins's departure proved nothing of the sort.
And it certainly didn't clear O'Shaughnessy of masterminding the
conspiracy.  The bribes were small potatoes compared to the conspiracy.
Nothing O'Shaughnessy could do--short of firing the entire staff and
closing the company--would change Donovan's conviction that he was
guilty.

Before Donovan left the office, pleading fatigue from his all-night
trip, he asked the secretary to locate Ms.  Sullivan.  He had a message
for her, he said, from Erin.  When the secretary called the residence,
someone told her Ms.  Sullivan was staying with her cousin, Jean Magee,
for a few days.  Ms.  SulliVan wanted to rest, the secretary reported,
and had asked that she not be disturbed.  Anyone who called would
probably be told she wasn't there.

With Mrs.  Magee's phone number in his coat pocket, Donovan returned to
his apartment.  Though his instincts were screaming that it was time to
bail out of this operation, his stubborn ears refused to listen.  He'd
never failed at anything important, and he didn't intend to begin now.
Maybe his confidential report about the restricted files would be
enough to restore O'Shaughnessy's confidence in him, and he could
continue with his investigation.

After hanging his coat on a hook near the hall door, he dialed Jean
Magee's number.  No, he was told, Ms.  Sullivan was not there, had not
been there for a week.

Was Jean Magee telling the truth, or was she simply protecting her
cousin's privacy?

"I've just returned from Washington and have a message from her
daughter," Donovan said, hoping this incentive would bring Margaret
Sullivan to the phone.

Mrs.  Magee's pause was so long, he thought she might have hung up.

Finally she spoke.  "I'm sorry, Mr.  Donovan.  Margaret Sullivan isn't
here."  The conviction he'd heard earlier in her voice had
disappeared.

Donovan kept his voice carefully controlled when he thanked Mrs. Magee.
He dialed the O'Shaughnessy residence again and was again informed
that Ms.  Sullivan had not returned from the country.

Donovan waited no longer.  From a pay phone at the O'Connell Street
general post office, he called Erin.

Chapter Seven

Erin was still sound asleep when the telephone rang.  After tossing and
turning fitfully most of the night, she had finally drifted off into a
deep slumber.  Through a numbing mist, she heard the ringing, like an
emergency alarm sounding outside her window.

The phone rang again--and again.  Finally awake, she jerked upright.
The illuminated face of her bedside clock showed five minutes to five.
Quickly she turned on the light and reached for the receiver.

It was the operator asking if she would accept a collect call from Mr.
Dan Donovan in Dublin.

"Yes, yes, of course," she said, her nerves tensing with dread.
Something must be wrong.  If he'd been calling to reassure her that her
mother was okay, he wouldn't have bothered to use a pay phone.

"What's happened?"  she asked, as sOOn as she heard his voice.

"I don't want you to get upset, Erin," he said, "but I can't locate
your mother."

Taking a deep breath, Erin told herself to stay calm.  Donovan must
have called Patrick's house, and, rightly, the staff had refused to
give him Jean Magee's name and number.

"Patrick told me she stayed with our cousin, Jean Magee, last night,"
she said, hoping Donovan's failure to talk to Margaret was the only
reason he was calling.  "I was going to ring her and talk to my mother
when I got up this morning."

"Do it now," Donovan said.  "Call me back afterward.  I'll give you the
number of this phone."

Erin's cozy bed suddenly felt cold as the inside of a refrigerator.
"Have you already talked to Jean?"

"Yes," he said.  Erin pictured his strong chin and the blue eyes that
seemed to search her mind.  Of course he would have got Jean's number
and called her first.

"Your cousin said she hadn't seen your mother since last week," he
added.

"Last week."  Erin knew she was screeching, but she couldn't help
herself I "Patrick said she drove out there last night."

"Maybe she changed her mind enroute.  Why don't you call your cousin?
She might tell you more than she did me."

Promising to call back, Erin hung up.  Rising, she put on a blue terry
robe and her favorite furry slippers, then hurried to the den.  Though
the room was intended as a bedroom, Erin had installed bookcases along
one wall and placed a desk parallel with the opposite wall so the light
from the window shone across her shoulders.  At this hour, ominous gray
light oozed into the room from the dimness outside.  Shuddering, she
pulled the draperies, shutting out the bleakness.

At her desk, she found the number and punched it into the phone.  Jean
herself answered.  After Erin explained that she was Margaret
Sullivan's daughter and exchanged a few pleasantries with this cousin
she'd never met, she asked her mother.

"Why, she's not here, darling'," Jean said.  "You're the fourth person
who's called this morning asking for her."

Familiar fingers of ice crept down Erin's spine again.  "Are you saying
she did not spend last night with you?"  Her words came out sounding
squeaky and forced.

"I haven't seen her since last week," Jean said.  "Is something wrong?
Has she disappeared?"

"I don't know."  Erin swallowed the panic rising in her throat.  "Who
were the other three people who called?"

"Dun Aengus, of course.  And two men who didn't give their names."
Jean's voice rose.  "Tell me if something's wrong, Erin.  Dun Aengus
didn't think so, but now, talking to you I'm scared."

Two men called besides Patrick, Erin thought.  One was Donovan.  But
who was the other?  "What did you tell them?"

"Same thing I'm telling you.  I haven't seen her since last week and
when I talked to her on the phone yesterday, she said nothing about
spending the night."  Jean's voice had assumed the same anxious tone as
Erin's.  "Dun Aen-gus said not to worry, that she'd gone to another
cousin's.  But I've called everybody, and nobody's seen her."

No longer able to breathe normally, Erin gasped into the phone.
"Something's happened to her."

"You may be right," Jean replied.  "Come to Dublin, Erin.  Your mother
needs you."  Her words ended in a whisper.

"I'm on my way," Erin said grimly.

Before she could hang up the receiver, Jean spoke again.  "Don't tell
anyone you're coming."

Erin's heart skipped a beat.  "Do you think Patrick--Dun Aengus---had
something to do-with her disappearance?"

"No, of course not."  In Jean's whispered words, Erin heard doubt that
made her wonder if her cousin was being completely honest.  "But there
are advantages in arriving unexpectedly.  If you catch Dun Aengus off
guard soon as you get here, maybe he'll let something slip about what's
going on."

Resolving to take Jean's advice, Erin promised to call when she reached
Dublin.

"Come to see me, instead of calling," her cousin urged.  "After you've
heard what Dun Aengus has to say, we can compare notes face to face."
That's when' Erin knew Jean was holding something back.  The insight
clinched Erin's decision to go.

After hanging up, she dialed the number of the pay phone Donovan had
just given her.  "I'm coming to Dublin," she announced, as soon as she
heard his rich baritone voice.  "Jean thinks something may have
happened to my mother, and so do I."

"You can't come here, Erin," he protested.  "It's too dangerous."

She heard a strong note of male authority in his voice, and her
independent spirit rebelled.  "Don't tell me what I can and can't do,
Donovan.  I'm coming."

When he spoke again his tone had changed.  "Please don't come, Erin.
You'll be putting us both in harm's way."

Somewhat mollified, she asked why.

"Because I don't trust your stepfather.  He may have hired the
assassin.  And if your mother's disappeared, he's probably behind that,
too."

"I don't believe it," Erin objected, although her trust in Patrick had
slipped significantly after her conversation with Jean.  "Don't try to
talk me out of this, Donoran.  I'm coming and there's nothing you can
do to stop me."

She heard his tense breathing, but no words.  Finally, he spoke.  "Then
don't tell him you're coming.  I'll meet you."  "Deal," she said.  "I'd
intended to surprise him."  "Good girl."  He sounded surprised that
she'd already thought of it.  "So I'll expect you first thing tomorrow
morning on Aeroflot's afternoon flight from Dulles?"

"Wrong," she said, recalling flight schedules to Ireland from the times
her mother had flown there.  "Aeroflot's not scheduled today, but
there's an Aer Lingus flight from New York at nine this morning.  It
arrives at Dublin around ten tonight."

"You'll never make it."

"Of course I will.  The shuttle leaves from National for New York City
every few minutes on weekday mornings.  I'll have hours to spare."

He didn't argue.  "Look for me.  I'll be waiting for you."  She'd see
Donoran again later today.  When Erin hung up, the fear in her heart
for her mother was mixed with eager anticipation.

INSTEAD OF HOURS to spare, Erin found she had only minutes.

Though it was early morning, traffic backed up across Washington's
Fourteenth Street Bridge forcing her to take a later shuttle.  In New
York City, the transfer from La Guardia Airport, where the shuttle
landed, to Kennedy took twice as long as she expected.

Rolling her one suitcase behind her, Erin ran all the way to the Aer
Lingus gate, desperately hoping Donovan wasn't right with his
prediction that she'd never make it.  Thank the Lord she'd worn running
shoes and jeans.

She bought a first-class ticket at the gate, walked aboard, and the
flight took off.  Six and a half hours later it touched down at Shannon
for forty-five minutes; an hour and a half after that, the flight
landed at Dublin Airport, ten minutes early.

Donovan was waiting near a cluster of people by the Aer Lingus
off-ramp.  Erin's heart swelled at the sight of him.  Though obviously
trying not to attract attention, he managed to look even sexier than
she remembered.  In his leather jacket and jeans, carrying a black
umbrella, he fit perfectly with her mental image of the ideal man.

Annoyed with such thoughts, she cleared her mind of the image.  Donovan
was far from perfect.  Her face burned every time she thought of his
cavalier reaction to their first kiss.

He waved when he saw her, but instead of coming to meet her, he kept to
the fringes of the crowd.  Hurrying toward him, Erin noticed the way he
mingled with the others waiting at the gate, melting in despite his
over-six-foot height and linebacker shoulders.  Every couple of seconds
he glanced from one side to the other, as if watching for someone.

A wave of sheer, black fright swept over her.  Donovan was showing
classic signs of a man trying to avoid a pursuer.  The assassin.  Was
he about to strike again?

As she drew closer, Erin recognized something different about Donovan
tonight.  His forehead was creased with lines, and his familiar roguish
smile was gone, replaced by a scowl that gave him a concentrated,
serious air.  She caught her breath.  If anything, his darker side
seemed even more attractive than the rogue she was determined to
resist.

Rolling her suitcase along behind, she threaded her way through knots
of people toward where he stood.  Would his hello be as passionate as
his goodbye yesterday at Dulles?

As she hurried up to him, his frown disappeared and his gaze traveled
over her face and searched her eyes.  "God, I'm glad to see you."

"Yes," she murmured, feeling like a teenager on a first date.  Close
enough to see the shadow of his emerging beard, she imagined its
roughness against her own skin.  For a breathless moment, she thought
he might sweep her into his arms, and her pulse quickened.

But after a heartbeat's hesitation, he reluctantly grabbed the handle
of her suitcase with one hand and her arm with the other.  "Dammit,
Erin, we've got to get out of here."

She swung into step beside him, half running to keep up.  "What's
happened?  Is the assassin after you?"

"Somebody is," he said grimly.  "My apartment was ransacked while I was
out this morning calling you."

"Ransacked!"  Her heart skipped a beat.  "What were they after?"

"God only knows.  I didn't wait around to find out."  When he glanced
down at her, his expression was tight with strain.

"You mean you've left your apartment for good?"  She struggled to
control her alarm.

"You bet.  I changed cars and don't think I was followed here, but
whoever trashed the place might be watching the airport."  Though
moving rapidly while he spoke, Dono-van's eyes constantly swept the
terminal.

No wonder he wanted to get out of here.  Erin waited until they were
past a family With several small children before she spoke again.  "You
shouldn't have come.  I could have got to my stepfather's house on my
own."  Already breathing heavily from their quick pace, she had to
force the words out.

"You can't go to O'Shaughnessy's house."  Donovan's voice rang with
authority.  "I'll take you to your cousin."

"You'll do no such thing!"  she exclaimed, annoyed by his bossy tone.
"Jean's place is out in the country.  They'll be in bed now.  Besides,
I need to talk to Patrick immediately-find out what he knows."
Deliberately Erin slowed her pace, forcing Donovan to slow, too.  "With
somebody after you you should have asked someone else to meet me."

"There's no one I trust enough."

Recognizing his subtle compliment, Erin fought the warmth coursing
through her.  "Not even someone from the embassy?"  she asked quietly.
It was time to confront him with her suspicion that he was a CIA
agent.

They'd reached the terminal's door.  Outside a cold, steady rain fell
on the road and parking lot across from it.  Opening the umbrella,
Donovan held it over their heads and started toward the lot.

"The U.S. Embassy?"  He managed to appear puzzled, but Erin knew he was
faking.

"Yes, of course."  She stepped back as a car passed, splashing water
near the curb.

"Since I agreed to become an informant, the only embassy officer I know
is the man I report to."  Handing Erin the umbrella, Donovan quickly
led the way through aisles of parked cars.  "Other than paying me for
information, he's not in the business of doing me favors."

Erin could stomach the pretense no longer.  "Come off it, Donovan.  We
both know you're an agent, not an informant."

"Lower your voice," he whispered over his shoulder.  "And don't say
anything more till we're in the car."

Silently she followed him to a small station wagon, and let him help
her inside.  After he'd put her suitcase in back, he got in and started
the engine.  Half holding her breath, Erin waited for him to confess.

So SHE'S FIGURED it out already, Donovan thought.  For both their sakes
he'd hoped she'd be slower to add up the facts.  He should have known
better.  She was one bright lady and with her intelligence background,
she'd quickly put the pieces together.

He swung out into traffic.  "What makes you think I'm an agent?"

"I don't just think, I know."

She sounded so positive he didn't' waste time arguing.  "You're right,"
he conceded, wondering if she'd also guessed his main purpose in life
the past few years had been to put her stepfather behind bars--and her
mother, too, if she was involved.

"Now tell me how you knew."

Donovan heard her expel her breath in a long sigh.  For an unrealistic
moment he wished he were close enough to catch her breath, to feel its
warmth on his face.

"I knew after I'd talked to my division chief," she explained.  "He'd
obviously been ordered to get me off the Ireland desk immediately so he
fired me for a trumped-up reason."

Donovan heard her voice quiver and knew she was still hurting from the
shock of her sudden dismissal.  Impulsively he reached out and touched
her arm..

After a moment's pause, she continued.  "The only logical reason for my
agency to get rid of me so rapidly was to protect a covert operation. I
put two and two together and came up with you as a CIA agent running an
operation against Shamrock Construction.  Since I'm part of the family,
somebody thought I might give your operation away.  The best way to
avoid that was to fire me."

"You're probably right," he agreed, pushing aside an unwarranted tremor
of guilt.  "My people were trying to protect my operation by having you
fired."

"Just what is your operation?"  she asked.  The swishing rhythm of the
windshield wipers accented her lyrical voice.  Donovan knew she was
watching his every expression.

He didn't hesitate.  "I can't tell you about my operation, Erin.  For
your own sake, it's better you don't know."

"Do you think somebody at Shamrock found out you're an agent?"  Her
voice lowered.  "You don't think I told them--' '

"Of course not," he said, giving her i quick glance.  "But I'm sure
they know.  That's why I decided to go to ground."

On sober reflection, he wasn't at all sure she hadn't given him away.
Yesterday, after her meeting with her division chief, she'd figured out
Donovan was an agent.  This morning O'Shaughnessy had appeared hostile.
Less than an hour later Donovan's apartment had been ransacked,
apparently by someone hunting for clues to his operation.  God knows
what would have happened to him had he been there.

Had Erin called her mother and warned her that Donovan was a CIA agent?
Was that why Margaret Sullivan had disappeared so conveniently?  Could
Erin's mother be on a secret errand to cover up her new husband's role
in the conspiracy?

HE SUSPECTS ME of betraying him.  A warm flush heated Erin's cheeks.
She prayed the headlights from the oncoming cars wouldn't reveal her
hot face.

But why was she blushing?.  She had nothing to be ashamed of.  She'd
saved his life.  Why would she deliberately put him in danger?

"I said nothing to anybody," she declared defiantly.  "Neither about
your being an informant nor an agent.  Not to my mother.  Not to
Patrick.  Not to anybody."

"Simmer down," he said, obviously hearing the anger in her voice.
"Nobody's accusing you of anything."

Erin held her tongue.  The more she protested, the guiltier she'd
appear.  "What's your new phone number?"  she asked, to change the
subject.

He shook his head.  "Sorry, the phone's not connected, and I'm not
giving out the address for obvious masons."

If she'd wanted proof he didn't trust her, them it was.  She bit her
tongue so she wouldn't blurt out something she'd be sorry for.  After
all, wasn't this what she'd wanted all along?  A barter between them
that couldn't easily be breached?  Well, she had got her wish.  So why
was she feeling so depressed?

"Then I guess I won't be seeing much of you while I'm hem."  Erin tried
to keep her tone light and failed miserably.  Until that moment, she
hadn't realized how much she'd looked forward to being with him.

"Oh, you'll be seeing me, all right," he said matter-of-factly.  "I'll
help you find your mother."  His gaze challenged hers.

"I don't see how since there's no way to call you."  Her disappointment
showed, but she didn't care.  Between being scared to death her mother
was in trouble, and being hurt by Donoran's lack of trust, she was
beyond caring if he spotted something as unimportant as her
disappointment at not seeing him.

"We'll arrange a signal," he said.  "If you need me or have information
about your mother, hang a scarf outside your window.  I'll get in touch
as soon afterward as it's safe for us both."

At first she thought he was kidding, his plan sounded so amateurish.
But one look at his sober face told her he was dead serious.

"Patrick has guards and dogs," she said.  "How will you get on the
grounds so you can see the scarf?"

"Let me worry about that."

Stealing a quick glance, Erin saw that his high-voltage smile was back
in place.  But now that she'd caught a glimpse of his darker side, she
spotted something she'd missed before: a cynical edge to his bold good
looks.  His smile wasn't so much charming as distrustful; his lifted
eyebrow not humorous, but mocking.

He trusts no one, she thought.  Not me, not the people he works with,
no one.  Suddenly the barrier between them seemed as high as the spiked
ten-foot-high iron fence Erin saw as they approached Patrick's property
on Donegal Road.

LOCATED NEAR PHOENIX Park where both the President of Ireland and the
U.S. Ambassador have official residences, Patrick's house was
surrounded by several acres of landscaped grounds.  Old-fashioned gas
lamps matching those in the park lined the lightly graveled road
leading to the mansion.

"Sure you want to stay at your stepfather's tonight?"  Donovan asked,
his question a subtle warning.  Concern and caution mingled in the
glance he gave her.  "I can't drive you up there.  You'll have to call
and have someone come get you."

"I know."  Erin eyed the call box beside the deceptively artistic iron
gate across the road.  It Was probably made of forged steel and strong
enough to stop anything short of a tank.

Near the box was a smaller pedestrian gate.  Though lighted by gas
lamps on either side of the road, the entire gate area appeared dark
and forbidding in the cold, steady rain.  Suddenly the car's warm
interior, with Donovan sitting solidly beside her, enfolded Erin like
her down-filled comforter on a chilly morning.

"You'd be safer at your cousin's," he said quietly, seeming to sense
her hesitation.  "You could stay with her tonight and call your
stepfather in the morning."

Erin took a deep breath to give herself courage.  "No.  I need to see
where Patrick's coming from.  If he had anything to do with Mom's
disappearance, I'll find out.  I swear I will."  It was a solemn vow.
Erin's throat choked with sudden tears.  No one was going to hurt her
precious mother.  No one.

"Intend to do a little sleuthing, do you?"

Erin heard the kidding tone in Donovan's baritone voice.  But now that
she knew him better, she recognized a faint hint of approval in the
teasing--as well as a desire to lighten a tense moment for her.

"You bet," she returned, inordinately pleased by his unspoken regard.
"I'll find out what's happened to her if I have to tear that house
apart."  Her voice came out strong and assured.

"Good girl."  There was an undeniable warmth to-his words.

Glancing at him, Erin caught a spark of some undefinable emotion in his
eyes.  For a brief moment her eyes held his.  Then she forced herself
to turn away.  His eyes were dark blue pools to drown in.  If she
didn't move now, she never would.  She reached for the door handle, but
his hand--touching her arm--stopped her.

"Last chance to back out."  He caught her arm and held it, the warmth
from his hand radiating through her body.

She didn't pull herself away, couldn't--couldn't stop the tremor racing
through her at his touch.  For a moment she was unable to speak.  Then,
gathering herself together she said softly but firmly, "I can't back
out, Donoran.  Too much depends on what I can find out in the next few
hours.  My mother's already been missing for too long."

Slowly, reluctantly, he released her arm.  "Remember the scarf if you
want to see me.  It may take awhile, but eventually I'll be in
touch.""

Erin didn't dare meet his gaze.  If she did she'd be in his arms, her
fragile resolve damaged beyond repair.  He seemed to sense her
hesitation.  She felt his hands on her face, tilting her head upward,
forcing her to look directly into his eyes.  Trapped in his gaze, she
caught her breath.

"Since I can't talk you out of going, maybe this will change your
mind."  He pulled her roughly to him.  this hand cradled the back of
her neck, keeping her near as his mouth met hers.

She tried to back away, and found she couldn't.  His lips were soft,
but demanding, and she could no more resist than stop her blood from
flowing through her veins.  Twining her arms around his neck, she
pressed against him and returned his kiss, desperately, passionately,
knowing it meant goodbye.  Much as she wanted to stay with him in the
warm, secure car, she knew she couldn't.

Reluctantly she pulled away from him and reached for the door handle:
Jerking the door open, she got out.  He didn't try to stop her.  Cold
rain hit her face and sluiced down the back of her neck.

Scowling, Donovan thrust the umbrella out the open car door.  "If you
must go, take this."

Gratefully, she opened and lifted it over her head.

"I'll get your bag from the back."  He jumped out and brought it to
her.

For a long minute he stood facing her, his heavy brows drawn downward
in a frown.  Reading his disapproval, she tightened her resolve.

"

"We could still go to your cousin's, he said.  "Then,

tomorrow, she could come with you to see your stepfather.

There's safety in numbers, you know."

Tempting though Donovan's suggestion was, Erin knew it wouldn't work.
"I'll find out much more staying in Pat rick's house a few nights."

"You're probably right," he conceded.  "But I hate to let you go."

A car, the first one since they'd turned onto Donegal

Road, cruised slowly toward them.

Cursing under his breath, Donovan put his arm around Erin's waist and
swung her around toward the gate so the cat's occupants couldn't see
their faces.  At any moment Erin expected to hear gunfire, to feel
Donovan's grip on her waist loosen, to watch his big body topple to the
ground.  She held her breath, waiting.

The car slowed, then continued past, its headlights staring beacons in
the rainy semidarkness.  Slowly Erin expelled her breath.  It was time
to say goodbye.

"You've got to go," she said, turning toward the call box.

"I'll wait until someone comes for you."  He acted as reluctant to
leave as she was to see him go.

"No.  I'll be fine."  Holding the umbrella over her head with one hand
and pulling her bag with the other, she went to the box.  She punched a
button and a male voice answered.  "Glenkillan House.  How may we be of
service?"

"This is Erin Meyer, Margaret Sullivan's daughter."  She glanced over
her shoulder.  Donoran still stood near the car in the steady rain, his
dark hair plastered to his forehead, and water streaming down his
leather jacket.  Why didn't he go?  Lifting a hand, she motioned him to
leave.  He didn't move.

"I'm at the gate on foot," she said into the speaker.  "Can someone
come and pick me up?"

"Of course, Miss Meyer."  The voice on the intercom showed no surprise
at her unexpected appearance.  "A car will be dispatched to fetch you.
The pedestrian gate lock has been released.  You may enter at will."

Uneasily Erin shifted the umbrella to one side and glanced around her.
With what seemed state-of-the-art security surrounding the grounds, was
a surveillance camera watching her every move?  Her apprehension
changed to alarm.  In the semidarkness, could a camera spot Donovan?
She flew to him.

"You've got to leave," she whispered, not knowing the intercom system
could pick up their voices.  "There may be a camera watching."

"There is," he said, in his normal voice.  "See it up there on the
gaslight across the road to the house?"

Peering in the direction he pointed, Erin made out a small black box
designed to blend with the lamp's boxy structure.

"Can they see us?"

He shook his head.  "It's focused on the gate area.  We're out of
range."

Headlights appeared through the trees surrounding the residence.
"Someone's coming for me right now.  You've got to go,"

He took her hand in both of his, and gazed into her eyes.

Erin caught her breath at the strange eager look she saw in them.
Eagerness and something else.  Was it fear for her?

"Don't trust him, Erin.  No matter What he Says."

Donovan's warning sent shudders through her.  What did he think Patrick
would do?

The headlights burst from the trees and headed down the gravel road
straight toward them.

He squeezed her hand again.  "And remember the scarf."

Releasing her, he climbed into his car.  After he started the engine,
it moved discreetly down the street, turning the corner just as the
house vehicle reached the gate.

Watching him go, ice spread through Erin's stomach.

Who should she trust?  Donovan, the roguish CIA agent trying to trap
her stepfather in some sort of conspiracy?  Or Patrick, the man her
mother had loved enough to marry?

The gate swung oPen.  The car drove up to her, and.  Pat rick himself
jumPed out of the driver's side.

With his curly graying brown hair framing his round,

good-natured face, he looked every bit as congenial as he had when
she'd last seen him in Washington.  Only this time he wasn't smiling

"Erin!  Thank God you've come.  I've been trying to call you."  His
tenor Irish brogue seemed hoarse with emotion.

"Quick, get in the car.  Your mother's been kidnapped."

Chapter Eight

Erin nervously got in the front seat next to Patrick, icy fear twisted
around her heart.  "Let me see the ransom note."

Turning the car around, he headed back through the gate.  "There's been
no note, Erin," he replied, his round face grimly distraught in the
soft light from the dash.  "But your mother was sighted with a stranger
yesterday near Mullin-gar, about an hour's drive northwest of Dublin.
I'm sure she's been kidnapped."

"A stranger?"  A tight band closed around Erin's chest as she
remembered the lurking man her mother had described.

"She was in a car headed west.  A man was driving."  Patrick's normally
jovial tone was edged with anger.  "If anything's happened to my
Margaret, I'll throttle the beast who did it with my own two hands."

"Who saw them?"  Erin gasped, fighting her heart-slamming panic.  Had
her mother told Patrick-about the man watching her?

"A friend."  Though his answer was noncommittal, Patrick glowered with
rage.  "I'm sure 'twas my Margaret.  By all that's holy, I'll get her
back if it's the last thing I do."

They'd reached the grove of evergreen trees surrounding the mansion. In
spite of his wrathful words, Erin sensed he'd dodged her question
purposefully.  Had he already hired someone to find her mother?.  But
if an investigator was the friend who had spotted her near Mullingar,
why hadn't he rescued her?

A more frightening scenario plunged into Erin's mind.  Could Patrick
himself be responsible for her mother's disappearance?  Perhaps he's
lying about the stranger to throw me off the track and make me believe
his kidnapping story.  The very thought sent chills racing across her
back.

"But your friend didn't recognize the stranger?"  she asked, unable to
keep the suspicion from her voice.

"Of course not, girl.  If he had, he'd be behind bars now."  He'd
barely finished speaking when he turned toward Erin, a half smile of
apology on his round face.  "Sorry to be so abrupt.  I've not been
myself since your mother left last night for her cousin's.  Then to
have her snatched away like this..."

Though he seemed sincerely troubled, Erin couldn't dispel her suspicion
that Patrick was somehow responsible for her mother's disappearance.
"Did More tell you about the man watching her?"  she asked, watching
him closely to gauge his reaction.

The car lurched suddenly forward, wheels spinning, as Patrick's foot
came down hard on the gas pedal.  He corrected immediately and the car
slowed.  "What are you saying, girl?  What man?"

From Patrick's nervous reaction, Erin guessed he didn't know about the
limping stranger.  "The last time we talked on the phone, Mom mentioned
that she'd seen a man watching her.  I thought maybe he was someone
you'd hired as a bodyguard.  But she said no, she was sure you'd have
told her."

"She was right.  But why didn't she tell me herself?.  Patrick sounded
more puzzled than afraid for Margaret.

"She didn't want to worry you."  Erin's eyes filled with tears as she
remembered the times her mother had carried heavy burdens alone--like
when she thought she had cancer.  Not until the biopsy came back
negative did she tell Erin or her husband.

"Not worry me?"  Patrick's voice rose.  "What's wrong 'with the
woman?"

He raved on, but Erin barely heard him.  They'd emerged from the grove
of fir trees and were headed toward a rectangular mansion that rose
above the surrounding landscape like an ancient stone tomb.  Through
the film of rain on the windshield, the place looked oddly menacing,
in spite of its obvious opulence.

' Already depressed by what had happened, she felt shivers of dread
race through her.  With nearly every window dark, her stepfather's
house reminded Erin of the luxurious walled-in palace in Poe's "Masque
of the Red Death," the tomb no one escaped from alive.  She shuddered,
half wishing she'd taken Donovan's advice and gone to her cousin's
country house for her first night in Ireland.  But that would only have
postponed her arrival here.  Intuitively she knew she'd find the answer
to her mother's disappearance in the great house hazily visible through
the steady rain.

Patrick drove down the.  circular drive and stopped in front of the
massive front door.  "Welcome to Glenkillan House," he said, his round
face a sober mask.  "I'm sorry your first visit isn't under happier
circumstances."

Still shivering, Erin peered up past tall windows toward the flat roof
three stories up.  It was ringed by a balustrade matching that on top
of covered walkways extending from either side of the house.  Supported
by arches shaped like the windows, the walkways led to
outbuildings--presumably garages and servants' quarters.

A uniformed man with an umbrella appeared outside Erin's door.  He
helped her from the car, doing his best to protect her from the steady
rain.  On the driver's side, a second servant assisted her
stepfather.

"They'll bring your bag to your room," Patrick said, leading Erin to
the covered portico, which was supported by four two-story-high
columns.  A tall, middle-aged man, also in uniform, opened the front
door.

"This is Miss Meyer, Robert," Patrick said.  "Erin, Robert, my butler.
If you need anything while you're here; he's the man to ask."

"It will be a pleasure, Miss Meyer."

Good at distinguishing voices, Erin recognized the nasal tone she'd
heard many times on the telephone.  But the butler's congenial words
didn't match the.  cold, hard look in his black eyes.  How had her
mother dealt with this man?  she wondered.  Visualizing her mother,
another sick stab of loss struck her.  Morn, where are you?  What made
you leave so suddenly?

With an effort, Erin met the butler's gaze.  "Thank you

Robert, I'!1 be sure to call if I need you."

He bowed slightly, from the waist, Patrick, standing next to the
butler, shrugged off his rain-spotted dressing gown and handed it to
him.  Underneath he wore a white shirt, open at the neck, with navy
suspenders and dark pants.

"Bring me a dry robe, Robert," he said.  "We'll be in the library."

Turning away from the two men, Erin pictured her mother in the house's
lush interior.  She saw her coming down the wide white staircase, its
walls lavishly decorated with rococo plaster work Or reading in the
luxurious blue-and-white salon.  Or sitting at the head of the table in
the immense dining room.  The table, with chairs for ten, could easily
have seated twenty.

Fighting tears, Erin handed her coat to an apple-cheeked maid who
appeared from nowhere when the butler beckoned

"Take the coat to the gold bedroom along with Miss

Meyer's suitcase, Robert told the girl.

Her eyes blurry, Erin followed Patrick through the salon into the
library.  Though somewhat smaller than the other rooms, it, too, had a
high rococo ceiling and the spaciousness of a so-called great house.
But the dark mahogany walls and bookcases gave the 'room an ominous
closed-in feeling, one that was intensified by the clutter of tables
and red leather chairs and couches.  One lamp burned near the
fireplace, its colored glass shade casting grotesque shadows on the
inlaid-wood tabletop where it sat.

Mom wouldn't have liked this room, Erin thought uneasily, unable to
visualize her mother here.  Dark and depressing, the library exuded a
sinister ambience, as though evil schemes had been contrived in this
place.

Patrick nodded toward two red leather chairs near a marble fireplace
with a wood fire blazing within.  An acrid smoky smell lingered in the
air.

"Make yourself comfortable."  Patrick lowered himself into one of the
chairs--from its well-worn appearance, his favorite..  "Is there
anything you'd like to eat or drink?  Robert can see to it, if there
is."

When she shook her head, he took a Sherlock-Holmes-style pipe from the
table between the chairs and filled the bowl with tobacco.  "Do you
mind if I smoke?"

From the confident way he tamped the tobacco into the bowl, Erin knew
he didn't expect her to object.  Though her eyes were still blurry with
unshed tears, she pasted on as wide a smile as she could manage.  "No,
my father smoked a pipe.  It never bothered me."

Patrick held a Lighted match to the tobacco and inhaled, then sent
perfect rings of fragrant smoke curling into the air.  "Smoking doesn't
bother your mother, so I didn't think it would bother you."  Lines
appeared on his forehead, "I'm glad you've come, Erin.  We need to put
our heads together and figure out how we're going to get your mother
safely home."

He paused, studying her with a puckish expression.  Erin wondered what
he was thinking, if he were really as worried about her mother as he
claimed.

"But first," he said, "tell me about this intelligence work you do. One
of our company lawyers, Dan Donovan, tells me you saved his life by
interpreting information you read in a confidential report."

Donovan.  The mere mention of his name brought sensual memories to Erin
of his hands touching her, of his lips against hers: thoughts she'd
rather forget.  How much had he told Patrick?  As little as possible,
she decided, determined not to betray him.  Rogue though he was, he'd
trusted her enough to tell her he was a CIA agent.  She'd never reveal
that to anyone.

In general terms she described her work as a military intelligence
analyst and told Patrick she'd guessed someone might be killed from the
terminology in a routine report she'd received.  When he tried to pin
her down, she told him the same thing she'd told Donovan: that the
report was classified and she couldn't reveal specific wording.

"And that's all them was to it, then?"  His light blue eyes squinted at
her through the prismatic glow from the table lamp.  The shade's
colored glass gave his face an odd greenish cast.  "Just a report with
some vague clues about an assassination?"

She nodded, withholding information about the restricted files,
Donovan's CIA connection, and the fact that she'd been fired to protect
his operation.

Robert appeared with a blue robe, and helped Patrick put it on.  He
went on speaking as though the butler weren't there.  "Are you sure
you're not leaving something out?"

"Positive."  Looking her stepfather straight in the eye, she hoped the
reflection from the blazing fire muted the blush on her cheeks.  She
didn't like lying to Patrick, but betraying Donovan would be much
worse.

Thanking Robert, Patrick returned to his chair.  His eyes narrowed,"
giving his face a porcine cast.  "We'll never find your mother if we're
not square with each other, Erin.  Why don't you tell me the whole
story?"

Her heart sank.  "I--I don't know what you mean."  A queer shiver went
through her.  She stared at Patrick.

"Then I'll tell you."  His tone sharpened, and his fleshy face
reddened.

Behind her, Erin heard a soft click as Robert shut the door.  Patrick.
eyed her shrewdly, and suddenly he didn't look congenial anymore.
"Donovan told me about the restricted files on him and me, and about
the CIA connection you discovered--all the little details you left out.
Why don't you trust me, Erin?"

Resisting the impulse to squirm nervously in her chair, she matched his
scowl.  So he knew she was a liar.  Well, so what?  She'd had good
reason to withhold the truth.  From her three years in the air force,
she'd learned never to make excuses, and she didn't intend to start
now.

"Because I don't know you well enough to trust you Patrick."  Leaning
one arm on the table, she stared directly at him.  "Until I do, I'm
going to be very careful what I say."

Obviously caught off guard by her honesty, Patrick took a long drag on
his pipe.  After he'd blown more smoke rings, he gave her an icy stare.
"You're a smart girl, Erin, If you want to see your mother again, you
really need to trust me."

Though he followed the comment with his usual congenial smile, Erin
couldn't help shuddering.  His words sounded very much like a threat.

WHEN THE MAID finally showed her to a gilded second-floor bedroom, Erin
said good-night with no intention of sleeping, at least not until she'd
explored the library.  Just thinking about going back to that
depressing room made her heart beat faster.  But she had to do it.
Since Patrick probably spent most of his time there, she might find
clues to her mother's disappearance hidden in one of the many drawers
and cubbyholes.  If the room concealed secrets, Erin would find them.

After using the adjoining tiled bathroom, she unpacked her suitcase,
hanging her clothes in the wardrobe at one end of the room.  Then she
switched off the lights so anyone watching her window from outside
would think she'd gone to bed.  The only illumination came from glowing
coals in the marble fireplace.  Tall windows showed near-total
blackness outside.

As she sat in the semidarkness listening to the rain on the windows,
Erin saw Donovan's face in the dying embers.  She wished he were here
with her in this huge golden bedroom to enjoy its thick Oriental
carpet, the oil painting of Aphrodite and Adonis over the mantel, the
canopied... Dear Lord!  What was she thinking?  Her mother was missing,
probably in the hands of a kidnapper.  Patrick had come close to
threatening her.  Could he be dangerous?  She desperately needed to get
some insight into who her stepfather really was: the dangerous criminal
Donovan warned her about, or the affectionate husband her mother had
married.  Thinking of her mother, Erin's sick sensation of loss
returned, and she felt a stab of guilt for letting her thoughts wander.
Tonight she had to concentrate on her search of the library and not let
anything--or anyone--distract her.

Kneeling beside the door to the hallway, Erin listened intently.  She
heard no sound in the hall, no faint rest ling of footsteps over the
carpet to signal someone's passing.  Quietly she cracked the door and
peered outside.

The wide hallway was empty.  The lights had been dimmed for the night,
but since her eyes were accustomed to darkness, she had no trouble
seeing.  Silently she slipped out of her room and went to the broad
staircase.  At the bottom, she held her breath, listening.  If someone
caught her, she'd never be able to explain why she was out of her room
after midnight, and her plan to search the library would be mined.

In the far distance, she heard the lonesome wail of a train whistle;
nearby, the rhythmic ticking of an ornate, nineteenth century
grandfather clock seemed soft compared to the wild pounding of her
heart.  No other sounds disturbed the claustrophobic silence.

Hardly daring to breathe, Erin tiptoed across the darkened salon to the
library.  The door was closed.  But inside, Erin heard muted voices.
She pressed her ear against the edge of the door.  At first, she
couldn't make out the words.  But by concentrating and holding her
breath, she was able to recognize Patrick's voice and discern enough to
understand him.

"Yes, I used Dun Aengus, my own nickname, on the message to confuse
anybody who might get hold of it accidentally--on the chance it was
traced to my house or company."  Obviously certain he was not being
overheard, he chuckled, a shallow rasping sound.  "No smart judge would
believe I'd incriminate myself like that."

The other man spoke.  "And I'm sure you had an associate ready to
confess that he wrote the message."

Chuckling again, Patrick said something in reply, but Erin didn't hear
him.  All her senses turned off at the sound of the visitor's voice.
She froze, her feet rooted to the floor.  The blue-and-white salon spun
crazily around her.

That voice was one she'd never forget as long as she lived.  He'd
spoken only a few words in the hotel kitchen back in Georgetown, but
those words and the voice that spoke them were etched forever on her
brain.

The assassin.  He was inside the library at this very minute, talking
to her stepfather.

Erin's first impulse was to get out of there as fast as she could.  To
run out the front door of this horrible house and never come back.  To
escape before the assassin caught her.

But Patrick's dogs would track her down before she got through the
front gate.  And even if escape was feasible, she couldn't pass up a
chance to overhear Patrick's plans.  This might be her best opportunity
to find her mother.  With her heart drumming wildly, she pressed her
ear against the door again.

"They're both right here in Dublin," Patrick said.

They're talking about Donouan and me, Erin realized,

shaken to the core.  Her concentration was so intense that she didn't
hear the man behind her until it was too late.  An iron hand gripped
her arm.  With her heart pounding furiously in her throat, she jerked
around to face Robert.

"Can I be of assistance, Miss Meyer?"  he asked, so loudly that Patrick
couldn't fail to hear.  Seconds later, the door opened and Patrick
appeared, an angry scowl marring his forehead.

"Erin!  What're you doing here, girl?"

Releasing her arm, the butler spoke.  before Erin could come up with a
reasonable explanation.  "I was on my way to see if you wanted your
usual toddy, Mr.  O'Shaughnessy.  Found her with her ear pressed to the
door, I did."

Patrick's scowl deepened.  "You can bring two cognacs,

Robert.  Don't worry about my stepdaughter.  I'll take care of her."

"Very good, sir."  The butler left without a backward look.

"I couldn't sleep.  Wanted a book," Erin explained lamely, trying to
peer into the library where the assassin waited.  Patrick's bearish
body in the half-open door blocked her view.  She couldn't see the
chairs by the fireplace where he must be sitting.  "When I heard voices
I listened to see who it was so [ wouldn't barge in on something
private," she went on.

"A friend stopped by," Patrick said, his scowl lightening "We were
talking about old times."

"Voices.  That's all I heard.  Voices."  The hair on Erin's forearms
prickled with alarm.  She had to get away from here before something
dreadful happened.  From somewhere deep within, she generated a smile
and forced her body to assume a relaxed position.  "I couldn't make out
the words."

"Well, no harm done."  His frown disappeared, but Erin knew he must be
seething underneath, afraid she'd over heard something important.

"If you don't mind," Patrick went on, "I'll escort you to your room.
Wouldn't want you to get lost, now, would we?"

On the long walk back upstairs, Erin attempted to reassure PatriCk that
she'd heard only voices, not words.  Finally she thought he believed
her.  But when they reached her room, he gave her an odd patronizing
scowl, as though she were a misbehaving child.

"For yer own good I'll be locking the door so ye don't go wandering
around the house and get yourself hurt," he said.  "Mary will be up
first thing tomorrow to help you dress."  Reaching inside the door, he
pulled the key from the lock.

Stunned, Erin faced him.  "For heaven's sake, Patrick!  My mother--your
wife, in case you've forgotten--is missing.  I'm only interested in
finding her.  If you don't trust me enough to leave my door open, I'll
leave Glenkillan House immediately."

A tolerant smile spread across his ruddy face.  "Fine.  If you want to
go, I can't stop you.  Get your suitcase.  I'll have someone drive you
to a hotel in town."

A warning bell sounded in her head.  Would he lock her in as soon as
she stepped inside the room?  But what else could she do?  If she tried
to run, he'd grab her.

"It'll take me ten minutes or so to pack my suitcase."  She marched
into the room, her back ramrod straight.

"Robert will be up shortly to carry it down for you" Patrick said,
before he closed the door.

Erin heard the key turn in the lock.  Hastily she tossed her things
back into her suitcase and sat beside the door, waiting for Robert.
Fifteen minutes passed, then twenty.  She became more frightened by the
minute as her dismay grew.

Patrick had hired the assassin.  He knew Donovan was a CIA agent and
had hired someone to kill him.  Now her own life was in danger because
of what she'd overheard.  After half an hour, it was apparent no one
was coming to take her to a hotel.  She was locked in for the night.

Every hair on her body seemed to stand on end.  She had to get out of
here at once.

After turning out the light, she went to the three big windows.  The
two end ones, in spite of their size, were hung in traditional sash
frames that latched at midpoint.  Twisting the latch, she pulled one
window up, half expecting an alarm to sound.  But there was only
silence and the cold wetness of rain on her face.

Leaning out, Erin looked down.  Since the ceilings were so high, there
was a drop of at least twenty-five feet to the lawn in front of the
house.  Her stomach clenched tight.  It was much too far to jump, even
if she climbed out and hung by her arms first.

She looked to her left and right.  A ledge about a foot wide ran below
the second-story windows to the balustrade atop the house's covered
walkways.  From there she could climb down the roof of the nearest
outbuilding and drop to the ground, a distance of about ten feet.

Could she do it?  Erin had always been good at' balancing herself.  But
she'd have to walk the narrow ledge, slippery with rain, for a good
forty feet with nothing to hang on to.  Impossible, she thought,
shuddering as she glanced down at the ground.  One misstep on the
slippery ledge and she'd be a goner.

Before she closed the window, she draped a scarf in the jamb so it blew
outside.  There wasn't one chance in a thousand that Donovan would see
it, but he'd told her to hang a scarf outside her window if she needed
him.  And God knew she needed him now as she'd never needed anybody in
her life.

Next, She went to the door and sat down, listening.  Was someone on
guard outside, someone prepared to stop any escape attempt she made?
Barely breathing, she put her ear to the door, alert for the smallest
sound of a human presence.  When her left ear began to hurt from the
pressure, she switched to her right.

Nothing.  Convinced no one was outside, she fiddled with the lock using
a nail file and a pair of tweezers from her manicure kit.  Unlike
common inside locks, this one was similar to a bolt action device. Erin
had the uncomfortable thought that the beautiful gold bedroom had been
specially outfitted as a jail cell.  A cold chill ran through her. Had
her mother ever been locked up in here?

Not possible, she told herself.  Margaret had always sounded so happy
and so supportive of Patrick when Erin talked to her on the phone.  She
and Erin were too close for her to keep such dastardly information
hidden.

By now the fire had almost burned itself out.  Only a few live coals
lay in the ashes.  Erin slumped in the chaise at the foot of the bed.
At that moment, her chances for escape seemed as dead as the cooling
ashes.

An odd tapping noise at the window disturbed her quiet desperation. Her
heart pounded frantically.  Had Donovan seen her scarf and somehow
managed to scale the house wall?

She flew to the window and shoved up the frame.  It was Donovan.
Standing on the narrow ledge below, he poked his head through the open
window.  He was wearing a gray sweatsuit, and she could barely make out
his phantomlike face in the fading light from the fire.  But to her he
looked better than a squadron of F-16s and the Angel Gabriel all rolled
up into one.

He grinned at her with his high-voltage smile.  "What's up?"

"Thank God you've come!"  She was so glad to see him she didn't know
whether to laugh or cry.  "The assassin's here.  He's going to kill
both of us.  And--and..."  She felt her eyes filling and swallowed
hard.

"And what?"  Putting one leg over the sill, he bounded into the room.

"And Patrick's locked me in," she whispered thickly.  "God knows what
he's going to do to me."

"Your stepfather's not going to do anything to you" Donovan said,
bursting with confidence.  "Because we are getting out of here snow

After closing the window, Donovan went to the door to examine the lock.
"No sense fooling with it," he said, turning away.  "We'll have to go
out the window."

From the door, he went directly to Erin and caught her in his arms
before she guessed what he was up to.  He smelled wonderful--like rain
washing over a pine forest.  When he kissed her, it was done expertly
and thoroughly, with a subtle promise of even better things to come.
After he released her, all traces of her tears were gone.

"Hello, Erin," he said, in his sexy baritone voice.  "Now that we've
greeted each other properly, tell me what happened."

Briefly she' told him how Robert had caught her with her ear pressed
against the library door and how Patrick had reacted.

Donovan's mood veered sharply.  to alarm.  "So we know Patrick's behind
the assassination attempt.  Do you think he's also behind your mother's
disappearance?"

She hesitated.  "I honestly don't know.  At first he told me she'd been
kidnapped.  He seemed so upset, I was sure he truly believed it.  But
something he said later made me think he might be behind her
disappearance, or might know where she is."

"He knows," Donovan said, his voice so confident that Erin's warning
alarm went off again.

"Do you know something I don't?"  she asked, suddenly afraid of what he
might say.

"I don't think your mother's disappeared at all," he answered.  "I
think she and your stepfather rigged her disappearance to serve their
own ends."

Stunned' Erin stared at him' "Not my mother' You can't be serious." She
glared angrily at Donovan.

"I'll explain later," he promised.  "But right now, let's get the hell
out of here."

DONOVAN USED A ROPE to lower Erin's suitcase, coat and handbag out the
window to the ground.  Kneeling beside the sill, she watched the case
hit the grass below without opening-at least nothing light-colored
spilled out.  Her black handbag and maroon car coat disappeared into
the darkness.

"Are you sure the ropes will hold?"  she asked.  While she waited
inside the room the past hour, he'd climbed to the roof and tied nylon
ropes to the balusters so there was a rope about every five feet for
her to hang on to.

"They'll hold," he assured her, kneeling beside her at the window sill
and putting his ann around her waist.  "I'll go first, and you'll see
how "I use the rope to balance my-self."

As he whispered in her ear, the touch of his lips and warmth of his
breath gave her new confidence.  But that didn't keep the ground from
looking a hundred miles away.

Trying to ignore her fear, she nodded.  "Don't worry.  I'll be fine."
She found herself suddenly eager to show him she could do it.

He squeezed her waist, and she was surprised at how much his unspoken
admiration pleased her.

"Never let go of the ropes," he whispered, his breath hot on her cheek.
"Don't let one go until you've got a firm grip on the next.  Keep your
face to the wall and don't look down.  I'll be right there to help if
you run into trouble."

"Piece of cake," she assured him, already dreading the coming ordeal.

"Then I'll see you outside."  With the lithe grace of a jungle cat, he
bounded over the sill into the dark, rainy night.

And now it was her turn.

Chapter Nine

Apprehensively Erin eyed the slender nylon cord dangling in front of
the window.  It had swung back into position when Donovan released it.
Leaning out she saw him on the ledge about five feet away, facing the
house's masonry wall.  He turned toward her and beckoned, his features
a shadowy blur in the darkness.

At least the rain had stopped.  A full moon emerged from the clouds,
then disappeared as quickly as it had come, plunging the house's gray
stone wall again into shadow.  Erin hated to see the moon go, but was
grateful for small favors.  The almost total darkness made her and
Donoran harder to spot from the ground.

Without looking down, she reached for the rope.  Even through her lined
leather gloves, the nylon cord felt frightfully thin to her fingers.
Clutching it, she edged out of the window.  The cold damp night wrapped
clammy arms around her body, still warm from Donovan's touch, but she
didn't flinch.

When Erin's foot touched the narrow ledge below the window, she
gingerly pulled her other leg over the sill.  Finally, with both feet
firmly on the foot-wide ledge, she clung tightly to the rope, using it
to balance herself.  Her leaden stomach dropped a notch 'as she took
her first small step.

Donovan beckoned again.  As surefooted as a cat, he moved away from
her, his light-colored outfit blending perfectly with the house's
walls.  Since Erin had only dark clothing, he'd insisted she wear his
gray windbreaker, leaving him with a sweatshirt.  Even so, she felt as
conspicuous in her jeans as a black fly against a white curtain.

Where were the wolfhounds?  she wondered fearfully.  Then she
remembered her mother said the animals roamed only the estate
perimeter.  But one barking dog would be enough to alert the staff Stop
with the scary thoughts, she ordered herself.  Clinging tightly to the
rope, she forced herself to take another small sideways step, then
another.

To her right Donovan had reached another rope.  He let the one he was
using swing back into position, ready for her to grab.  Patiently he
waited while she inched toward it, step after frightening step.  Erin's
heart was pounding, her hands damp with sweat inside her gloves.  The
five feet between the window and the next length of rope seemed
interminable.

There!  Finally she was in reach of the next rope.  As Donovan had
instructed, she gripped it firmly before releasing the first one.
Glancing toward him, she saw that he had already let go of the third
rope and was waiting, his body turned toward her, for her to grab it.

They didn't have all night, Erin reminded herself, trying to relax her
tense body.  If they weren't off the estate before dawn, they'd never
make it.  Hardly dating to breathe, she forced her fig id legs to
move.

Suddenly, excruciating pain shot through her right calf.  Her fingers
tightened on the rope.  Shutting her eyes, she pressed her forehead
against the rough stone wall.  The pain radiated upward, paralyzing
her.  She was going to fall.  In her mind she could feel the cold air
whistling past her, see the ground rushing up to meet her helpless
body.

Then Donovan appeared at her side.  "What's wrong?"  His strong arm
gripped hers.

"A cramp," she whispered.

"Rock back and forth on your toes and heel," he returned, demonstrating
how easily this feat could be accomplished on a ledge only a foot wide.
She did as he said, but it was his firm-grip on her arm, his warm
breath on her face, that got Erin moving again.

She was within ten feet of the walkway when a third-floor light
switched off, and She heard the unmistakable scrape of a window opening
above her.  Terror ripped through her.  Clutching her rope like a
lifeline, she froze against the side of the house.  Was her rope in
front of the window for someone to see?  Cautiously she looked up.

No, thank God.  The open window was behind her.  None of their ropes
hung in front of it.  While she watched a man leaned out, his elbows on
the sill.

The moon chose that unfortunate moment to make another appearance.
Halting her slow progress, Erin clung to her rope, wishing she could
disappear into the side of the building.  Surely the man above would
see her.  Her stomach clenched tight, and she locked her gaze on the
third-story window.  Staring upward, she got a good look at his
profile.  He had the face of a Greek god.

With his curly blond hair, aquiline nose, and square jaw, he might have
stepped off a motion picture screen or magazine cover.  Who could he
be, this gorgeous man housed on the third floor of her stepfather's
mansion?  She blinked and looked again, but the moon had vanished
behind another cloud.  The beautiful face melted into the blackness.

Then she heard his voice.  Was he calling to her and Donoven?  Hardly
daring to breathe, she pressed against the stone wall, listening.

"To be, or not to be: that is the question:

Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer

The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,"

Shakespeare!  She could hardly believe her ears.  In a low voice, the
man above them was reciting the familiar soliloquy from Hamlet. Unaware
of them, he droned on.

Slowly Erin released her breath, listening more carefully.  Though he
was speaking in low tones, with studied feeling, she thought she
recognized his voice.  Turning her head to one side, she concentrated
all her attention on the sounds from above.

It couldn't be, but it was.  The assassin.

The earth swung crazily on its axis and she clutched the rope with
trembling fingers.  All the breath seemed punched out of her.

The assassin.  But how could that be?  The handsome man she'd seen in
that 'brief moment of moonlight looked nothing like the unattractive
creature in the hotel kitchen.

An instant later she felt warmth along her hip and knew Donoran was by
her side.  Glancing upward, he tugged at her arm in an urgent warning
that said, "Let's get out of here."

"It's the assassin," she whispered.

Putt'fng his finger to his lips, he tugged again.  Above, the killer
continued his recitation.

Heart racing, she turned away from the window and once again edged
toward their destination: the narrow roof over the two-story-high
walkway below.  When she finally reached it, and Donovan helped her
over the balustrade, she could hardly walk her legs were so stiff.

"It was the assassin," she gasped in his ear.

"I thought it might be."  He took her gloved hand..  "But he looks
so--so different."  She breathed deeply, trying to keep from trembling.
Now that they were no longer in danger of falling, she couldn't stop
shaking.

For a brief moment Donovan held her close, his warmth renewing her
confidence.  "I'll explain about him when we're on the ground," he
whispered.  "Now, we've got to get out of here, before the moon shines
again and he spots

US."

Donovan tugged at her hand and Erin followed him across the top of the
walkway to the roof of the garage, the nearest outbuilding.  From
there, she scrambled down the gently sloping Surface and dropped the
remaining ten feet to the ground.

Donoven was waiting for her.  "Good girl," he whispered.  "A little
more practice and you'll be ready for the Olympics."

"What do you know about the assassin?"  she whispered back, unable to
get the handsome face she'd just seen out of her mind.

He led her around a corner, out of sight from the front of the house.
"The press calls him Chameleon because lies so good at disguises.
Nobody knows what he really looks like."  Donovan's baritone voice
sounded grim.

'"But he Wouldn't wear a disguise in his bedroom at night."  A chill of
foreboding turned Erin's legs to water, and she sagged against the
building.

"No, he wouldn't," Donoven agreed.  "If he guesses we've seen his real
face, he'll never rest until we're both dead."

The GARAGE SMELLED like robber and oil.  Erin stared at the five cars
lined up side by side, their front ends facing three big garage doors.
A sixth space was empty.  Did her mother have the car that was usually
parked there?

She faced Donoven.  "How did you know the Side garage door would be
open?"

He gave her a smug smile.  "Because I jimmied the lock before I went to
your room.  Thought I might need to get off the estate in a hurry."

Horrified, Erin stared at him.  "You mean you were going to steal a
car?"

"Since you're coming with me, I mean we are going to steal a car," he
countered.

She grasped his arm.  "We'll be caught for sure."

"It's our best chance."  His gaze held hers in a hard challenge.  "On
foot they'd catch us for sure.  And each vehicle has a gate opener."

Since she didn't have a better plan, Erin started toward the nearest
car, the same midsize vehicle Patrick had used to meet her at the gate.
Donovan tossed her suitcase and a plastic bag--which they had picked up
before they entered the garage---inside:

"Let's get out of here."  He motioned toward a blinking red light on a
panel near the door they'd just entered.  "If that's what I think it
is, somebody's on his way here right now."

A cold chill touched Erin's spine.  "A silent alarm.  Why didn't it go
off when you jimmied the lock?"

"Because I didn't open the door."  Running back to the panel he punched
a couple of buttons.  All three of the big garage doors slid open..

"Get in and buckle up," he yelled, running to the front of the car and
lifting the hood.  In mere seconds he got it started without a key.

Erin smelled burning rubber and heard the squeal of tires on the
concrete garage floor as they took off.  Swaying precariously, the car
took the first turn onto the circular driveway.  She clutched the edge
of her seat, fearing they might tip over.  The second turn was even
worse.  The vehicle swayed even more, then righted itself as they
roared down the main drive heading toward the gate.

Headlights appeared behind them.  Twisted around in her seat, Erin
watched them come steadily close.

"They're gaining," she yelled, her heart pumping furiously.

He eyed the rearview mirror.  "They've probably got the Porsche.  We're
no match for them in this Ford."  His lips tightened.

The night grew.  even darker as they entered the grove of trees.
Seconds later they burst out of the grove.  The gate loomed in the
distance, about a mile ahead.

"It's "Erin cried.  "Press the opener."

Her heart pounding, she watched him manipulate the device.

The gate didn't open.

"They must have switched control to the house," Donovan replied, his
voice deadly calm.  "Put your head down and hang on."  He pushed the
gas pedal to the floor.

"No," she screamed, guessing what he intended.  "The gate's too strong.
We'll be killed."

"Put your head down' and hang on," he repeated."

Her heart pounding, she pressed her head between her knees and covered
it with her arms.  The car turned ninety degrees into the grass beside
the drive and skidded to one side, its rear wheels spinning on wet
turf.  Turning into the skid, Donovan angled toward a section of fence
about twenty feet from the gate.

Like most iron fences, the poles between the square concrete
foundations barely touched the ground.  The Ford easily rammed though
and bumped over a concrete curb to the street beyond.

The impact caved in the car's front end and smashed the fenders but
didn't break the windshield.  Swinging the car in a wide arc, Donovan
made an acute left turn onto Donegal Road.

Cautiously Erin raised her head.  "Are they behind us?"

"

"Afraid so, he answered grimly.  "But they waited for the house to open
the gate so we've bought ourselves a few minutes."  Tires screeching,
the car swung out of Donegal Road onto a four-lane street paralleling
the Liney River.  Tendfidis of fog, thick as new smoke, hung over the
fiver and surrounding area.

"Hang on," he yelled, flooring the gas pedal.  An instant later he made
a sharp left into Phoenix Park.  Behind them, headlights drew closer.
The Porsche's driver must have seen the Ford turn into the park.

Erin choked back a cry.  "They'll catch us for sure in the park."

"Want to bet?"  He flashed her his familiar smile.

A second later he switched off the lights and turned into the dimly
lighted gravel parking area near St.  Mary's Hospital.  When he reached
the far side, he roared unerringly across the weedy grass toward an
unlighted space ahead.  In the foggy darkness, Erin could make out even
blacker shapes looming in their path.

"Trees!"  she screamed.  "Donovan slow down!  We're going to hit
one."

"No, we're not."  She could hear the smile in his voice.  "Oh ye of
little faith, no tree can stop us now."  But she noticed that he
dropped the car's speed to a saner level.

Behind them, the Porsche had turned into the hospital area, but was no
longer following.

"They think we're playing possum," Donovan said smugly.  "It'll take
them a few minutes to check the cars parked there and figure out none
has a caved-in grill.  By then we'll be gone."

"The fools," Erin returned sarcastically.  "They think we've got enough
brains not to drive into a grove of trees in this pitch-black fog at
seventy miles an hour."

Erin's attempt at sarcasm failed.  Now that they'd escaped she couldn't
help admiring Donovan's audacity.

THE SCREECH OF CAR TIRES and the distant sound of men's voices brought
Chameleon to his open third-floor window.  With his room dark, no one
who happened to look up from the ground would see his face.

A chase appeared to be underway below.  First one set of headlights and
then another raced around the circular drive and headed away from the
mansion down the straightaway toward the main gate.

Chameleon watched until the second car entered the grove of trees. When
its lights had faded, he turned toward two men near the garage.

O'Shaughnessy and his butler, he observed, recognizing his employer
from his lumbering, bearlike gait.  The two men entered the covered
walkway where Chameleon couldn't see them.  He was about to move away
from the window when something caught his eye.  He focused on it.

A rope.  It was hanging a few feet to the left of his window.  Leaning
farther out, he peered along the side of the house.  More ropes, one
every five or six feet.  They'd been tied to the balustrades on top and
now dangled loosely against the stone wall.

Why?  Obviously because someone needed the ropes for balance to walk
the narrow ledge below the second-story windows.

Suddenly all the pieces fit together.  Someone had escaped from
Glenkillan House only minutes ago.  They'd walked the ledge below, then
stolen a car.  He'd find out who from O'Shaughnessy.

With mounting apprehension, Chameleon remembered the flashes of
moonlight, the sound of his own voice reciting the soliloquy.  A
sickening nausea ravaged his body.  If someone had been on that ledge,
they must have seen his face.  They could identify him.  If they had
any idea Who he was, they had to be eliminated.

DUBLIN.  In the gray light of the approaching dawn, Erin stared out the
car's window.  SiCk with worry, she pictured her mother walking along
the broad streets with their elegant Georgian buildings.  She'd told
Erin of St.  Patrick's Cathedral, standing sentinel-like among the
surrounding rooftops; of St.  Stephen's Green at the top of Grafton
Street, with its wonderful scents in the Garden of the Blind; of the
city's brightly colored doors with their shiny brass fixtures.

Now, seeing Dublin for herself, Erin knew how her mother must have felt
the first time she returned to the place of her birth.  Like she'd
finally come home.  How could anything have happened to her here, in
this city she loved and trusted?

In the east a pale rosiness brushed the skyline.  The day promised to
be bright and sunny, with no trace of the rain that came down so
Steadily last night.  At least they'd have a nice day for their meeting
with Jean Magee.  Talking to her mother's cousin seemed the logical
place to start their search.  Patrick might guess they'd go there, but
Erin doubted he'd hurt her or Donovan with Jean 1looking on.

After leaving Phoenix Park an hour ago, they'd ditched the Ford.  While
Erin waited at an early morning McDonald's, her stomach churning
with-anxiety, Donovan had picked up an unmarked car at the U.S.
Embassy.  Then they'd started for Jean's house.

Erin glanced at Donovan beside her.  "You never did tell me how you
appeared at my window so soon after I.put my scarf out.  Don't tell me
you sat out there half the night watching."  She made the comment in a
teasing tone, knowing there had to be some other explanation.

"Guilty as charged."  His growth of beard gave him a scruffy male look
that warmed Erin's heart.  The poor man hadn't had any more sleep than
she, probably less since she'd been able to nap on the plane.

She swallowed hard.  Much as she wanted to believe he cared that much
about what happened to her, she couldn't picture Donovan standing guard
outside her window all night On the mere chance she might need help.

"Why'd you do it?"  she asked.

"I hadn't intended to bring this up right now," he said slowly, "but
since you've asked--I want to find your mother as much as you do."

So that was it.  Erin kicked herself for her foolish hope that he'd
waited outside because he cared for her.  "And you thought I might find
out something from Patrick about where she is--and would want you to
know."

"Exactly."  Glancing toward her, his dark blue eyes searched hers. "You
haven't asked why I want to find your mother."

Her heart skipped a beat.  "All right then, why?"

He didn't hesitate.  "I want to find her because I'm sure she know
something about the conspiracy I've been assigned to investigate."

"You can't be serious!"  Looking straight ahead, Erin tried to disguise
the guilty tremor in her voice.  Hadn't that suspicion occurred to her
also, that her mother and Patrick might be collaborating on something
illegal?  But no, she couldn't admit such lack of faith to Donovan. Her
mother might be in terrible danger.  No matter what she'd done, she had
to be found and protected.

"I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Erin," he said, "but I'm dead
serious."  There was a look of implacable determination on his face.

As they'd reached the edge of town near the, airport the fenced front
yards had given way to gas stations and flat roofed buildings.  Donovan
turned northeast on the narrower road leading toward Jean's house.  "I
think your stepfather knows exactly where your mother is, Erin.  I
think he sent her to cover their tracks when they found oat I was a CIA
agent."

Erin heard the sincerity in his voice, and hated herself for what she
was thinking.  Could her mother be involved in something so illegal
that it included murder?  No ... that wasn't possible.  She couldn't
let herself consider anything so awful.  Without meaning to, she inched
as far from Donovan as her seat belt permitted.

Donoran paused when she moved away from him.  "I need to talk to your
mother and so do you Erin.  We have our different reasons, but I think
it'll be easier to find her if we work together."

There, he told himself.  His suspicions were out in the open.  He
didn't like the way Erin's eyes glistened right after he spoke, or the
nervous way she clasPed and unclasped her hands in her lap.  But he had
'to let her know how he felt if he was to continue respecting himself.
In some way he hadn't bothered to analyze, he had to be straight with
her, even if that meant rousing her quick temper.  Which was exactly
what he'd done, he saw to his regret.

"Then this is where we part company."  Her lovely chin rose in a
determined gesture he was beginning to recognize all too well.  "I
can't work with a man who's trying to send my mother to jail."

"That's not what I said, Erin."  Making sure he could see a good
distance in both directions, he pulled the car over to the side of the
road and-stopPed.

"What's--what's wrong?"  She looked fearfully out the back window. "Why
are you stopping?"  Donovan looked, too.  At that early hour, the road
was empty.

"I stopped so we could talk before we get to your cousin's."  He
couldn't let her walk out of his life.  He needed her help in finding
her mother.  And, in some indefinable way, deep down in his gut he knew
he just plain needed her.  Now that he'd tasted her honeyed lips, now
that he'd glimpsed her quick intelligence, he couldn't let her go so
easily.

"We've got nothing to talk about," she said.  "I don't know why I
didn't see it before.  Your whole purpose in helping me find Mom has
been to tie her to this super-secret scheme you keep referring to but
never define."

Her wide blue eyes stared into his.  "Isn't it about time you told me
what she's-suspected of doing?  Just what is this conspiracy you think
she and Patrick are running?"

ERIN'S EYES WIDENED as she saw Donovan's slow nod of acquiescence. He's
going to tell me at last, she thought, half afraid of hearing what the
CIA thought her stepfather and mother were involved in.

He opened his door and came around to her side of the car.  "Let's take
a walk.  The car's getting stuffy."

Her pulse rate doubling, Erin got out of the car.  Whatever he was
going to tell her must really be bad.

Along the side of the road grew tall thick bushes with bright yellow
flowers.  When she leaned over to snap one off she smelled a musky
fragrance and discovered sharp barbs on the stems.

Like Donovan, she thought.  Charismatic and charming on the outside.
But watch out for his thorns.

On either side of the two-lane blacktopped road, rolling green hills
nurtured plump black-and-white cows.

"So what's this big conspiracy all about?"  she asked, walking slowly
so they didn't stray too far from the car.

"Before I tell you let's be sure we understand each other."  He stood
so close she could smell a subtle perspiration scent mixed with the
musky fragrance of the yellow flowers.  Though he acted cool, could he
be as nervous as she about what he was going.  to divulge?

"If I tell you about the conspiracy," he begun, "do you agree to let me
help you find your mother?"

During the past few minutes,.  Erin had reconsidered her hasty decision
to-separate.  Maybe Donovan was right.  They'd find her mother easier
together than apart.  But she had to be sure he didn't catch Margaret
unawares.  Her mother might unknowingly incriminate herself if she
didn't realize Donovan was a CIA agent out to put her in jail.

Erin stared steadily into his eyes.  "I'll agree only if you promise to
let me talk to her alone once we've found her."

"That sounds reasonable," Donovan said.  "I'm sure I don't have to
remind you that what you're about to hear is top secret information."
He paused for emphasis, then went on.  "We call it the Shamrock
Conspiracy because we think your stepfather's company, with its global
operational network, is at the hub."

Taking a deep breath, Erin steeled herself for what was coming.  "What
sort of conspiracy?"  Visions of terrorists in black masks blowing up
buildings full of innocent people raced through her mind.

"A worldwide counterfeiting ring," he replied.

Erin turned so weak with relief her knees felt like water.

"Counterfeiting?"  The word brought images of bewhiskered men hunched
over printing equipment--not the horrendous deeds she'd imagined.  She
had to fight an hysterical impulse to laugh.

"This is a serious crime, Erin," he said, his expression sober.  "These
people are thieves and murderers.  You've already seen what they'll do
to protect their operation."

He studied her the way a teacher eyes an errant pupil.  "The overseas
demand for our dollars--along with powerful new optical scanners and
advanced imaging soft-ware--have created an unparalleled wave of
counterfeiting.  God knows how many people have been killed to protect
this conspiracy."

A car appeared about two miles behind them, moving fast.

"It's probably nobody, but we'd better get going," Donovan said,
setting a quick pace back toward their vehicle.  "Your stepfather might
guess that we're headed for your cousin's place and try to stop us."

Erin matched his long steps.  Watching the car come toward them, her
breath solidified in her throat.  It reached them while they were
buckling their seat belts.  Its driver whizzed by with only a cursory
look in their direction.

Erin let her breath out in a slow sigh.  She didn't think her
stepfather would risk a confrontation at Jean's, but she'd been wrong
about Patrick before.  What if his hired assassin was already there,
waiting for them?

JEAN GEE LOOKED nothing like Erin expected.  Since she'd never seen a
picture of her cousin, she imagined Jean would look something like her
mother who was the same age.  So when a middle-aged woman in a plain
cotton dress opened the door to the family's rambling two-story country
house, Erin thought at first she was the maid.  Overweight and sturdy,
with glasses and gray hair, she seemed at least fifteen years older
than Margaret.

Introducing herself as Margaret Sullivan's daughter and: Donovan as a
friend, Erin was about to ask for Mrs.  Magee when the woman in the
doorway gathered her to her ample bosom.

"Erin, darling'," she said, "I didn't expect you so soon."  "Or so
early," Erin added, in a rueful attempt to apologize for their dawn
arrival.  "But I'm terribly worried about Morn.  Donoran's helping me
look for her, and we want to get started."

"While we talk, you can have some breakfast."  There was an odd
insistent note to her cousin's voice.  Turning, Jean showed them into
an enormous kitchen at least ten degrees warmer than the rest of the
house.

With a stove the size of two standard American ranges and wide tile
counters, the room rivaled a hotel kitchen.  At the center was a large
round table made of the same dark wood as the cabinets.  After she'd
seated Erin and Donovan at the table, Jean turned to the stove and
adjoining fridge, busying herself with thick slices of ham and a
bowlful of eggs.  When she spoke, she had her back to the table.

"Where will you be starting your search for your mother, Erin?"  she
asked.

Glancing toward Donovan, Erin lifted her eyebrow in question.  Had she
come all this way for nothing?  He gave her the A-okay sign with his
curved forefinger and thumb, encouraging her to forge ahead.

"We were hoping you could help, Jean," she said, "maybe give us a
clue--anything at all that might tell us where to begin."

Looking over her shoulder, Jean shook her head..  "Like I said on the
phone, it's been a week since I saw your mother."  She turned back
toward the stove.

Erin felt Donovan nudge her in the side.  When she glanced at him, he
pointed to himself, frowned, then inclined his head toward Jean.

So that was it.  Jean knew Donovan worked for Patrick and didn't want
to confide in Erin with him present.  When they'd finished eating, he
excused himself with a vague explanation about adjusting something in
the car's engine.

He gave Erin a telling glance.  "I'll be a while, at least a half hour,
maybe longer," he said.  "Why don't you and your cousin have another
cup of coffee and get better acquainted while I see what's wrong with
the bloody motor."

The car was parked in a graveled parking area near the back door.  With
Erin following, Jean showed him through a changing room with boots on
the floor and coats hung on hooks around the walls.  Then she watched
from the back door while he went to the car and opened the hood.

Returning to the kitchen, Jean' peered out the window, obviously
assuring herself that he remained outside.

"Erin, I'm so glad you've come," she whispered, as she sat down next to
her at the table.  Her matronly face glistened with concern.  "Your
mother desperately needs help."

Chapter Ten

"Where is she, Jean?  I've got to know."  Erin leaned anxiously across
the kitchen table toward her cousin.

"I can't tell you as long as you're traveling with Don-oven."  Jean
Magee's high-pitched voice quivered with emotion.  "Don't trust him,
Erin.  He works for Dun Aen-gus.  Sure as Ireland's a free country,
he'll tell his boss where she is."

"He's not working for Patrick any longer," Erin said.  "He's quit."

"That's what he says.  They're trying to fool you darling'."  Leaning
toward Erin, she lowered her voice to a whisper.  "Your mother made me
swear on the holy Bible that I'd tell no one but you where she'd gone.
You've got to promise you'll keep that confidence, and you can't do it
if he's sitting beside you in the car."  Jean's determined gaze held
Erin's.

For the space of a heartbeat, Erin considered letting her cousin know
Donoven was a CIA agent.  No That information would lead to questions
about Donovan's top secret operation.

Besides, maybe Jean was right about not telling Donovan, at least not
right away.  Lord knows, Erin didn't trust him either.  As long as he
was out to send her mother to prison, he wasn't trustworthy.  So Jean's
request that Erin not tell might be a blessing in disguise.

'"All fight," she agreed, clasping Jean's hands.  "He's already
promised not to talk to Mom until after I have.  And I won't let him
know exactly where we're going until we get close.  That way he won't
be able to telephone along the way and tell where we're headed."  Or to
ditch me and try to get to Morn first, she added grimly to herself I
"But I do need to have him with me."

"Why?"  Jean's eyes narrowed.  The same dark blue as Margaret's, they
expressed doubt.  The resemblance're minded Erin of her mother and
increased her anxious fears.  "It's his car," Erin said lamely.

"I'll loan you one of ours."  Jean gave her such a penetrating stare
through her round, wire-rimmed glasses that Erin looked down at her
coffee cup.  For a moment her mind went blank.  She took a long swallow
before she answered.

"In exchange for a confidence from Donovan, I promised he could come
with me," Erin admitted finally, realizing how weak this must sound to
Jean's ears with her mother's safety at risk.  "I always try to keep my
promises."  To her own ears her words sounded sanctimonious, even if
they were true.

But deep down she knew more than a promise was at stake here.
Regardless of Donoran's motives, she wanted him with her.  Her mind
acknowledged the fledgling hope nestled in her heart that there would
be a bright future for her, Donovan and her mother.

"Besides," she added, "having him with me will let me keep an eye on
him."

With a loud rattle, Jean set her coffee cup down on the saucer.  "He's
truly got you fooled, I can see that."  She paused, studying Erin's
face.

Something abOut her expression must have struck Jean's sympathy.  Her
matronly countenance filled with compassion, and she leaned across the
table to pat Erin's hand.  "Don't get me wrong, darling'.  I know how
worried you are about your mother, and I want to help all I can.  It's
just that I don't trust your stepfather or anybody who works for
him."

Rising, Jean removed the coffee pot from the stove and poured them each
another cup.

"Then you think Patrick is behind my mother's disappearance?"  Erin
asked, vividly remembering the assassin's face staring out of the
window above her.

"She didn't say so," Jean replied slowly, staring down at her cup:
"Patrick might not have actually kidnapped her, but I can't think of
another reason for her to leave in the middle of the night, the way she
did.  Something he said or did must have made her go."  She paused, her
blue eyes full of questions.  "Can you come up with anything or anybody
besides Patrick that might scare your mother into running away?"

Erin swallowed hard to dislodge the swollen feeling in her throat.  If
Patrick wasn't behind her mother's disappearance, then whom-Or
what--was?  "Did she stop here?"

Jean shook her gray head.  "No, she called us on the telephone.  It was
after eleven.  We were already in bed."

"Was she alone?"

"Yes."  The lines on Jean's forehead deepened.  "At least she said she
was."

Unable to sit still longer, Erin went to the window.  Donovan hunched
over the car fender, appeared to be tinkering with the engine.

"Patrick claims somebody saw her with a strange man the day after she
left," Erin said.

Jean joined Erin, peering out at Donovan before answering "The morning
after she called, Dun Aengus sent somebody out here to check on her. 
Of course, I told him she wasn't here, and I hadn't heard from her
since last week."

Erin tensed, a cold knot forming in her stomach.  "Patrick said nothing
about sending anyone out here.  Only that he'd called you to ask about
her."

"He obviously didn't tell you the whole story," Jean declared with fire
in her eyes.  She led Erin to a row of four upholstered easy chairs at
the far end of the big kitchen.  Sitting down in one herself, she
motioned for Erin to take the one beside her.

"Tell me' about this man who came here asking for her," Erin said.
"What did he look like?"  She held her breath, wondering if he might
have been Chameleon in one of his disguises.

"Tall and thin," Jean returned thoughtfully.  "Midforties to fifty.
Long, angular face.  Actually not bad looking--rather like Peter
O'Toole in Lawrence of Arabia.  But the most interesting thing about
him was his limp."

"His limp?"  The lump in Erin's stomach tightened.  Her mother claimed
the stranger spying on her had limped.

Jean nodded.  "From the way he walked, I'd guess he had a false leg."

Nervously Erin bit her lip.  "Mom told me some man with a limp seemed
to be keeping an eye on her in Dublin."  In a few sentences she
repeated what Margaret had said during their telephone conversation two
nights ago.  Lord!  She could scarcely believe it had been that short a
time.

"And she was probably driving one of the Glenkillan House cars," Erin
said, remembering that the sixth space in the garage was vacant.  "No
wonder Patrick's spies spotted her so easily."

When Erin finished speaking, Jean leaned toward her, her matronly face
taut with concern.  "Now that Dun Aen-gus has sicced this one-legged
man on her, your mother may be in even more trouble than I thought.
You've got to go to her as soon as you can."  She glanced
apprehensively toward the window.  "I don't trust your Mr.  Donovan.
But I'll take your word that you won't let him get to her before you
do.  Or call someone along the way to tell where she is--so they can
get to her."  Jean's clear blue eyes held Erin's steadily.

Erin nodded.  At last.  Eager to hear Jean's revelation, she sucked in
her breath.  "You have my word.  Tell me where she is."

BENDING OVER THE FENDER, Donovan heard the back door open behind him.
Straightening, he wiped his greasy hands on a rag and glanced over his
shoulder.  Erin stood in the doorway, her stocky middle-aged cousin
behind her.

"Did you find out what was wrong with the car?"  Erin asked, coming
toward him.  With her cheeks flushed from the kitchen's heat, she
looked as soft and warm as a downy comforter.  He had to resist the
urge to run to meet her.

"Nothing serious," he said, being purposely vague.  He'd spent the last
half hour toying with various parts of the engine and wishing he could
touch Erin's bare skin instead of metal.

Erin's cousin followed close behind so as not to miss anything. Donovan
pegged her as a sharp lady with the combative instincts Of a Zulu
warrior, particularly when defending her family.  His mother was just
like her.

"What needed fixing?"  Jean asked, in a lyrical voice that reminded him
of Erin's--probably a family trait.

"The timing needed some minor adjustments," he said, not caring whether
She believed him or not2 He'd given her time to talk to Erin alone.  If
she was as smart as he thought, she'd appreciate it.  Apparently she
did.

A sunny smile lit her plump face.  "Come in and clean up and have
another cup of coffee.  I tried to talk Erin into staying tonight, but
she insists on leaving fight away."

Donovan caught Erin's eye and felt an unwelcome surge of excitement at
her nearness.  Reminding himself to keep his mind on his business, he
caught the barely noticeable nod of her head.

Hallelujah!  She must have discovered her mother's hide-away.

"I'M SORRY, DONOVAN, I can't tell you where More is, not until we get
close.  Jean made me promise."  Erin didn't feel the slightest twinge
of guilt as she refused to answer his question about where they were
headed.  They'd barely driven down Jean's driveway, with Erin at the
wheel, when he asked.

"And, of course, you always keep your promises," he said dryly.

"If I didn't, you wouldn't be here," she said, matching his dry tone.
"Jean thinks you're a spy for Patrick.  It took all my powers of
persuasion to convince her I had to take you along because I'd promised
you I would."

Erin glanced at him.  Freshly shaved at Jean's, he had the air of Jason
in hot pursuit of the golden fleece.  But the way his eyes raked boldly
over Erin made her wonder if maybe she was the fleece instead of her
mother2

What a silly notion.  As usual, she was letting her natural optimism
interfere with her good judgment.

"I'm glad you talked your cousin into letting me come along," he said
seriously.  "I wouldn't have missed this trip for anything."

"Jean was so sure you were still working for Patrick, she almost had me
convinced."  Erin had already told Donovan about the one-legged man her
stepfather sent to fetch Margaret home, but was determined not to
reveal where her mother was until it was obvious where they were
headed.  Without knowing, he couldn't ditch Erin and get to Margaret
before she talked to her.

Without studying the map on the car seat beside her, Erin turned west,
through County Kildare.  The road was relatively free of morning
traffic, and she glanced at Donovan again.  Could Jean be right?  Maybe
he was lying about being a CIA agent the same way he'd lied about being
an inform anti Maybe his CIA file and Patrick's were restricted because
the agency suspected both men of illegal activity, not because one was
the hunter and one the prey.

Erin gripped the steering wheel so hard her fingers turned numb.  She
had to find out.  "Is Jean right, Donoran?  Are you still Working for
Patrick?  If you are, you might as well tell me now.  I'll find out
sooner or later.  And if it's later, I'll make sure you never see Mom,
let alone talk to her."

He recoiled as though she'd slapped him in the face.

"Dammit, Erin, I've told you the truth about what I'm doing.  If you
choose to believe it's a lie, that's your problem."

Suddenly the road ahead looked blurred.  She blinked to clear her eyes,
annoyed with herself for feeling hurt by his abruptness.  "I guess it
doesn't much matter Whether you're working for the CIA to put Mom in
jail, or working for Patrick to bring her back to Dublin.  Either way,
you're out to take her prisoner."

"You're wrong," he said, his voice inflamed and belligerent.  "It
matters a hell of a lot who you think I'm working for."

His angry tone made Erin glance at him again.  She could hardly believe
the furious look in his eyes, the wrathful lines around his mouth.
Where' was the rogue who played games with her heart?  Donovan wasn't
playing now.

"Do you know why it matters, Erin?"  he asked, his expression grim as
he watched her.

"I suppose because you want me to believe you."  She felt herself
heating up, matching his anger.

"You're damned right I want you to believe me."

But why?  she wanted to scream.  What difference does it make whether I
believe you or not?

She'd barely started to ask when a blaring horn interrupted her, and
she felt a momentary flash of panic.  Unnerved by the left-sided
driving, she'd drifted onto the right lane.  Quickly she jerked the
wheel and the oncoming car roared past, its horn still blaring.

Settled on the passenger seat beside her, Donovan showed no uneasiness.
Chalk one up for him, she thought,

her anger fading.

"So what difference does it make if I believe you or not?"  she asked,
unexpectedly troubled by the question.

When he didn't answer right away, she stole a quick glance at him.  He
met her eyes with such a riveting stare that her pulses leapt with
sudden excitement.

Finally he spoke softly, almost as though embarrassed by his answer.
"Because I care-what you think of me, Erin.  I want you to trust me.
God knows, I trust you."

Heating the honesty in his voice, Erin's defenses crumbled.  "I trust
you too, Donovan.  It's just that I'm so afraid for my mother.  Scared
of making a mistake that could cause her terrible trouble or even
threaten her life."

She passed a car on the two-lane road and went on speaking.  "Jean and
I think Mom left Glenkillan House on her own.  But if she did, who's
this stranger Patrick's spies saw her with?  Is he the same man who
showed up at Jean's asking for her?  If so, he might be a kidnapper,
out to hold her for ransom, and not one of Patrick's men after all."

"Let's not borrow trouble."  Donoran spoke in a firm but gentle tone.
"We're going to know soon as we talk to her."

His conviction that they would talk to her 'and soon--buoyed Erin's
spirits.  Reaching toward her, he stroked her arm with his fingers.
Though his touch comforted her, she couldn't dispel the tiny kernel of
doubt about him that remained to plague her.  Was he sincere or just
conning her?

"I don't blame you for being concerned,".  he said, his hand resting on
her shoulder.  "You and your mother are pretty close, aren't you?"

She nodded, glad he'd asked.  Maybe if he knew more about her mother,
he wouldn't be so quick to link her to Patrick's counterfeiting
scheme.

"I always felt responsible for her," Erin said softly.  "Even when I
was a little girl, I followed her around so she didn't leave packages
or her purse anywhere."  She paused, savoring her childhood memories.
"Then when I was a teenager, I kept her appointment book and made sure
she got to places on time with everything she needed."

"That must have made you feel important," Donovan suggested, a touch of
envy in his voice.  "Nobody in my family listened to a thing I had to
say.  I was the original invisible child."

"Did you have brothers and sisters?"  Erin asked, hoping he would
reveal something about himself.  "I always wanted some."

Donovan put on a fierce scowl she suspected was mostly pretend.  "I'd
gladly have given you my six sisters.  All were older and absolutely
determined to run my life.  Throw in a domineering judge for a father
and a mother who clucked over me the way your cousin hovers over
you--"

"What do you mean she clucked over me?"  Erin interjected.  "Jean did
no such thing."

"Of course she did."  He sounded so matter-of-fact, Erin turned toward
him.  He was grinning from ear to ear.

"Take it from one with firsthand experience in such matters.  Your
cousin was clucking, believe me."

Leaving one hand on the wheel, Erin reached out with the other and
gently squeezed his arm.  "Now that you've told me about your family, I
see why you're protective of your freedom."

His hand tightened on her shoulder.  "What do you mean?".  His teasing
tone was gone.

"Well, you've never been married and you're not with someone now.
That's right isn't it?"  Her ironic tone concealed her embarrassment at
analyzing why he was still single.

Removing his hand from her shoulder, he nodded.  "So what does that
prove?"  There was a sudden cool note in his voice.

Erin knew she was treading on dangerous ground, but she forged ahead
anyway.  "That you're leery of tying yourself down to one woman for the
rest of your life."

"Maybe I've just been waiting for the right woman."  His teasing tone
was back.  Erin kept her eyes trained on the road ahead.  Trees just
beginning to leaf dotted the rolling green hills on either side.

"Look here, Donovan," she said, "I don't blame you.  If I'd had a bunch
of people running my life during my growing-up years, I'd be wary of
commitment, too.  I had the opposite situation.  I was always the one
in charge, the responsible one who made sure things ran smoothly."  "Is
that the reason you avoid commitment?"

His question was so unexpected that a soft gasp escaped her, and she
gave him a quick glance.  "What makes you think I avoid commitment?"
She burned at the thought.  Could he be right?

"Well, you've never been married, and you're not with someone now," he
said, parroting her words about him.

She chuckled, hearing the illogic of her own argument.  "All right, you
win.  Maybe I am afraid of getting stuck with someone who depends on me
for everything, the way my mother did."

"You could be wrong about that, you know," he observed thoughtfully.
"Seems to me your morn did all right for a single woman with poorly
educated parents.  Perhaps she deliberately let you take charge to
raise your self-esteem and make you feel important."

That thought had never occurred to Erin, but when Donovan voiced it,
she realized it might very well be true.  "That would be just like
Morn," she said thoughtfully.  "I was such an ugly child--all gangly
arms and legs and stringy red hair.  The kids at school used to call me
Raggedy Ann.  Mom was so beautiful and I was such a mess.  I remember
how proud I was to watch out for her."

He whistled softly under his breath.  "Judging by the way you look now,
I don't believe what I'm hearing."

She shrugged.  "My mother's always been the beauty in the family."

"Have you looked in the mirror lately?  You've got to be as beautiful
as she,"

At his vote of confidence, a glow of pleasure over her, and she glanced
out the window so he wouldn't see her flushed cheeks.  Now that they
were near Lake Ree, clusters of trees lined the road, giving the
landscape a lush appearance.

"You've never seen Mom," she said, wondering if he was conning her.
"How can you compare us?"

"I've seen you" he replied quickly.  "And you've told me so much about
her, she seems very real to me.  You're lucky to have a mother who
loves you so much."

"I know."  Picturing her mother, Erin abruptly pressed her foot down
harder on the accelerator, a premonition of impending disaster tearing
at her insides.  Was she all right?  Would she still be there when they
reached their destination?

IN A COUNTRY INN near Lake Ree on the Shannon River, Donovan and Erin
sat at a rough-hewn table and looked out the window at a couple of
fishermen in rowboats taking advantage of the sunny weather.  The room
was filled with tobacco smoke and the low murmur of voices.  Since it
was the lunch hour, every table was taken.

Everyone looks so ordinary, Erin thought, meeting Donovan gaze.  Every
time his eyes met hers, her heart turned over.  Even though he was
sitting across the table from her, she could feel his magnetism.  The
more she knew about him, the stronger her attraction.

Would she be able to resist him' when the time came for sex?  It was
coming.  And soon.  She could see the craving in his eyes when he
glanced at her over his thick potato soup and beef sandwich.  But she'd
have to say no.  She didn't want to let herself get sucked into a one
or two-night affair where the attraction was purely physical.

Refusing to meet his gaze, she looked down at her plate so he wouldn't
see the heat in her own eyes.  How could she feel this way about him
when, more likely than not, his only reason for being here was to
entrap her mother?

"It's refreshing to eat with a woman who has a good appetite," he said,
nodding toward her empty soup 'bowl.  "My sisters used to pick at their
food.  Made my mother furious."

"I was starving," Erin admitted, thankful to get her mind on a less
worrisome track.  "After that huge breakfast at Jean's, I can't imagine
why."

He glanced at his watch.  "Because breakfast was nearly six hours ago.
And speaking of time, shouldn't we be on our way?  No matter how much
farther we've got to go, the sooner we get on the road, the quicker
you'll see your mother."  '

He eyed her quizzically.  Though he asked no questions, Erin could
almost hear him wondering how much farther they had to go.

Donovan peered at her intently, a subtle change in his expression.  No
longer questioning, his steady gaze bore into her in silent expectation
that had nothing to do with finding her mother, she realized
suddenly.

After their long talk this morning in the car, he looked different to
her--more serious and responsible and less like the rogue she'd first
seen in him.  As she stared back, Erin realized he was no longer a
stranger, but someone she understood: a man with longing and desires
like her own, a man she was on the verge of falling in love with.

"Mom's at a lodge in Donegal Town," she said, her heart swelling with
newborn trust.

"Thanks for telling me."  His eyes darkened with emotion.  Suddenly
Erin wished they could spend the rest of the day and tonight here
together, in this charming country inn.  A hot ache grew in her throat
as she imagined his hands caressing her skin, his hard body heavy on
top of hers.  Instinctively she knew Donovan would be a considerate
lover who would do his best to please her.  But would she be able to
satisfy this charismatic man of the world?

As though reading her mind, he reached across the table and took her
hand.  "When we've got this mess straightened out, let's Come back
here, Erin.  What a perfect place to get to know each other better."

Startled that they were both thinking the same thought, she blurted
out, "It's so beautiful here."  A rush of pure happiness washed over
her.

He squeezed her hand.  "I hope that was yes."

"Yes--no--I don't know."  Her mind whirled at her mixed feelings.

This couldn't be happening.  He didn't want commitment, and she didn't
want a one-night stand.  She reminded herself that he was with her for
only one reason--he suspected her mother of involvement in a worldwide
conspiracy.  Of all the men in the world, why did she have to fall for
the man who wanted to put her mother in jail?

"Please don't play games with me, Donovan," she said quietly.

His eyes held hers.  "I'm not playing games, Erin.  I don't want to
lose you.  Promise me you won't take off as soon as we've found your
mother."

Suddenly his motivation was as plain as the nose on his rugged face. He
didn't trust her and wanted to be certain she wouldn't try to elude him
when they'd reached Donegal Town.  That's why he'd been exchanging
confidences with her and sounding so affectionate.  What a silly little
fool she'd been to think he might care for her.

Without answering she swallowed hard, feeling her fledgling hope die a
sudden death The room spun around her in a dizzying circle of faces and
brightly colored sweaters and big splotches of sunlight.  Blinking away
her sudden tears, Erin bolted to the door.  The crisp March air
splashed against her face like a cresting wave.  She heard Donovan's
steps behind her before she'd managed to wipe the tears off her face.
He was running after her.

Grabbing her ann, he whirled 'her around, then caught her other arm,
too.  They stood on a gravel pathway leading around the weather-beaten
old inn to the parking area.  Beside the path the grass glowed emerald
green in the sunlight.

"What's wrong?  What did I say, Erin?  Tell me."  There was a puzzled
frown on his face and a note of uncertainty in his voice as he stared
anxiously down at her.  His voice was thick, choked.

"You don't trust me worth squat, do you Donovan?"  She tried to jerk
away from him, but he tightened his grip on her arms.  "All you care
about is letting me lead you to my mother."  Tears spurted from her
eyes.  "The things we talked about this morning meant nothing to
you."

"They meant everything to me."  He glared down at her.  Before she
could resist, his hands locked against her spine, and she found herself
in his arms.  Erin heard her heart pounding in her ears, and the scene
around her fused into a riot of greens and blues and browns.  But
Donovan's face was crystal clear, his blue eyes gripping hers.  She
could feel his uneven breathing on her cheek as he held her close.

Erin felt as though she were drowning, failing into a deep blue ocean
with him beside her.  His mouth tasted warm and moist with a hint of
the mint tea he'd had for lunch.  Against her Will she locked herself
into his embrace, wrapping her arms around his muscular neck.

"Don't doubt me," he said, pulling away from her and staring into her
eyes.  "If I sounded like I didn't trust you; it's only because I'm
afraid of losing you."

"You won't."  She let him pull her close again, only this time he
didn't kiss her, only put his hand behind her head and caressed her
hair.

Reveling in the bracing, male smell of him, she put her cheek in the
hollow of his neck and drank in the comfort of his nearness.  He stood
strong, like a sturdy tree, and would be there for her when she needed
him.  She had to believe that, or she'd lose someone she couldn't bear
to lose.  A sigh trembled from her lips.

"Is everything okay?"  he asked, slowly releasing her as if afraid to
let her go.

"Everything's fine."  Forcing herself to concentrate on the positive,
she pushed her doubts as far down in her consciousness as she could.
Smiling at him through her tears, she felt hope reappear and blossom.

Hand in hand they walked down the gravel path to the parking lot.  The
whole world looked different when she truly believed he cared for her,
even their inconspicuous black sedan.

They'd been on the road less than twenty minutes when

Erin noticed Donovan, who was driving, glancing uneasily into the
rearview mirror.

"Is something wrong?"  she asked.

"I'm not sure," he said slowly.  "Did you see a dark green Ford wagon
behind us this morning?"

An icy chill swept over her.  Erin stared at him.  "No, but

I was so interested in our conversation, I might have missed it."

"Our trip to your mother's hideaway has just gotten more complicated."
He frowned as he looked in the rearview mirror.  "Don't turn around,
but I'm sure we're being followed."

Chapter Eleven

Erin ignored her overwhelming urge to turn and peer' out the rearview
window.

"What're we going to do?"  she asked in a small, frightened voice.

Donovan shrugged dismissively.  "As soon as we get to the next town,
we're going to switch cars."

"Switch cars?"  Erin stared at him in disbelief.  "How're you going to
manage that?"

Inclining his head, he glanced at her, the roguish glint back in his
eyes..  "Since this is an emergency, we'll just have to steal one."

"We can't do that!"  She gave him an' appalled glare.  "Sure we cantle
same way we stole your stepfather's car right out of his own garage."
He reached over and gave her arm a friendly pat.  "No reason to be
concerned.  The owner will get it back in good condition."

"No reason to be concerned?  You've got to be joking.  We're in enough
trouble as it is."  Startled at the sharpness in her own voice, Erin
added more softly, "We've already got Patrick, an assassin and God
knows who else after us.  As soon as we steal a car, the police will be
chasing us, too."

"I'll switch license plates with another car," he said.  "By the time
the police figure it out, we'll have ditched the one we stole."

He seemed so glib in talking about car theft that a sour taste rose in
Erin's throat.  Had he stolen the car they were driving?  He'd told her
he got it from the American Embassy.

A chill ran through her.  What if he were lying about where he got this
car, as part of his scheme to convince her he was a CIA agent?  At the
time she'd thought it odd that he could obtain a U.S. government car so
quickly in the pre-dawn hours.  Since she'd waited downtown in an
all-night McDonald's while he picked up the vehicle, she had no way to
confirm the truth.

Angrily she pushed her suspicions aside, determined to trust him.  He
was right.  In an emergency like this, dire measures were needed.  If
that meant stealing a car, that's what they'd 'do.  Her mother had to
be protected at all costs.

"Are they still behind us?"  She prayed he'd been wrong about someone
following them.

He nodded.  "Sometimes they drop way back, out of sight, but not for
long."  He glanced at her over his shoulder.  "What's the next town on
this road?"

Erin studied the map.  "Roscommon.  About ten miles ahead."

He looked in the rearview mirror.  "They've fallen behind again.  If
there's anything in your suitcase you cant live without, get it now
while they can't see us"

Erin didn't have to be told the reason.  To fool their pursuers, her
suitcase would have to be abandoned with the car.  Just thinking of
what they were about to do shattered her.

Erin forced herself to concentrate on her mother so she wouldn't get
panicky.  If they didn't switch cars, they'd risk leading whoever was
following them straight to Margaret.  And they didn't dare get caught
by the police.  Locked up in jail, they'd be unable to help her mother,
no matter what sort of trouble she was in.

Leaning over the back of her seat, Erin removed a change of underwear
and a heavy wool sweater from her suitcase.

Quickly she slipped the' bra and panties into the pockets of her coat.
The sweater lay across her lap.  She'd wear it--and the coat--when they
left the car.  Pulse racing, she settled back in her seat.

Donovan seemed to sense her fear.  Reaching out, he put his free arm
companionably across her shoulders.  "Think of what we're doing as a
game.  Then it won't bother you so much."  '

"A game?"  She twisted her head to see if he was serious.  Though there
were touches of humor around his mouth and near his eyes, Erin didn't
think he was teasing.

He inclined his head toward her.  "When you're scared you make
mistakes.  By concentrating on the game, you lessen some of the
fear."

"And the game now is to get rid of whoever's following?"  To steady
herself, she kept her eyes locked on his profile.

His square jaw tensed visibly.  "You've got it."  He glanced into the
rearview mirror again.  "Now that we're getting near a town, they've
come closer."

"Can you see who's inside the car?"  Erin tried telling herself this
was only a game, but that didn't stop her heart from doing push-ups in
her chest.

"They're not that close.  We'll stop at the first pub or store that
looks like it's got a side or back entrance and leave the car parked in
front where they can't miss it."

"What if they come inside after us?  In two minutes they'll figure out
we've left the place."  She couldn't keep the fear out of her voice.

He shook his head confidently.  "They don't want us to recognize them,
so they won't come inside."

Donovan's attempts to reassure Erin only made her moire apprehensive.
"Won't they wonder what we're doing in the pub?  It's been less than an
hour since we stopped for lunch."

"Sure they'll wonder, but there are a couple of very good reasons to
stop.  The best is using the bathroom."

"But that only takes minutes.  If we can't get away from these people,
we'll never get to Mom by tonight."

Ahead Erin saw the ruins of what appeared to be an ancient stone
church.  The crumbling rocks, with their slimy moss coatings, reflected
the growing decay of her own confident spirit.

Donovan pounds m) TE apprehension in Erin's voice and caught her hand
in his.  As usual, he felt her touch right down to the soles of his
feet.  When had it started, he wondered, this acute awareness of
everything about her--from the fresh outdoorsy way she smelled to the
silky feel of her skin beneath his fingertips?

"Remember, they're not after us," he said, squeezing'

her hand.  "They're following us to get to your mother.  All we have to
do is lose them."

In spite of his confident words, Donoran wasn't at all sure their
pursuers meant them no harm.  If his theory was correct, O'Shaughnessy
already knew where his wife was.  He'd sent her away from Glenkillan
House either to divert interest from his counterfeiting scheme or to
hide crucial evidence.

With no reason to follow Erin to her mother, he must have a more
sinister motive for having them tailed--like getting rid of the CIA
agent and stepdaughter who knew too much.

For Erin's sake, Donovan forced himself to maintain a reassuring
expression.  But he suspected the occupants of the car behind them
were.  Probably looking for a good place to stage a fatal accident.
Donovan intended to ditch the car and get the hell out of Roscommon.

Ahead he saw a broad street lined with old two-and'

three-story Victorian and Georgian style buildings, their steep roofs
and prominent chimneys etched against a gray-blue sky.  Slowing, he
circled the town square, his eyes searching for a suitable place to
disappear inside.

Nothing.  Like many main streets in small Irish towns, this one had few
side streets.  Behind their car, the green Ford had come close enough
for him to make out two shadowy figures inside.  Would they try
something in this little town?  Donovan didn't think so but couldn't
afford to take chances.

Beside him, he felt Erin tense.  Leaning forward, she pointed to a sign
over a Victorian style storefront about a hundred yards ahead.  John E.
Lotts And Sons: Housewares And Funerary Libations.  Below the words was
a gray tombstone with a stemmed cocktail glass superimposed diagonally
across it.

"Mr.  Lotts must have an interesting sense of humor," she said.  "That
sign seems to be announcing a pub.  There must be a back exit to an
alley or street where they make deliveries."

"Agreed."  As they approached, he eyed the place.  Wooden chairs,
porcelain bowls and other paraphernalia were piled untidily on the
sidewalk in front.  Through dusty narrow windows-he saw more of the
same inside.  The bar must be in back.

"This is perfect."  He nodded his head with satisfaction.  "Just the
kind-of quaint old shop tourists love.  They'll think we went inside to
look around."

"Do you really think we'll fool them that easily?"  Hearing the fear in
her voice, he grinned to reassure her.  "You bet.  They'e got no idea
how good I am at switching cars."

After parking at the curb, Donovan made sure Erin's suitcase was in
plain sight On the back seat.  He hesitated a moment before folding the
map and sticking it in the pocket of his sweat suit jacket.  Like the
suitcase, an unfolded map left behind would tend to make their pursuers
believe they planned to return to the car.  But they needed the map to
find their way to Donegal.  Donovan couldn't risk losing it.

Beside him, Erin unbuckled her seat belt and started to take off her
coat.  ReaChing to help her, he let his fingers linger on her neck.
Then, as he watched her pull her sweater over her head, he felt his
body respond to the lush fullness of her breasts straining against the
wool fabric.  Damn.  The longer he knew her, the worse it got--this
foolhardy desire to have all of her.

She hadn't said a word, he remembered, when he asked her to take what
she needed from her-suitcase.  No complaints.  No whining.  Not like
his sisters, whose voices raised like a Wagnerian chorus if they had to
leave a lipstick behind on a family outing.

He remembered her scream at the cathedral, the yell that probably saved
his life.  He remembered how quickly she'd followed him out the window
at Glenkillan House--though obviously scared.

Erin wasn't like any other woman he'd known.  For the first time in his
life, Donovan entertained the barest thought that he might one day be
ready for marriage and fatherhood.

Aware of his incautious thoughts, he shook his head, annoyed at himself
for having such foolish ideas.  No matter how he felt about her, Erin
would walk out of his life forever once they were finished with this
operation.  What else could he expect after he'd brought her mother and
stepfather to justice?

EVEN THE PERFUMED SCENT of a candle burning on a counter near the
shop's door could not hide the smell of dust and oldness.  The aroma
permeated the interior of what appeared to be more like a museum than a
retail business.  Though wearing her sweater and car coat, Erin felt
cold and closed in, the shop's walls and clutter smothering her like a
gaseous fog.  After a sleepless night and a day on the run, the
claustrophobic smell gave her a faint, light-headed feeling.

She could see no outside doors beyond the hodgepodge of household
collector items.  If the assassin rushed through the front door, how
would they get away?  Where would they run?  She felt momentary panic
as her mind raced on.

"This place is perfect," Donovan reassured, after a quick glance at her
tense face.  "The bar must be in back."

A gnome like man in a white shirt, black tie and red suspenders popped
up behind the counter with such suddenness that Erin jumped.

"Yes, the bar is in back," he said, "just follow the carpet."

She looked down.  A Persian carpet runner, worn threadbare in places
with years of use, led through the maze of old highboys and Bombay
chests toward the back of the shop.

With a quick glance toward the door they'd just entered, Donovan
grabbed her hand.  "Let's go."

As she followed him around a tall armoire, Erin heard the faint tinkle
of the street door opening.  Donovan heard it, too.  He squeezed her
hand, warning her not to turn and look.  Was it the assassin close
behind them?

Her heart in her throat, Erin followed Donovan down a furniture
corridor through an arched doorway to a brightly lighted horseshoe bar.
Amazingly, since it was midafternoon, the place was nearly full with
ten of the twelve bar-stools occupied.  Anxiously she turned and stared
behind her, but no one followed them into the bar.

Still anxious, she peered around the place.  Everywhere she
looked--swinging on strings and tacked to the walls, even plastered on
the ceiling--were ads for every kind of product imaginable.

Somehow the whole setup looked unreal to Erin, like a scene from a
Broadway play.  For a terrifying instant she wondered if she was
dreaming, if this bar with its funerary libations and oddly shaped
signs was part of some horrid nightmare.  Donovan's firm squeeze on her
hand told her she was wide-awake.

A young version of the gnome like man out front greeted them from
across the bar.  Like his father, he was decked out in a white shirt,
black tie and red suspenders.

"Sure now," he said, "can I fix you one of our funerary libations?
They're guaranteed to send you straight to paradise."

Donovan gave him a worried frown.  """No my wife's had a sudden attack
of nausea.  Is there a back door out of here?  She needs some fresh
air."

Right before Erin's eyes, Donovan changed.  Withbut altering as much as
a hair on his head, he turned from a charismatic man of the world into
a concerned, doting husband.  From the worried expression on his face
to his slightly bent posture, everything about him fit the part he
played.

The bartender's face showed instant sympathy.  "Sorry your wife's
poorly.  Door's at the back o' the bar."  He nodded behind him.  "Just
come around then."

With Donovan still holding her hand, Erin hurried behind him to the
door.  He pushed it open, and cold air hit her in the face, relieving
her mild dizzy spell but not her anxious fear.  Would someone come
crashing into the alley behind them, the way the assassin had in
Georgetown?  She breathed deeply, ridding herself of the stuffy inside
atmosphere.

"This is starting to be a habit," she gasped, once the door had closed
behind them.  "We're getting to be experts at running out back doors
into alleys."  But her light words did nothing to relieve her
apprehension.  As she glanced around, a new wave of anxiety swept over
her.

Like the Georgetown alley, this one was a canyon with wall-to-wall
buildings on both sides.  If the assassin found them here, there would
be no escape.

A few minutes later when, they reached the nearest street crossing,
Donovan slowed to a more leisurely pace and turned right, away from the
main part of town.  Erin found herself breathing heavily, more from
nervousness than exertion.

On the first intersecting side street the buildings were even older
than the one they'd just come through, with peeling paint and broken
steps.

"Wait by the side of that chemist's shop," he' said, pointing to a
local pharmacy.

Quickly Erin did as he asked, then watched with reluctant admiration as
he prepared to steal the first unlocked car he found on the street.  As
in the bar, his demeanor changed completely, this time into what
appeared to Erin to be a conscientious public servant.

From the pocket of his sweat jacket he pulled out a pencil a small
notebook and a wide-billed baseball cap.  After jamming the cap on his
head, he' walked along the narrow sidewalk for about half a block
stopping at each car and writing down license numbers in his
notebook.

Suddenly he bent down to remove a car's front and back license plates
with a small screwdriver from his jacket pocket.  A few moments later
he returned to replace the stolen plates with those of the targeted
vehicle.

Erin's heart leapt into her throat when an elderly couple approached
and questioned him.  He grinned and said something, and they walked
away.  Though they didn't seem alarmed, Erin half expected to hear the
up-and-down scream of a police siren seconds after they turned the
corner out of sight.  She expelled a giant breath of relief when the
license plate switch was complete and he beckoned to her.

Without running, Erin hurried to the Car and got in.  The interior
smelled of stale cigarette smoke.  Donovan was already behind the
wheel.  Gunning the engine,.  he took off, back in the direction they'd
come.

"What did they want?"  Erin asked, unable to contain her curiosity.

He glanced toward her.  "The old folks?  They wanted to know what I was
doing.  I told them I was recovering a stolen car for its rightful
owners."

"And they believed you?"

"Sure.  They had no reason not to."

His glib answers bothered her.  Had he been lying to her with the same
alacrity?  "What if the car had been theirs?"

"I would have apologized for my mistake."?  Pulling the map out Of his
pocket, he handed it to her.  "We've probably lost our shadow, but to
be on the safe side, find a road out of Roscommon other than the one we
were on."

Quickly Erin examined the map and gave him directions to a two-lane
primary highway leading northwest.

"We're backtracking so we'll lose some time," she explained, "probably
not much more than an hour.  We'll get back on the highway to Donegal
at Boyle."

When they reached the old-fashioned town of Boyle, they stopped long
enough to buy a couple of cheap identical suitcases.  Erin knew her
mother's tastes ran to five-star hotels.  Her hideaway was sure to be
luxurious.  They'd be less conspicuous with luggage.  With their
limited time, shopping for clothes was out of the question.

Erin didn't let herself think about what would happen after they got
there.  The idea of spending the night with Donovan flared her vivid
imagination into sensual scenes--his lips on hers, hands caressing her
naked body.  Taking a deep breath, she fought the erotic thoughts,
pushing them out of her mind.  First they had to locate her mother.  If
Erin found out she was safe and well, everything else would fall into
place.

Night had fallen when they reached Sligo on the west coast with no sign
of their pursuers.  They had cookies and coffee at a gas station and
called it dinner.

Finally, as they drove through Donegal Town and across the narrow
causeway to a wooded island on Donegal Bay she announced: "This is it.
The Ballyshannon Lodge is straight ahead.  That's where Jean said we'd
find her."

THE RAMBLING tWO-StOry mansion on the shore of Donegal Bay struck
Donovan as an investigator's nightmare.  Instead of the neat square
lines of O'Shaughnessy's Glenkillan House, this place was a tangle of
curves and angles.

Inside Donovan knew he'd find narrow passageways, closets hidden behind
dark wood wainscoting, and trap-doors leading to underground wine
cellars--all features of houses built in the eighteenth century, when
this one was probably constructed.  If O'Shaughnessy's wife wanted to
hide, Donovan--or anybody else--would have a hell of a time finding
her.  But such would not be the case.  He'd been smart to let Erin lead
him here.  Margaret Sullivan wouldn't hide from her own daughter.  A
brief moment of smug satisfaction was wiped out by his overwhelming
sense of guilt at using Erin so blatantly, especially now that she
trusted him.

Telling her to wait by the door, Donovan took a flashlight from the
glove box, and examined the license plates of the other cars in the
parking lot.  None bore the distinctive shamrock emblem that marked all
Shamrock Construction vehicles, including O'Shaughnessy's personal
cars.  But if Margaret Sullivan was as smart as he thought, she would
have switched automobiles before she got here.

He returned to Erin, waiting with their empty suitcases by a
well-lighted back door.  Though the house's main entrance must be in
front, facing the bay, the driveway did not extend around the house.
Arriving guests obviously entered through the back door.

"Her car's not here," he announced, picking up their bags.  He thought
he was prepared for Erin's disappointment, but something inside him
withered when he saw her glazed look of despair.  He wanted to hold her
in his arms and smooth away her disappointment.

"Then she's probably not here, either."  Erin's voice held a distinct
quaver.  "She'd never steal a car the way we did,

and if she'd borrowed one from a relative, Jean would have told me."

"Maybe she rented a ca," he suggested softly, knowing Erin needed a
logical explanation more than a sympathetic touch.

"Then what about that stranger?"  Her eyes searched his, demanding
reassurance.  "If he's holding her captive, he'd never have come here.
So that's why she's not here."

"Your stepfather said somebody saw her with a stranger," Donoven noted.
"You don't know that's the truth.  The man who showed up at Jean's was
probably sent by O'Shaughnessy, either to check up on her or to fetch
her home."  Donoven made the suggestion to make Erin feel better, not
because he believed it.

"But your mother left Dublin hours before the stranger appeared at your
cousin's," he continued.  "There's no way he could have caught up with
her, especially since he had no idea where she was headed.  I'm sure
Jean didn't give him a clue."  His chest lightened as he saw her
expression relax.

"Then you think she might be inside the lodge even though her car isn't
here?"  Erin's voice sounded stronger.

"Absolutely."  He dropped the suitcases.  Putting his arms around her,
he hugged her to him.  Though she wore her car coat, she felt warm and
soft in his embrace.  "And even if she isn't here, there's no reason to
think she's been hurt.  She left Dublin under her own steam according
to your cousin."

He leaned down to kiss her.  Before his lips touched hers, the dOOr
swung open.  A sweet-faced elderly woman stOOd in the dOOrway.

"Welcome," she said, her eyes twinkling as she saw their embrace.  "How
nice you decided to spend the night at the Ballyshannon Lodge."  Her
gaze dropped to the two identical pieces of new luggage beside
Donovan's leg.  To his amusement, he realized the suitcases, as well as
the fond embrace she'd interrupted, made the old woman think they were
newlyweds.

"You're in luck, you two," she said, with the proprietary air of an
owner.  "We've got just one rOOm left.  It's the nicest in the
lodge."

Donovan looked down at Erin's tired face.  In' the past forty-eight
hours she'd been fired from her job, flown across the Atlantic, been
locked in her bedrOOm, walked a narrow ledge to escape, and been
tracked by an assassin--all without a word of complaint.  Though she'd
never admit it, he knew she had to have a good night's sleep, or she'd
drop from exhaustion.

"That would be just fine," he said in his best Irish brogue.

Erin stared at him, her eyes wide, but didn't object.  Like him, she
obviously realized they couldn't go hunting all over County Donegal for
two available rooms.

"I'll send someone for your luggage," the woman said.  Donovan picked
up their two suitcases, slowly so they looked heavy.  "I can manage."

The old woman eyed him with admiration.  "Of course you can, darling'."
Turning, she bustled away, obviously expecting them to follow.

Inside, the house was exactly as Donovan expected: a maze of corridors
and wide stairways.  Was Margaret Sullivan hidden away somewhere in the
nooks and crannies of this grand old house?

The drawing room was filled with oil paintings and antiques, and the
dining room--all pink and green with a tented ceiling--looked ready for
a royal visit.  In spite of its angles and curves; the lodge was truly
elegant, a fitting place for his first night with Erin.

Now why had that thought occurred to him?  Before he could thrust it
from his mind, he heard Erin ask if a Margaret Sullivan was staying
here.  He froze.  What would the old woman's answer be?

"You s^ SH.  "D BE registered under Sullivan?"  The old woman gave Erin
a piercing stare.  Suddenly her light blue eyes, so friendly at the
door, turned suspicious.  "Nobody with that name stayed here the past
couple of days."

"Are you sure?"  Erin persisted, resisting the flood of weariness and
despair that threatened to engulf her.

Lifting her chin, the old woman nodded vigorously.  "Since we have only
sixteen rooms, it's not difficult to recognize all our patrons---if
they come out while I'm at the desk."

"Then you must know them by sight, as well as name."

Fumbling in her handbag, Erin pulled out her wallet.  A picture of her
mother was in the plastic sleeve on top.  She handed it to the woman.
"Here.  This is what my mother looks like."

The woman stared at the picture, then at Erin.  "You say she's your
mother?  She doesn't look like you."

"I know."  Erin told herself to be patient.  "But she's my mother, she
really is"

"No, I haven't seen her."  Handing the picture back to.

Erin, the old woman appeared to relent.  "Some of our patrons eat an
early dinner and go to their rooms before the night staff comes on. You
might try showing the day clerk this picture tomorrow morning."

"The day clerk?"  Erin realized this woman must be the night clerk,
probably hired because her folksy chatter and appearance made her seem
like family.

While Erin talked to the clerk, Donovan signed the register.  Erin
noticed that he took plenty of time, enough to scrutinize every name on
the top page and the two underneath.  After hearing the clerk's words,
he straightened and stepped toward them.

"What's the day clerk's home number?"  he asked, flashing his beguiling
smile.  "Mrs.  Blake needs to locate her mother right away."

Mrs.  Blake?  With sudden insight Erin realized he was telling her he'd
signed them in with a false name--and as man and wife.

Eyeing DonoVan the old woman lifted an eyebrow in an expression that
was downright flirtatious.  Something about him seemed to turn every
woman he met, regardless of age, into a coquette.

"Oh, I couldn't do that, sir.  It's against lodge rules to give patrons
the numbers of staff."

Donovan reached into his pocket and withdrew a handful of Irish pound
notes.  Making sure the woman saw the money, he thrust it into her
skirt pocket.

"We'd truly appreciate your help," he said, giving her an intimate
smile.

Baksheesh again, Erin thought, without a shred of guilt at Donovan's
bribe.  To find her mother she would gladly have bribed anyone on the
face of the earth, and her former smug scruples be damned.

"Well," the old woman said reluctantly, fingering the notes in her
pocket, "for two nice young newlyweds like yourselves, I suppose I can
be forgiven for breaking a rule or two."  Leaning over the small
registration desk, she jotted a name and number on a slip of paper.

Hope rose within Erin.  Maybe now she'd get some answers.

Chapter Twelve

Erin waited until the elderly clerk had shown them to their rooms
before dialing the day' clerk's home number.  A woman answered. Perched
on the bed in the assigned grand suite, she asked for Brian Cairns.

"Who is this?"  The voice at the other end of the line was as raspy as
worn brakes.

Thinking quickly, Erin said, "Mrs.  Dan Blake."  It was the name
Donovan had written in the register downstairs.  "I'm staying at the
Ballyshannon Lodge and need to ask Mr.  Cairns about my mother.  She
said she'd be here, but she's not signed in and the night clerk doesn't
remember her."  Erin gripped the phone tightly as a feeling of
helplessness almost suffocated her.  Where could her mother have gone?
As far as Erin knew, she had no friends--and certainly no
relatives---on Ireland's west coast.

"Sorry about your mother, Mrs.  Blake."  The raspy voice softened a
fraction.  "I'm afraid I can't help you.  My husband isn't home yet."

Erin stiffened.  Fear for her mother made her paranoid.  Had something
happened to the day clerk?  "Do you expect him soon, Mrs.  Cairns?"

The woman sighed.  "He's likely stopped at the Red Fox on the way and
won't make it home till after the place closes."

"When's that?"  Wearily Erin brushed back her hair.  "It's important to
talk to him."

"No sense botherin' to call here later.  After a night at the Red Fox,
he's not fit fer man nor beast till next morning The woman sounded
impatient.  "You'll just have to wait till he shows up for work."

After thanking her, Erin hung up and turned to Donovan.  "He isn't home
yet.  His wife says he probably stopped at a local pub called the Red
Fox."

Donoran dropped beside her on the canopied bed.  It sagged beneath his
weight.  "Do you want to go into town, try to find him at the pub?"

Erin's hopes' leapt.  Maybe they could do something tonight.  Then
reality hit her, and she shook her head.  "By now the clerk's been
drinking for hours.  His wife said he'd be too intoxicated to make any
sense."

"I still think we ought to try."  The bed wobbled as Donovan turned
toward her.  "Maybe his wife's exaggerating."  His gaze slid from
Erin's face to her breasts to the satin covered bedspread.  He slid his
eyes upward to meet with hers.  A tinge of red colored his cheeks.

Erin's pulse beat faster.  Was he thinking the same thing she was? That
paradise might be under that spread?  As soon as the thought appeared,
she hated herself for thinking it.  How could she be so crass with her
precious mother' missing?  She took a deep breath, tearing her eyes
away from his rugged face.  Somehow his shadow of emerging beard made
him look more appealing than ever.

"After your flight and last night without sleep, you must be bushed,"
Donovan said.  There was an odd, gentle note to his voice.  "Why don't
I check out the pub while you stay here and get some shut-eye?"

The sympathy in his voice told Erin she must have misjudged him. Stress
and lack of sleep were addling her brain.  He.  was more concerned for
her comfort and peace of mind than for the pleasures of the bed.  Every
time she thought she had this strange man figured out, he turned the
tables on her.

An unsettling thought occurred.  Was Donoran changing personalities
now--from devil-may-care rogue to sympathetic friend?  Hadn't she seen
how easily he'd changed at the pub in Roscommon?  Maybe he was- snowing
her to get to her mother first.  The possibility tugged at the fringes
of Erin's mind, threatening to suck away her optimism like killer
quicksand.  Angrily she thrust her suspicion away, knowing it would
interfere with her search for her mother.  No matter what game he was
playing, she needed Dono-ran's help.

"If you're going to the pub, so am I," she declared.

Donoran gave an approving nod.  In spite of her doubts his slightest
hint of praise sent her spirits soaring.  "I thought you might," he
said, his voice warm.  Downstairs, the night clerk directed them to the
Red Fox, located on Donegal's Diamond, the town square.  Since the pub
closed at eleven, they had only half an hour to get to town and find
Brian Cairns.

"WHO WANTS TO KNOW?"  The stocky bartender glared at

Donoran and Erin with suspicious eyes.

Donovan peered up and down the scratched mahogany bar.  From their
casual sweaters, none of the men gathered there looked as if they'd
stopped on the way home from work.  But the elderly night clerk hadn't
dressed in a businesslike fashion either.  If her casual attire was the
usual work uniform at the Ballyshannon Lodge, any of these men might be
Brian Cairns regardless of their clothes.

"I'm Dan Blake and this is my wife."  Donovan gave the bartender a
serious man-to-man stare.  "We're hoping Mr.  Cairns can help us locate
my wife's mother.  She was supposed to meet us at the lodge, but the
night clerk has no record."

Though Donoran had spoken loudly enough for every one in the room to
hear, nobody at the bar met his gaze.

But the bartender's expression softened, as Donoran had guessed it
would.  The Irish were notoriously devoted to their mothers.

"Brian stops once, twice a week," the bartender said.

"But not tonight.  Did you try callin' his house, then?"  Donovan
nodded.  "His wife said he'd be here."

The bartender glanced toward Erin, his suspicion changed to sympathy.
"Is she an old lady, then?"

"Not exactly elderly," Erin said.  Picturing her beautiful mother, she
could almost hear Margaret's impulsive burst of laughter at the
bartender's question.

"But she's not young anymore, either," Erin went on, embroidering the
truth, "and usually doesn't travel alone.  We're quite worded about
her."

"Can't say as I blame you" he replied, beaming under the influence of
Erin's warm smile.  "Now that you know he's not here, would you like to
call Cairns's missus again--see if she's heard from him?"  He nodded
toward the end of the room.  "Phone's behind the bar."

As Donovan led Erin past a big stone fireplace, heat enveloped them
even though the dying fire was reduced to embers.  The men clustered at
the bar gave them curious glances, but nobody met Donovan's inquiring
gaze.

The phone sat on a shelf alongside bottles of Irish whiskey.  Pulling
the number from her purse, Erin dialed.

Though Donovan got only Erin's side of the conversation, he could tell
the news wasn't good.

"So Cairns isn't home yet?"  he said, after she'd hung up.

"That's right," she answered.  "Since he isn't here, his wife thinks he
probably stopped at a friend's."

Donoran could see Erin's frustration and anxiety in the tense look on
her face--her brows drawn down, her full lips pressed together.  He put
one arm around her waist and was disturbed at the tension he felt in
her body.

"One good thing," she said, her expression lightening, "his wife says
he never misses work.  No matter how drunk he gets the night before,
he'll be at the lodge tomorrow morning."

For a brief moment Donovan held her close to his side, letting himself
enjoy her softness against him.  "Then we'll just have to be patient.
Tomorrow morning isn't that far off."  Reluctantly he-released her.

"Any luck?"  the bartender asked as they headed for the door.

Donovan shook his head.  "No, but thanks for the phone."  He passed the
man a ten-pound note.  "If you should happen to see Brian Cairns, tell
him to call Dan Blake at the lodge."  Quickly he jotted the name on a
bar napkin.

A broad smile on his face, the bartender took the napkin and promised
he would.

OUTSIDE THE PUB, the cold night air slapped Erin's face like a damp
rag.  Wretchedly tired, she felt icy fingers seep into every pore.

"Baksheesh for the bartender?"  she snapped, emphasizing the question.
"Do you think he knows where Cairns is?"

Donovan shrugged matter-of-factly.  "Maybe yes, maybe no.  In any case,
a little baksheesh is guaranteed to help his memory."

"Tips?  Bribes?  Baksheesh?  You think they'll buy you anything, don't
you Donovan?"  She spit the words out, surprised at herself for feeling
so angry at something that hadn't bothered her earlier.  She was angry
at her mother for dropping off the face of the earth; angry at the
clerk for not going home after work the way any normal person would;
infuriated with Donovan for thinking bribes could buy anything.  Erin
tightened her lips.

They stood at one side of the pub on the Diamond, Donegal's three-sided
town square.  The hotel and storefronts glowed whitely in the
lamplight.  To the north at the top of the square, she could make out
the towers and turrets of Donegal Castle, like something out of a fairy
tale.

With his bribes and his changing personalities, Donovan's the one out
of a fairy tale, she thought, angry at herself for wanting him.

"You're tired, Erin," Donovan said softly, taking her hand and drawing
it through his arm.  "Let's go back to the lodge and get some
shut-eye."

To Erin, he sounded patronizing again, the way he had when he'd tried
to convince her not to come to Ireland.  She felt her cheeks burn,

"I'm not tired," she contradicted, jerking her hand away.  "And don't
think your precious baksheesh is going to work with me, Donovan.
Because I'm not taking."

He recoiled as though she'd struck him.  "What the hell are you talking
about?"

"About us."  She glared at him, unable to stop the torrent of words'
flooding upward.  "Don't try to soft, soap me into making me think
you're here because you want to be with me when it's my mother you've
been after all along.  I know baksheesh when I see and hear it.  And
all the care and attention you've been giving me since I got to Ireland
adds up to just one thing: a bribe to make me trust you so I'll find
Mom for you."  Somehow it had escaped--all the dark suspicion festering
inside her.

"No, listen to me, Erin.  Baksheesh is money pure and simple.  Pounds.
Dollars.  Legal tender."

"Not entirely," she argued, knowing she was right.  "It can be anything
given to get somebody to do something they don't want to."

"Are you saying I'm pretending to care for you as a sort of bribe? That
my feelings for you are phony?"  There was hurt disbelief in his
voice.

Knowing how good an actor he was, Erin ignored the pain in his eyes.
"Well, aren't they phony?"

"Not anymore they aren't."

Staring into his eyes, she sensed what was coming, but couldn't force
herself to back away.  He pulled her against him roughly, almost
violently.  She told herself to fight, to resist, to break away, but
she felt paralyzed.  On trembling legs she found herself pressing
tightly against his body, all her anger and need welded together in a
giant surge of yearning.

When his lips met hers, he tasted salty, like the sea, and Erin
floundered, drowning in waves of sensation.  She tried to force her
confused emotions into some sort of order, but her brain was in tumult.
Giving herself freely to her passion, she wound her arms inside his
jacket and around his back.  His muscles tensed under her fingertips.

"Oh, Erin," he whispered, lifting his head to look at her.  "You're
what I want, not your mother.  If you don't trust me to talk to her, I
won't, at least not until this operation is over."

In an odd contrast to her heated longing for him, the tiny hairs on her
arms prickled at his words.  "If not you then would someone else from
the agency question Mom?"

Sighing, he cradled her face in his hands.  "I'm-afraid that's
unavoidable.  But at least it wouldn't be me.  When I tall to her,
it'll be because she's your mother, not because she may be involved in
a counterfeiting conspiracy."

Erin.  inhaled deeply, breathing in his, strong male scent.  Her anger
gone, she no longer needed him to promise anything, only to feel his
arms around her and know he was here with her.

"But I'd rather it be you who talked to her than a stranger," she
admitted slowly, knowing in her heart it was so.  "You'd be fair with
her and let her know what she was up against."

"Of course I would."  He tilted her chin up and stared into her eyes.
"Are you sure my interrogation won't be a barrier between us?"

Erin nodded.  "Now that I know you won't try to trap her..."

"The only one I want to trap is you."  There was a bum-ing light in his
eyes as he reluctantly released her.

Holding hands they hurried past lovers embracing near the monument in
the Diamond's park like center.  The short drive across the causeway to
the lodge seemed to take forever.  By the time they reached their suite
of rooms, they were both breathing heavily, more from anticipation than
the sprint up the stairs.

Erin stood by the sitting-room sofa as Donovan turned the key in the
ancient lock, the key they'd had to request specially, because lodge
doors weren't normally locked.  She could feel him watching as she took
off her car coat and flung it on the cushions.  The dim light glimmered
over his rugged face revealing his unleashed hunger.  Though the room
wasn't overheated, drops of moisture clung to his damp forehead.

He came toward her with flames smoldering in his eyes.  When his large
hand touched her face and held it gently, her body tingled from the
contact.  In one forward motion she was in his arms and his mouth was
on hers.  Again she tasted the saltiness of the sea, but this time she
didn't flounder.  Winding her arms around his neck, she raised herself
to meet him.

His mouth searched hers hungrily and she felt his hands sear her bare
back, pushing up under her sweater and bra.  As she drowned in his
kiss, his fingers lifted her sweater even higher and she felt his hand
caressing her bare breast.  Shivers of delight flowed through her at
his touch.

He was trembling, too.  Letting go of her, he yanked off his
windbreaker.  "Taking her hand, he drew her into the bedroom where the
king-size bed awaited.  Gently he eased her down onto it.

The light from the bedside lamps cast blurry shadows on the papered
walls.  Eyes wide, she watched him take off his gray sweatshirt.  He
wore nothing underneath, and his chest muscles glistened in the pale
light.  Senses reeling, she glimpsed the mat of curly hair on his chest
before he lay down beside her.

He pulled her to him.  Through the mists of her passion, her mother's
smiling face appeared in Erin's mind.  Lord have mercy, what was she
doing?  Though barely able to control the raging fire inside her, she
forced herself to push him away.  "Oh God, I can't do this, Donovan,"
she said, her voice choked..

Frowning, he stared into her eyes with such intensity she felt naked
inside, her mind stripped bare for him to read.  "What's wrong, Erin?"
he whispered.  "Isit something I've done or said?"

"Oh, no."  She touched his cheek in reassurance, her heart aching.  "I
want you terribly.  You must know that."

"Then Why?"  His broad shoulders were heaving as he breathed.

"I can't do this while my mother's missing.  It's like like dancing on
her grave."

"But you can't rob yourself of joy," he whispered, "on the remote
possibility something's happened to her."

"But maybe something has happened to her."  Erin tried to swallow the
sob in her throat and didn't succeed.  "Tonight while we were in that
pub I had the strongest feeling that something dreadful had happened. I
can't shrug it off.  Even here with you wanting you that feeling is all
around me..."  She tried to steady her voice and failed.  If only he
would understand.

Very reluctantly, Donoran eased her sweater down over her breasts, the
nipples still swollen with passion.  God knows he wanted her.  The
cramping ache in his loins had already started.  But tonight Erin
needed sleep, not the intimate attentions of a CIA agent.  This was the
wrong place and time for what his hungry body was demanding.

"You're'just tired," he said, 'trying to relieve her anxiety.

"That's why you're imagining a world-class disaster."

"You're probably right," she agreed slowly.  "Before tonight I've never
shown signs of being able to read the future, thank goodness."

The grateful look on her beautiful face made-him glad he hadn't pressed
her into an intimacy she'd be sorry for.

A tiny smile crooked the corners of her mouth.  "I'm afraid the real
disaster happened just now, when I pushed you away."

"That was no disaster," he said, "just two people being honest with
each other."

"I'm really sorry, and--"

He raised two fingers to cover her lips.  "Don't say any thing more.
Just lie here beside me and let me hold you."

Turning toward him, she rested her face in the hollow of his throat.
"You've been so wonderful tonight, Donoran.  Promise you won't change
again."  Her words were muffled against his throat, and he knew she was
already half asleep.

Not certain exactly What she meant, he breathed a kiss on her fragrant
hair.

But he didn't promise her anything.

MORNING DAWNED WITH drizzly rain.  The front of the lodge, where Erin
now stood gazing out the tall drawing-room windows, looked across a
wide expanse of lawn toward Donegal Bay.

Sensing movement behind her, she turned.  A youngish man in a
beautifully patterned green-and-saffron sweater hurried across the room
toward her.  At last!  This must be Brian Cairns.  She'd left Donovan
asleep and slipped downstairs early to catch Cairns as soon as he came
on duty.

"You're up ahead of your husband, then, Mrs.  Blake,"

he said.

"Mr.  Cairns?"  Erin extended her hand.

Eagerly the young man shook it.  "No, but I'm pleased to meet you Mrs.
Blake.  Since I'm on nights, I don't get a chance to chat with any but
early risers like yourself."

"Do you recall seeing my mother?"  Erin pulled out Margaret's picture
and showed it to him.

He shook his head.  "No, but like I said I see only the early risers.
Brian's the man you need to talk to.  He comes in at eight.  If your
mother were here, he'd know it."

Sighing, Erin thanked him and went into the dining room.  Early though
it was, the breakfast buffet was ready with fruit, milk and cereals
displayed on a long, linen-covered table.  A chef stood by to prepare
eggs, waffles, pancakes and a variety of meats.

Erin had ordered when Donovan joined her at her table.

Bending, he gave her a light kiss on the Cheek.  When she smelled his
aftershave and felt his smooth skin against hers, a throbbing welled up
deep inside her.

"What's the story on Cairns?"  he asked, still standing.

"Get your food.  I'll tell you when you get back."

A few minutes later after he returned with a plate loaded with fruit,
she told him the day clerk was due at eight.

He dug into his melon.  "That'll just about give me time to finish my
pancakes and potatoes."

When eight o'clock came, they were sitting on an elegant sofa
upholstered in silk brocade, their backs to the rain-gray windows,
facing the small registration desk in one corner.

At eight-fifteen the late-night clerk assured them that Brian sometimes
came in a few minutes late.  But he'd be here soon, never fear.  At
eight forty-five he called Cairns's house.  His wife said he wasn't
there hadn't been home all night.

Erin asked to speak to her.  "Do you have any idea where he might be,
Mrs.  Cairns?"

"I've already called his two best mates," sniffed the wife, obviously
close to tears, "They haven't seen him.  The stupid article must be
lying in a ditch somewhere, Mrs.  Blake.  The way that man drinks, I
knew something would happen to him."

After a few Words of sympathy, Erin hung up the phone.

When she turned to Donovan her mood was as gray as the drizzly rain
outside the drawing-room window.

"Well, where do we go from here?"  she asked' helplessly.  "Cairns
might not show up for days."

Donovan led her back to the sofa.  "We'll let everybody on the day
staff take a look at your mother's picture.  If she's been here,
somebody's bound to have seen her."  He paused, thinking.  "Another
thing we can do is call your cousin.  If your mother had a last minute
change of plans, she might have phoned Jean."

"Good idea," Erin said, feeling more in control.  "What about license
numbers?  If the lodge keeps a record, we could correlate numbers with
people registered.  If Mom used another name, we'd at least find that
out."

Donovan shook his head.  "The lodge didn't ask for our license number.
They didn't even ask for the make and model of the car."

Erin's spirits dropped again.

"But maybe somebody checks the lot during the night," Donovan
suggested.  "If so--"

"Then he might remember seeing the shamrock Patrick puts on all his car
licenses," she concluded, jumping up.

They hurried to the registration desk.

The weary late-night clerk no longer appeared as eager to greet them as
he had Erin earlier this morning.  "Yes, sir?"  he said to Donovan
without smiling.

"Does anybody from the lodge keep an eye on patrons'

cars during the night?"  Donovan asked.

The clerk gave him an are-you-kidding look.  "Nobody's going to bother
your vehicle, if that's what's worrying you Mr.  Blake.  In an
establishment that doesn't even issue room keys unless they're
requested, we don't find it necessary to stand guard over our patrons'
cars."

With an apologetic glance at Erin, Donovan took some folded Irish
pounds from his pocket, holding the bills so the clerk could see how
much.  "It's worth twenty pounds to me to talk to someone who might
have got a look at the license plates in the parking lot during the
past few nights."

The clerk's harsh expression softened.  "Well, I do like to take a bit
of fresh air now and then."

Donoven handed him the money.

Baksheesh again, Erin thought, but this time she felt no anger.  Last
night she'd been weary and full of doubt.  Her suspicion had made her
angry at everything and everybody.  But this morning the feeling was
gone.  If the clerk remembered seeing the shamrock, they'd at least
know Margaret had been here.

"So," Donoven said, "during the past couple of days, do you remember
seeing a plate with a shamrock on the left-hand side?"

"Sure," the clerk replied without hesitating.  "I don't see many like
that."

"The car my wife's mother was driving had a license with that
symbol."

Erin let out a slow breath of relief.  "That means she's been here,
doesn't it?"  she said to Donoven.

He nodded.  "No doubt about it.  Now we have to figure out where she
went."

"If she went somewhere, she didn't go in that car."  The clerk made the
statement matter-of-factly.

Startled, Erin stared at him.  "What do you mean?"

"Car was parked in the north lot where the help parks," the clerk said.
""Twas still there last night."

Erin and Donovan stared at each other and then at the clerk.  "The
north lot?"  They said the words together.

"You mean there's more than one lot?"  Donoven added.

The clerk nodded.  "Not surprised you missed it.  There's no road to it
from the house."

"Where the hell is it?"  Donoven snapped.

"Other side of the house.  There's a footpath to it.  Car exit leads
directly to the main road."

The clerk had barely finished speaking when Donovan grabbed Erin's hand
and started down the corridor toward the back door.  Heedless of the
drizzling rain, they crossed the gravel parking area at a swift pace.
After hunting frantically, they finally found the path.  Overgrown with
bushes, it started on the far side of a wide expanse of lawn and wound
through scrubby foliage to the employee lot.  The cold drizzle soaked
Erin's sweater and jeans, but she barely noticed.

They both spotted the distinctive shamrock emblem on the license plate
of a white BMW at the same time.  Donovan tried the door on the
driver's side.  It was open.

How like her mother, Erin thought, not to worry about something as
mundane as locking a car.  The drizzly wetness on her face turned warm
with her tears.

Donovan flung the door open and stepped aside to let Erin stick her
head in.  Instantly she smelled the subtle odor of the Nina Ricci
perfume her mother used.  On the seat was a silk scarf Erin
recognized.

"This is Mom's car all right," she said, fighting her tears.  "She must
have been in terrible trouble to just walk away and leave it."

"Let's see if she left anything in the trunk."

Keeping an eye on the path, Erin stood behind him while he tinkered
with the lock.  As he swung the lid open, she peered around his
shoulder.

Donovan took one look and slammed the lid shut.

It was too late.

She'd already glimpsed the crumpled corpse inside, its clothing stained
with blood.

Chapter Thirteen,

For one horrified moment, Erin thought the body in the BMW's trunk was
her mother's.  Assailed by a terrible sense of loss and shock, she
gulped huge mouthfuls of the cold misty air.  When she started to
shake, Donoran quickly pulled her to him.

"It's a man, Erin, not your mother."  He held her face so tightly
against his throat she could hear the blood pounding in his veins.

"Wha ... what's a dead man doing in Mom's car?"  Her words were muffled
against Donovan's skin.  "Who is he?"

Gently he rocked her back and forth.  "I've got a pretty good idea.
Soon as you're feeling better, I'll search the body."

"I'm feeling fine," she declared, trying to pull free so they could
find out who he was.

Donovan wouldn't let her go.  "Not Until you stop shaking."

Clamping her teeth together so they wouldn't chatter, Erin pushed
harder.  Struggling against him warmed her, and she stopping
shivering.

Hurriedly he let her go.  "Turn your back to the car and tell me if you
hear anyone coming."

Grateful to look away, she swung around, eyeing the narrow path to the
lodge.  Surrounded by tall bushes, the parking area was isolated.  She
heard nothing but the small rasping noises Donovan made when he opened
the trunk lid.  A few moments later she heard the lock snap closed.

A shudder swept through Erin.  What if the body had been her mother's?
Without being told, she knew who the dead man was.  "Is it Brian
Cairns?"  she asked.

Donovan nodded.  "Looks like he didn't stop anywhere on the way home
last night after all."

She started for the lodge.  "We've got to call the police in Donegal.
Mrs.  Cairns has to be told about her husband."

Donovan caught her arm, stopping her in midstep.  "Listen to me, Erin.
We can't tell anybody about this, not until we talk to your mother."

Dumbfounded, Erin stared at him.  The drizzle had turned to a steady
rain.  Both of them were soaked.  Water dripped off Donovan's wet hair
and trickled down his cheeks.

"This man had a wife and family," she said, aghast.  "And his body in
Mom's car means she's in terrible danger.  We can't just walk away
without reporting it."

"Oh yes we can."  There was a tense note in his voice.  "Because if we
don't, the police will get involved, and your mother might very well be
accused of murder."

"Accused of murder?"  Shock caused the words to wedge in her throat.
"You can't be serious.  My mother would never kill anyone.  Never!"
Erin glared at him.

Taking her arm, he turned her toward the car.  Reluctantly, back ramrod
stiff, she went with him.

"I'm not saying she killed anyone," he explained smoothly, his face
displaying an uncanny awareness of what she was feeling.  "But think
about how this will look to the police.  If she's involved in
counterfeiting with your stepfather, she might have a motive.  Who
knows what role Brian Cairns played in their operation?"

"You can't be serious," she repeated resentfully, fighting her own
fears.  But several other reasons to keep quiet crowded into her mind.
She and Donovan were driving a stolen car.  Worse, as soon as they
called the police, the authorities would alert Patrick, since the BMW
was his.

The last thing Erin wanted was for her stepfather to find out anything
about her, Donoven or Margaret.

"Listen to me," Donoven implored, urgency in his voice.  "By killing
Cairns, somebody's just proved he or she means business.  We've got to
move quickly before somebody else gets hurt."

Wavering, Erin tried to comprehend what she was hearing.  "Wha ... What
can we do?"  Her job as an intelligence officer hadn't prepared her for
murder.  She couldn't seem to think straight.

He went to the driver's side of the BMW and jerked the door open.
"First we need to examine this car, see if there's any indication where
your mother planned to go next.  Then we've got to show her picture to
the staff.  Somebody other than Cairng must have talked to her."

"Do you think Morn told Cairns where she was going?"

Erin drew back, not wanting to get near the car.  With its corpse in
the trunk, it had suddenly turned into a glistening white coffin.

Donoven shrugged.  "The killer must have thought so."

"And he killed Cairns so he wouldn't tell anyone else?"

she asked, the chill deepening within her.

"Either that, or he didn't want Cairns to identify him."

Donoven scooted across the seat, opened the glove box,

and began examining the contents.

"Here's something."  He handed her a road map of Ire land.  Two towns
were circled--Donegal and Westport,

about a hundred miles south on Clew Bay.

"Westport?  Do you think that's where she went?"  Erin tucked the map
in her bag.

He shrugged.  "It's our best bet so far."

"I guess I don't understand how a killer's mind works,"

she said, glancing between Donoven inside the car and the overgrown
path to the lodge.  "I should think the killer would want to distance
himself from Mom.  Why would he put the body in the trunk of her car?"
Water dripped into her eyes from her wet hair.  Annoyed, she brushed
the soaking wet strands off her face.

After returning the contents to the glove box, Donovan shoved it
closed.  When he turned toward Erin, his mouth was tight and grim. "The
bastard left Cairns's body in your mother's car because he didn't want
it to be discovered right away."

For a tense moment Erin couldn't speak.  Then the full implication of
Donovan's words sunk in.  "That means he knew she'd left the lodge and
wouldn't be back for the car.  Do you think he saw the map?"

Donovan shook his 'head.  "No.  He would have taken it if he'd seen
it--to keep us, or the authorities, from finding it and guessing where
to look for your mother."

Erin's stomach churned with fear for' her mother.  Donovan was bent
low, poking at something on the carpet,

when she caught a glimpse of movement on the path.  "Someone's coming,"
she said softly.

Donovan didn't straighten.  "Act natural," he whispered.  It was the
late-night clerk.  He waved at them from across the lot.  "I see You
found the car," he called, coming toward them.  Prepared for the wet
weather, he wore a rain slicker and carded a black umbrella.

Straightening, Donovan settled on the driver's seat.  "It belongs to my
wife's mother, all right," he said congenially.  "She must be here in
the neighborhood."

The clerk came toward them and held the umbrella over Erin's head.  She
blinked, suddenly able to see without the rain dripping in her eyes.

"We're looking the car over," Donoran said, "trying to see if Mrs.
Sullivan left any clues as to where she went."

"She'll probably be back at the lodge tonight," the clerk said
noncommittally.

"I wonder where this bluish mud came from?"  Donovan asked, holding up
some dirt for Erin to see.  "I'm surprised your mother left this stuff
in her car."

Curious, the clerk handed the umbrella to Erin and bent over to look.
When he straightened, he held a clump of hard mud.  Cautiously he
sniffed it, then crumbled it between his fingers.  "With that blue-gray
color, it doesn't look to be from around here.  I'd say Clew Bay, about
a hundred miles south."

Erin's spirits soared.  Clew Bay again.  That had to be where her
mother was.

The clerk looked quizzically at Erin.  "Did your mother come from Clew
Bay to Donegal, then?"

Automatically Erin shook her head.  "No, from Dublin."  Bending, the
clerk examined the BMW's carpet again.  "Looks like too much mud for a
woman's shoes.  Maybe a friend or relative came up from Clew Bay to
Donegal and drove the car."

Getting out of the BMW, Donovan faced the clerk.  "She'll probably be
back later.  Guess we'll hang around for a while."

"Then maybe I'll see you tonight, if you're still up when

I check in," said the clerk.

Erin moved to hand him his umbrella, but he shook his head.  "I'm
parked here, so I don't need it.  Just leave it at the lodge when
you're through with it."  He swung around, but stopped in midstep.

"NOW, if that isn't odd," he said, nodding toward a compact car parked
near the BMW.  "That's Brian's Renault.  Long as I've worked here, I've
never seen him leave it overnight, even when he planned to stop at the
pub on the way home."

Donovan shrugged.  "A friend must have picked him up."

"I'm sure you're right," the clerk agreed.  "But if the cat's here
tonight, and Brian's still missing, I'll have to call the police."  He
frowned, obviously not thrilled at the prospect.

"I'm betting Cairns will be back before then to pick it up," Donovan
soothed.  Holding the umbrella, he started back toward the lodge with
Erin by his side.

DURING THE NEXT HOUR, Erin showed her mother's picture to everybody on
the day staff, including kitchen help.  Nobody remembered seeing her
except a bellboy who recalled delivering a meal to her room two days
before.  She'd been alone, at least when the food was delivered.  But
the next day when he carried her bags out, a man was behind the wheel
of the car she got into.

He couldn't describe the man.  Neither could he remember the make of
the car, nor the name she registered under.  But he was able to provide
the room number from lodge records of the room-service transaction.
Armed with that information, Erin and Donovan hurried back to the small
registration desk in the drawing room.

The register listed 'a woman named Margaret Kelly as the room's only
occupant.  The signature was slanted, as though her mother had tried to
disguise her handwriting, but it was close enough for Erin to
recognize.  Lord, she thought, Mom must have been scared to death to
hide like this.

And this stranger who kept cropping up.  Erin's neck hair prickled
every time she thought of some unknown man hovering around her mother
like a hungry vulture, Had he some hold on her?  Was he threatening
her?  Erin's mind was filled with fear.  Lifting worried eyes, she
stared anxiously at Donovan.  His warm hand covered hers in a quick
reassuring touch.

For a moment she closed her eyes against the sudden sting of tears.
Then, drawing a deep breath, carefully jotted down the address listed
on the register--an apartment in Dublin.  She called her cousin from
the phone in their suite.

Jean said she had not heard from Margaret.  "What can I do to help?"
she asked in a strained voice.

Erin had a ready answer.  "Find out who lives at this apartment in
Dublin."  Quickly she repeated the street number and her mother's
assumed name, on the off chance the apartment was listed under Margaret
Kelly.  "And get the telephone number, too, if you can.

"You might have to go them," Erin said, "but I'm sure there's nothing
dangerous about the apartment or Mom wouldn't have listed it as her
address.  It might even be a number she made up."

"I understand," Jean said, her voice tight with emotion.  "I'll drive
into Dublin this afternoon.  }s there a telephone number where I can
reach you?"

Covering the mouthpiece with her hand, Erin glanced toward Donoran,
sitting next to her on the suite sofa.  -"She wants to know where she
can call to let us know what she found out."

"Tell her we'll be on the road and will check in with her when we get
where we're going," he said, his eyes warning her to be careful.

After Erin had repeated what Donoran said, Jean's tone brightened.
"Sounds like you have an idea where she's gone."

"Since this is the lodge phone, I can't tell you much," Erin stressed.
"I'll call you tonight.  Try not to worry."

Their clothes still damp, Erin and Donovan climbed into their stolen
car.

"Clew Bay?"  he asked, as they headed across the narrow causeway to
Donegal.  In his mind, that was the only logical Place to go.

Erin sighed.  "Even if the stranger drove up from there to bring her
back, how're we going to find her once we get to Westport?  Though it's
the main town near Clew Bay, we'll never find her in a hundred years if
she's hiding in somebody's house."

Disturbed at her anguished tone, Donovan glanced toward Erin.  With her
flame-red hair curling damply on her shoulders and her eyes downcast,
she had the air of a woman trembling on the edge of despair.  While he
watched, she took a wet tissue from her jeans pocket.  It tore as she
brushed at her eyes and nose.

Reaching in the pocket of his jacket, he took out a damp, but clean,
linen handkerchief.  Wordlessly he handed it to her.

She blew her nose.  "Sorry, Donovan, I'm usually not a crybaby, but
this whole thing looks more and more hopeless--starting with a map the
killer should have found but apparently didn't and ending with a
one-legged man who appears and vanishes like some kind of magician?"

Donovan shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  Erin's description of the
mysterious stranger sounded very much like the one Mike Essinger had
used to describe the assassin,

Chameleon.  Could Chameleon, in one of his disguises, be the man who
kept appearing with Erin's mother?  And if so, was he in league with
her and O'Shaughnessy?  Or was he holding her captive, as Erin feared?
Donovan was betting on the former.

"Your mother acts scared," he admitted, "but she seems to be free and
in good health.  The man the bellboy saw in the car wasn't holding her
prisoner."

"Maybe she's going along with the kidnapper to keep me from being hurt.
Or maybe even Patrick."

Not even a remote possibility, Donovan thought, but he kept his
suspicion to himself.  Reaching out, he ran his hand up and down her
arm.  Damn, her sweater was still wet and probably the shirt under it.
No wonder her voice sounded quivery.  He turned the car heater up
another notch.

Erin glanced helplessly at Donovan.  "How in the world are we going to
find her once we get there?"

"Simple," he said, with an assurance he didn't feel.

"Westport is a small town---everybody knows everybody else's business.
When we get there, we'll tell the town gossip Margaret Sullivan's
daughter is looking for her.  Then we'll let your mother find us."

THEY REACHED WEST PORT on an eastern inlet of Clew Bay, at a little
after five o'clock that afternoon.  The steady rain continued, a cold
gray sheet outside Erin's window.

Instead of stopping at the hotel overlooking the river at town center,
they found a bed-and-breakfast a couple of blocks away.  Donovan parked
in front of the two-story, steep-roofed house that looked out on the
street.

Though the trip from Donegal to Westport was less than a hundred miles,
it had taken more than four hours on the winding country road.  Tired
and hungry and more worded than ever about her mother, Erin had to get
something squared away before they went inside.  She put her hand on
Donovan's sleeve.  Dry at last, his sweatshirt felt pleasantly warm to
her fingers.

At Erin's touch, he glanced toward her.

"If we expect Morn to find me, I'll have to register under my own
name," she said softly.

"For appearances, that sounds like two rooms."  The regret in his voice
made her heart beat faster.

"Are you disappointed?"  She tried to keep her tone light, so he
wouldn't see how much his desire excited her.

"Very," he admitted, his gaze holding hers showed Undeniable sexual
warmth.  "But since I suggested letting your mother find you I guess I
can't complain."

His look was so penetrating, it sent a tremor through her.  He eyed her
thoughtfully.  "If your mother can find us, so can anyone else who
happens to be looking.  Once the word goes out..."

He didn't have to finish his sentence for Erin to know what he meant.
"You think whoever killed Brian Cairns might be here in Westport?"

"I'm almost positive he is," Donovan returned.  "Cairns must have been
killed because he knew where your mother was headed and the killer
didn't want Cairns to tell anyone.  Once he found out, it's only
logical that he'd come here--if, indeed, this is where she is."

"Then he's a terrible threat to her."  Rain dripping down the
windshield took on an eerie brownish red hue.  Erin clutched her
armrest.  A frightening moment passed before she realized it was only
dirt sprayed by a passing car.

"He's a threat to us, too," Donovan said soberly.  "If we get to her
first, we'll find out what she's so afraid of.  I'm sure he doesn't
want that."

"You sound like you've changed your mind about her involvement in the
conspiracy."  As Erin watched, he thrust his jaw forward.

"I'm keeping an open mind," he said, meeting her gaze.  "Whoever's
after her might want to steal your stepfather's secrets, or kidnap your
mother for ransom, or maybe get even with Patrick through her.  Until
you talk to her, you can't do more than speculate."

"I don't have to speculate.  I know she's not involved."  With a sigh,
Erin stepped out into the rain and crossed the sidewalk to the door of
the bed-and-breakfast.  With their two empty suitcases in hand, Donovan
followed.  Erin rang the bell.  Nobody answered.

"Maybe they're not home," he said.

From her research on Ireland, she knew many of the country's
bed-and-breakfast inns, especially in small towns like Westport, were
operated by families who shared their homes with tourists.  Rarely did
they leave the house empty.

"They're probably at dinner," she said, ringing the bell again.  This
time she heard the sound of footsteps inside, and the door swung open.
Erin met the level gaze of a young girl with hair even redder than her
own.  Barely into her teens, she had a generous sprinkling of freckles
and the fine skin models dream about."

"We need two rooms for tonight," Erin said.

The girl smiled, opening the door wider.  "Please come in, then."

The front door opened into a small vestibule with a living room off to
one side, and a long hallway straight ahead flanked on one side by a
plain wooden stairway.  From somewhere in the house came the clink of
dishes and the intoxicating smell of roast lamb.  They hadn't stopped
for lunch, and the smell made Erin's stomach howl for food.

"Who is it, Molly?"  a woman's voice called.

who want two rooms."

A buxom older version of the girl, with the same carrot red hair,
appeared from the living room.  Like her daughter, she wore jeans and a
faded plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up.  A white butcher's apron
hung around her neck.

Breaking into a wide, open smile, she extended a plump hand.  "I'm Mrs.
Flaherty.  Welcome to our home."

Shaking her hand, Erin knew they'd come to the right place.  Their
proprietress had the air of someone well acquainted in town.  Quickly
she pulled out her picture of her mother.

"Have you seen this woman?"  she pleaded, her hands trembling.  "She's
Margaret Sullivan, my mother, and she's dropped out of sight.  We think
she's here in Westport.  I'm worried sick about her."

Erin thought she saw the girl's eyes light with recognition, but, after
glancing at her mother, she said nothing.

The mother shook her head.  "No, I haven't seen her.

Sure and with a face like that, I'd not soon be forgettin' her."  She
glanced at Erin and then at the picture.  Erin expected her to remark
how unlike her mother she looked, as the elderly clerk at the lodge had
done.  Instead she nodded, as if satisfied that she was indeed the
daughter.

"We'll be happy to pay extra for the rooms if you'll ask around town
for Mrs.  Sullivan," Donoven said.

This time his bribe didn't work.

"I'll be glad to ask if anyone's heard of her," Mrs.  Flaherty said,
"but it'll now't cost you extra."  She handed them two keys.  "Dinner
comes with the room.  Bathroom's at the end of the hall upstairs.
You'll share with four others."  She turned to Molly, "Show them the
rooms, darling'," and then to Donoven.

"One thing," she said.  "We'll need to park your car behind the house.
If you'll give me the key, I'll have my boy do it."

"Is it fight behind the house?"  Donoven asked, giving her one of his
high-voltage smiles.  "If you don't mind, I'd rather park it myself."

"No problem," she said.  "Go down the street, around, and up the alley.
Don't worry about blocking another car.  If somebody wants out, we'll
get the boy to move yours."  After Donovan had left, Mrs.  Finhetty
turned to go.

"Mrs.  Flaherty?"  Erin queried softly.  "Can I speak to you alone and
in confidence?"

"Yes, of course."  Quickly she shooed her curious daughter out of the
vestibule.

"If you hear something about my mother, please tell me privately." Erin
felt like a rat for asking, but she couldn't risk her mother's
security.  "I don't want Mr.  Donovan to know."

"You don't trust him, then?"  A quizzical look crossed her face.  "Too
bad, such an attractive man."

Erin wanted to spill out her heart and say that yes, she did trust him,
With her life, her love, everything she held dear.  But she couldn't.
Because it wouldn't be true.  In spite of the closeness they'd shared
the past few days, a tiny kernel of doubt remained.

AFTER DINNER ERIN and Donovan started out the door to call Jean from a
pay telephone, when Mrs.  Flaherty emerged from the living room.

"I'm glad I caught you before your walk," she said.

"What's wrong?"  Erin and Donovan spoke together, almost in unison.

Mrs.  Flaherty put a steady hand on Erin's wrist.  "Nothing's wrong,
nothing at all.  It's just that I'll be needin' you to move your car
before you go, Mr.  Donovan.  Or give me the keys and I'll have the boy
do it."

Donovan turned toward the back of the house."  "Sure thing, Mrs.  F.
We'll start our walk from the alley."

The woman's fingers tightened on Erin's wrist.  "You'll be needin' an
umbrella, Miss Meyer.  I'll get one for you while Mr.  Donovan's movin'
the car."

The woman's hand on Erin's wrist felt hot as a branding iron.  Her mind
racing, Erin knew Mrs.  Flaherty wanted to talk to her alone.

"We don't need an umbrella," Donovan said.  "The rain's stopped."

It took all of Erin's self-Control not to let her anxiety show.  She
gave him a let's-humor-her-smile.  "We might want one later.  It's been
raining off and on all day."

"Okay," he groaned.  "I'll be back in a few minutes."  As soon as he'd
disappeared through the living room toward the rear of the house, Mrs.
Flaherty produced a sealed envelope from her apron pocket.  Wordlessly,
she handed it to Erin.

With trembling fingers, Erin ripped the envelope open and took out the
message inSide.  Her heart leapt into her throat when she recognized
her mother's handwriting.  Though scribbled in pencil in obvious haste,
the writing was undoubtedly hers.  Quickly she scanned the note.

Erin,

Can't wait to see you.  A friend will meet you tonight at eleven and
bring you to me.  The northwest corner of the bridge across the
Carrowheg River at town center.  Be careful and TELL NO ONE.

Her mother was okay.  Erin's relief turned her knees to jelly, and she
slumped into a chair next to the desk.

"Are you all right?"  Mrs.  F!aherty's bright blue eyes widened with
concern.

She let out a huge sigh.  "I couldn't be better."

"I'm glad it was good news," the woman said.  "You stay right there.
I'll fetch that umbrella."

Alone for the moment, Erin scanned the note again,

memorizing it.  The last three words were written in capital letters
and underlined.  TELL NO ONE.  Their meaning was clear as a child's
tears.  Obviously her mother knew that Donovan was traveling with Erin,
and didn't trust him.

Donovan, the man who had been so understanding, the man Erin loved. The
man she herself didn't completely trust.  Did her mother mistrust him
for the same reason Erin did?  Because he was a CIA agent investigating
a conspiracy?  Or did her mother know something Erin didn't?  Per-ha
that Donovan still worked for Patrick O'Shaughnessy? the two men had
planned this whole thing to locate

Margaret, they couldn't have come up with a more brilliant scheme. Erin
was alone, in a foreign country, worded sick about her mother. Then
Donovan stepped in, eager to help.  With her intelligence background
and knowledge of the restricted files, she was primed to believe his
farfetched CIA sto, complete with cons.  piracy.

Uneasily Erin recalled that Donovan had been with her almost constantly
since she arrived in Ireland.  Thanks to her he'd been welcomed at Jean
Magee's house.  Thanks to her he'd learned about the Ballyshannon Lodge
and Clew Bay, where her mother obviously was.  What if Patrick had
locked her in the bedroom at his mansion purposely so Donovan could
rescue her and earn her confidence?

She remembered Donovan's explanations for everything he'd done--from
the missing wolfhounds to the open garage door to the Unmarked embassy
car.  His explanations made sense.  And she wanted to believe him,
wanted to with all her heart.  But what if they were all fabricated?

No, she told herself, you've got to give him the benefit of the doubt.
Until she talked to her mother tonight, she mustn't make the mistake of
jumping to unwarranted conclusions.

But if he'd been lying to her all along, she'd have to leave him or
lose her sanity.  For the first time Erin faced the frightening reality
that she loved Donovan and might have to give him up without ever
satisfying her yearning for him.  And she wanted him, needed him, with
a longing that turned her veins to liquid fire.

WITHOUT TALKING, Erin and Donovan walked on the sidewalk beside the
River, back at the bed-and-breakfast.  Old-fashioned Victorian lamps
cast dim shadows on the stone walls containing the river's flow through
town.  Glancing over the wall at the black water below, Erin wondered
how she could be so relieved yet so full of anxiety at the same time.

She'd called Jean from a public phone on the street across the river.
According to her cousin, the address Erin's mother listed on the lodge
register was an apartment in Dublin.  The apartment's tenant wasn't
home, but neighbors said he limped.  From their description, Jean
thought he might well be the man who came to her door asking for
Margaret Sullivan.

The one-legged man again.  Why had her mother listed his address on the
lodge register?  Well, she'd get the answer to all-her questions
tonight.  After she'd repeated the phone conversation to Donovan, she'd
lapsed into a worried silence.  TELL NO ONE.  Her mother's warning was
burned into her brain.

"Is something wrong?"  Donovan asked.  "You seem preoccupied
tonight."

"I'm still worried about Morn," she said, not quite truthfully since
she now believed her mother was okay.  Stopping, she leaned over the
wall.  When she felt Donovan close beside her, his body touching hers,
she turned to face him.  In the dim light his eyes were dark and
unsmiling, the eyes of someone she didn't know..

"Who are you really, Donovan?"  she murmured, trying to probe his mind.
"Sometimes you seem as familiar as someone in my own family.  But
sometimes, like right now, I feel I scarcely know you."

Instantly his expression softened, changing him into the man she
recognized.  He drew her into his arms.  "We've only been together a
few days," he said as she felt his breath on her hair.  "It's natural
to have feelings like that."

With his body hard against hers, Erin couldn't force herself to move
away.  "If you're a true undercover agent, your name probably isn't Dan
Donovan," she whispered 'in his ear.  "Who are you really?"

"I'm the man who loves you" he whispered back, his voice thick.  "And
everything I've said about my family is true."

He hadn't answered her question, but whoever Dan Donovan was, she loved
him.  But could she believe him?

Chapter Fourteen

Hand in hand they walked along the river to the town square known as
the Octagon, and then to their bed-and-breakfast a few blocks away.

A short while later, as they entered Donoran's room, Erin no longer
tried to fight her yearning.  Fearing she might never be with him like
this again, she came willingly into his arms.  And as he held her, she
sought to imprint his essence on her memory: his salty-sweet masculine
smell, the husky sound of his voice, the feel of his hard muscular body
against hers.  She nuzzled his neck, kissing the pulse throbbing
there.

Then, pulling back, she waited for his familiar roguish smile.  But
there was no smile for her tonight.  Instead, concern chiseled his
features.

"Are you sure nothing's wrong?"  he asked.  "Ever since dinner I've had
the feeling something's bothering you."

Trembling, Erin buried her head against his shoulder so he wouldn't see
her eyes.  She didn't want him to guess she was about to leave him,
maybe forever.

"How I wish we could go back to Lake Ree and stay in that nice little
inn where we had lunch," she said, her voice muffled against his
shoulder.  Even as she spoke, Erin heard the futility in her words.
Happily-ever-afters weren't in the cards for her.  Not with Donovan, a
man she couldn't trust.  He stroked her hair.  "We will go back to Lake
Ree.  As soon as this is over, and we know your mother's safe, we'll
spend as much time as you'd like there."

He kissed her then, a comfortable warm kiss that told her he'd be there
for her at Lake Ree or anywhere else.  And that he was willing to wait
for sex until she was ready.

At the touch of Donovan's lips, gentle though it was, Erin's emotions
ignited.  Hungrily she tightened her arms around his neck and pressed
herself against him.

"I don't want to wait for Lake Ree," she whispered.  "I want you now.
Make love to me, Donovan."

Lifting her chin with his hand, he peered into her eyes.  "Are you
sure?"

Erin could see him struggling to understand what had happened to change
her mind from last night.  Oh, she wished she could tell him her mother
was safe, that she'd be seeing her soon.

She buried her face in the hollow of his shoulder again.  "Let me feel
some joy.  Please.  I want to feel happy again, if only for a little
while."

Donovan groaned, tracing her face with his fingers.  "I'll make you
feel happy, phenomenally happy."

Erin sucked in her breath as all her doubts' and questions about him
suddenly burst forth in her mind.  She shoved them away.  This was the
man she loved, and she wanted them to be close, at least for a little
while, before she left him.

Backing away from him she lowered herself to the edge of the bed.  Then
she held out her arms to him.

For a moment he watched her, desire and tenderness exposed on his
rugged face.  Then, reaching up, he pulled the cord on the overhead
light, plunging the room into darkness.  Through the shadowy space, he
came to her.  Erin felt his hands on her skin, lowering her jeans,
lifting her sweater, his warm, seeking mouth on her breast.  Gasping
for breath, she pulled him down on top of her, delighting in the firm
body pressed against her.

Somehow he'd managed to shed his sweatshirt.  The soft massage of his
chest hair against her sensitive breasts sent waves of desire singing
through her.

Through the curtained window, a dim streetlight silhouetted his naked
shoulders.  Erin could barely see his face, but she could feel his
weight, heavy and protective on top of her.  And she could feel the
whisper of his breath against her face, the texture of his body beneath
her hands.  The skin on his back was like satin to her fingers, his
muscles firm, the manly scent of him an aphrodisiac to her heightened
senses.

Taking her face in his hands, he lowered his mouth to hers, and kissed
her, lightly at first, then with more passion, until she saw exploding
stars behind her closed eyes.  His lips traveled to her cheek then to
her eyes and back to her mouth again, his hunger matching her own, as
if he could never get enough of the taste and feel of her.

All at once she was drowning in his kisses and one of his hands was
searing a path across her flat, quivering belly to the juncture of her
thighs.  His fingers slid even lower, to the burning core of her
pleasure, and she trembled at his touch, marveling that he knew
instinctively where and how to caress her.

Fires raged inside her, sparking yearning so great that she had to
clench her teeth to keep from crying out.  For a moment her eyes
blinked open in the shadowy darkness and the look of sheer wonder on
his face made her want him even more.

Donovan's lovemaking was like nothing Erin had ever dreamed of in her
wildest fantasies.  Without hurrying, he learned what aroused her--how
to caress the inside of her thighs with exactly the fight motion, how
to apply just enough pressure on her hardened nipples to turn her
insides to liquid flame.

And with his guidance she explored his muscular body, with no part of
it off-limits to her searching fingers and tongue.  His skin felt silky
beneath her hands.  Fed by her ever-increasing passion, her desire grew
until it was nearly uncontrollable.  Donovan didn't just make love, she
discovered.  With his body and soul he worshiped her.

He lifted himself above her, and captured first one and then the other
of her sensitive breasts in his mouth with a knowing sureness that
brought her to the brink of some sweet lunacy.  Eagerly she let him
take her to the edge.

Finally, after making her cry out for him, he slid into her.  Delirious
with longing, her passion heightened even more as his hands drew her
closer.  Moaning, she felt him deep inside her, stretching her body to
rapturous pleasure.  Erin wrapped her legs around him and abandoned
herself to the spiraling whirl of sensations he aroused.

Deep inside her, Donovan lost his carefully disciplined control.  He'd
wanted her since the moment he laid eyes on her, and now that the end
was near, he could no longer command his rebellious body.  Yet even as
he thrust himself into her, he was supremely conscious of her
reactions.  Not until she cried out and tightened around him with the
desire, did he allow his own release.

Later, as they lay in each other's arms, Donovan felt wetness on his
shoulder.  Lifting himself to one elbow, he stared down at her face, a
blurry white shadow against the pillow.

"Erin,.  you're crying.  Did I hurt you?"  But he knew she'd wanted
him.  Her passion had exceeded his fondest dreams.  So why was she
crying?

"Nono, you didn't hurt me," she cried.  "Don't ever think that."  Her
voice trembled as she spoke.

"Then what's wrong?  Something's been bothering you all night."

She turned toward him.  "It's Morn, Donovan.  I can't stop worrying
about her."

Something about the way she murmured the words sounded insincere.  He
doubted she was telling him the whole story.  But he didn't question
her further.  She'd turned toward him, her full breasts brushing his
chest, and he felt himself harden with desire.  Lord help him, he
wanted her again.

As he leaned down to kiss her and felt her eager response, all thought
of something being wrong vanished from his mind.  Now there was only
Erin, so warm and ready, waiting for him... wanting him.

QUIETLY ERIN LET herself out of the front door of the bed-and-breakfast
and headed toward the Octagon, Westport's town square.

Getting away from Donoran had been easier than she expected.  After
they'd made love a second time, he'd lain exhausted beside her.  As
soon as he'd gone to sleep, she'd yanked on her jeans, sweater, and car
coat and started on her way to the northwest corner of the bridge
across the Carrowheg River.

As she passed in front of the quiet buildings near the grassy town
square, she forced herself not to think about Donoran.  After their
lovemaking tonight, she knew instinctively that he'd never hurt her.
But until Erin talked to her mother, she couldn't let herself trust
him.

Though it wasn't yet ten-thirty, the sidewalk crossing the Octagon's
lawn was deserted as were the two streets on either side of the river.
Taking a deep breath, Erin started down the sidewalk.  Modern
upside-down L-shaped street-lights made the square as bright as day.
But beyond; on both sides of the river, old-fashioned Victorian lamps
provided only dim light to the adjacent streets.

Shivering, she hugged her car coat more closely around her.  The
emptiness was unnerving, like something out of an Edward Hopper
painting.  Nothing moved near the rectangular two-story buildings lined
up side by side facing the Octagon or, farther on, the river.  Since it
curved right at its juncture with the Octagon, the water seemed a dark
highway, stretching away from the square into the night.

Skeletal trees, their branches still bare, bordered the stone walls on
both sides of the river.  Why hadn't she noticed the trees when she was
with Donovan?  As she approached, the tree limbs seemed to jerk and
move, as though somebody or something were lurking in the branches
above the sidewalk.

Annoyed by her irrational fears, Erin walked faster, If the branches
were moving then cats or squirrels were in them, not goblins or
assassins.  Or the effect was a trick of lighting--the bright light on
the square contrasted with the dim Victorian lamps along the river
walls.

Though her rubber-soled shoes made no sound, she thought she heard the
click of heels behind her.  Stopping midstride, she spun around, her
heart pounding in her ears.  Nothing.  Nobody behind her.  Complete
silence.

Don't be a fool, she told herself.  The Republic of Ireland i one of
the safest countries in the world for tourists.  You can wander around
almost anywhere at any hour.  It was one of her favorite lines when
she'd been a Pentagon desk analyst briefing diplomatic personnel
enroute to the area.

But diplomatic personnel didn't find bodies in car trunks or dodge
assassin's bullets.  Resolutely thrusting such frightening thoughts
from her mind, she continued at a steady pace.  After she'd crossed a
bridge over the river's bend, she reached the sidewalk beside the
right-hand wall.

The light from the old-fashioned lamps was decidedly dimmer here by the
river's wall, and the trees' spidery limbs--still winter-bare--cast
grotesque shadows on the street and sidewalk.  Anxiously Erin peered
upward, searching the top branches for any sign of life.

Nothing moved.

A car appeared on the other side of the river, traveling in her
direction.  When it reached the bridge ahead of her, it crossed and
started down the street toward her.  Instinctively, she swiveled and
leaned out over the stone wall, keeping her head down so only her back
was visible in the headlights.

The car, a late model black sedan, drove past without changing its
speed.  Holding her breath, she didn't dare turn away from the wall
until it reached the corner, too late to see its license.

When she finally reached the bridge, she was still twenty minutes
early.  Arriving ahead of time was a big mistake, she thought, glancing
fearfully around her.  Since no trees grew near the bridge, there were
no shadows to hide in.

Suddenly, the nearby Victorian lamp that had seemed so dim before, felt
like a spotlight focused on her face.  Breathing in quick, shallow
gasps, she looked down at the ground so anyone peering at her from the
Windows across the street wouldn't recognize her.  Then she realized
her mother had probably selected that location so the friend coming to
pick her up would see her clearly.

Who was he?  Erin wondered, this mysterious person?  Was he the man who
limped, the one her mother had seen watching from a distance?  If so,
how had he changed from threat to benefactor in only a few days?

Maybe he hat tn

A frightening new thought sent chills down Erin's spine.  What if her
mother had been coerced into writing the note?  What if her kidnapper
wanted Donovan out of the way so he fostered Erin's mistrust with the
disturbing instruction to TELL NO ONE?  Without Donoran, she was
virtually defenseless.

Taking deep gulps of the cold damp air, Erin told herself to stay calm.
She still had time, if she hurried, to return to the bed-and-breakfast,
rouse DonOvan, and get back here only a few minutes after eleven.  With
him keeping an eye on her from their parked car, she'd feel safe.

Before she could start back, another car appeared, heading toward her
on her side of the river.  She couldn't get to the shadows without
facing directly into the headlights.  And turning her back to the
street would be too obvious.

So she pulled her hood up to hide her hair and lowered her head.  Part
of her face was hidden, but looking up through her lashes, she could
identify the car.  It was the same black sedan that had passed less
than half an hour ago.

Her heart leapt into her throat when it slowed as it drew near.  Who
was inside?  Her mother's friend?  Or her stepfather's assassin?

Donovan woke WITH a troubled feeling.  He reached for Erin and found
her gone.  The sheet where she'd lain was cold.

She's probably gone to her room, he thought.  But nothing would still
his nagging fear that something was wrong.

Rising, he yanked on his pants and padded barefoot across the dimly
lighted hall to Erin's room.  He knocked lightly, then tried the door.
It was open.  "Erin?"  he called softly, pushing it wide.

He needed only an instant to see she wasn't there, and probably didn't
intend to return.  Her bed hadn't been slept in, and she'd left nothing
behind to let him know she'd be back.  Running to his room, he pulled
on his shirt and shoes and raced down the hall.

He took the stairs two at a time.  A night light provided faint
illumination in the vestibule.  The living room was dark, but if she
was anywhere inside the house, she'd be here.  He whispered her name.

But there was no answering whisper.  His uneasiness swelled to outright
fear.  Where could she have gone?  To meet someone, of course.  Donovan
cursed under his breath.  What a fool he'd been not to make her tell
him what was wrong.  Obviously shed been upset about what she planned
to do tonight; that's why she was crying.  And now she was out in the
street alone with no weapon, no way to defend herself.  He had to find
her.  Thank God the car was where he could get to it quickly.

Donovan crossed through the living room.  Ps he reached the door toward
the back of the house, he felt the unmistakable pressure of cold steel
against his neck.

"Well, it's Mr.  Donovan as I live and breathe.  How good of you to
save me a trip up to your room to get you."  It was a man's voice.

Even without seeing him, Donovan knew who he was.  "Where's your
assassin, O'Shaughnessy?"  he asked.  "Don't you let him do your dirty
work anymore?"

"Shut up or I'll blow your head off," O'Shaughnessy snapped.  "And
along with it, the heads of everybody in this house.  If you don't want
to cause a massacre, you'd better start moving.,

APPROACHING THE intersection, the black sedan slowed, drew even with
Erin.  Without lifting her head, she stole a look at its occupants. For
a breathless moment they were visible in the light from the
old-fashioned streetlamp behind her.

Two men sat in the car's front seat.  All the breath seemed to leave
her body When she recognized both of them.  In the passenger's seat,
half turned away from her, sat Patrick O'Shaughnessy.  Driving the
sedan, his rugged face staring straight ahead, was Donovan.

Stiff with shock, Erin stood cemented to the pavement, her eyes
fastened on the car's window.  For an instant Donovan glanced her way
and their eyes met.  Quickly--so fast she might have imagined the
slight twitch--he shook his head.  Then he stared ahead again, as
though he'd never seen her.

Maybe he hadn't.

Don't be a fool, she told herself.  Even with her hood up and her head
lowered, he must have recognized her.  She'd worn the maroon car coat
most of the day.  And she was standing directly under the
streetlight.

Expecting the car to pull over and stop, Erin braced herself to run.
She had no idea where to go, only that she had to get away from them.
Donovan and her stepfather together--wasn't this what she'd feared all
along?  He must have awakened and found her missing.  Suspecting that
she'd gone to meet someone who would take her to her mother, he'd
notified Patrick who must have been following them all day.

It was the worst moment of her life.

In the blink of an eye, the man Erin loved turned from protector to
betrayer, from defender to executioner.  Though she'd never trusted
Donovan completely, she saw now that she'd come much closer to doing so
than she'd thought.  A melange of feelings washed over her as she saw
her dreams crumble and die.  Swallowing the sob in her throat, she
almost wished he and Patrick would come for her and put an end to her
despair.

But the black sedan didn't stop.  When it reached the intersection, it
turned left over the bridge.

Quickly she roused herself.  What was 'she thinking, quietly accepting
Donoran's treachery?  The only way to beat him and Patrick was to get
to her mother first, and that meant not letting herself get caught.

Her heart pounding furiously, Erin watched the taillights until they
disappeared.  Had she been wrong about Donovan recognizing her?  When
she met his eyes, she'd been so sure--but in her shocked condition,
maybe she was wrong.  She had to be wrong, she thought wildly.  If he'd
recognized her, he would have stopped.

Run her brain screamed.  They'll be back.  But she couldn't leave or
she'd miss her mother's messenger.

How much longer to wait?  She checked her watch.  Only five minutes.
Stepping away from the lamppost, she moved closer to the trees where
she could still be seen but not so easily.

She'd waited only a few minutes when headlights appeared coming toward
the bridge.  Her stomach tightened into a solid lump of concrete.  Were
Donovan and her stepfather returning for her?

Squinting, she peered toward the oncoming car.  As it came into view,
she let her breath out in a long sigh.  It was a light-colored sport
utility vehicle--a Jeep Cherokee--the first she'd seen in Ireland.
Removing her hood, she returned to her position directly under the
streetlight.

The Cherokee turned onto the street across the river, then swung around
at the bend facing the Octagon.  Completing its broad U, it headed down
the north side of the river toward Erin.  Slowing, it stopped opposite
her.

The driver rolled down his window.  Without leaning out, he called to
her.  "Are you Erin Meyer?"  His voice, a rich strong baritone, could
belong to a trained singer or actor.

"Yes, I'm Erin."  She strained to see his face, but the car had stopped
just far enough from her so that the driver was in shadow.

"Margaret Sullivan sent me," he said, in an obvious attempt to reassure
her.  Opening the door, he stepped out.  In that instant the light
shone full on his face.

Erin couldn't control her gasp of surprise.  He had red hair the same
shade as hers and his face was oval and rather long, like hers.  His
nose was a larger version of her own, and his eyes the same color
blue.

Amazed at the resemblance, she stood staring at him, unable to speak.
He was a man, so of course his features were coarser than hers.  And
since he was older, he had lines around his mouth, crow's-feet at his
eyes; and creases in his forehead where Erin had none.

But even so the likeness was uncanny.  For a panicky moment, she
imagined she saw a distorted mirror image of her own face.  Hardly
daring to breathe, Erin found herself staring at a man who looked
enough like her to be her real father.

THANK GOD SHE hadn't moved as they drove past, Dono-van thought,
hunching over the wheel of O'Shaughnessy's Mercedes.  If she'd run or
even turned her back to them, her stepfather would certainly have
noticed.

When he'd driven past, Donovan had seen the stricken look on her face.
She'd undoubtedly recognized her stepfather and assumed he and Donovan
were working together.

How he wanted to hold her in his arms and reassure her of his loyalty.
But that would have to wait until he found a way out of this mess.

At least she was safe, since he was with the man who posed the greatest
threat to her.  She'd been waiting for someone she trusted--probably
someone sent by her mother.  Maybe she waited for Margaret herself.  If
so, O'Shaughnessy and his wife probably weren't working together after
all.  Lord, he hoped he'd been wrong about that.  Clutching the wheel,
Donovan he to believe Erin was in safe hands.  Otherwise he wouldn't be
able to think straight.

"Turn left at the next corner," O'Shaughnessy barked.  "Then right
after two blocks."

They were still in town, and Donovan drove as.  slowly as he dared,
looking for a good spot to floor the gas pedal and throw his captor off
balance.  The darkened streets, nearly deserted, begged for a burst of
speed.  But O'Shaughnessy already had the pistol's safety off and his
finger on the trigger.  One good jolt and the weapon might fire.
Reluctantly, Donovan decided he couldn't risk it.  He'd be useless to
himself--and to Erin--with a bullet in his side.

"Mind telling me where we're going?"  he asked in a conversational
tone.

"Just keep your eyes on the road, Mr.  CIA agent," O'Shaughnessy
ordered.  "You'll find out when we get there."

"Don't tell 'me, let me guess," Donovan said sarcastically.  "We're
joining your wife and fellow counterfeiters' who're somehow going to
put the finger on me for some horrendous crime before you kill me."

"Don't try to outguess me."  O'Shaughnessy's buttery face melted into a
lopsided smile, but he shifted nervously in his seat as though Donovan
had struck a responsive chord.  "I'm the one with the gun, remember?"

"Believe me, I'm not forgetting," he retorted, hoping to goad his
captor into revealing his plan.  "I'm sure you'd have put a bullet in
me by now if you hadn't been planning to pin something on me."  Even
more positive he was right, Donoran shot O'Shaughnessy a knowing
smile.

"You think you're pretty smart, don't you Donovan?"  O'Shaughnessy
snarled, his customary veneer of congeniality totally gone.  In his
light-colored sweat suit--similar to Donoran's--he looked like someone
Donovan didn't know.

"Well, let me tell you something, bigshot," O'Shaughnessy added.  "You
made a big mistake when you took on Shamrock Construction."

"Shamrock's small peanuts compared to the U.S. government," Donoran
replied.  "We're on to you buddy.  And if you kill me and try to blame
me for something I didn't do, you'd better watch your back.  You'll
have every agent in this sector after you."

As far as Donoran knew, there weren't any other undercover agents in
the Republic of Ireland, but the suggestion might make O'Shaughnessy
nervous.

Donovan cast a sidelong glance at him.  Seemingly un-fazed,
O'Shaughnessy was eyeing him the way a spider eyes a fly that has
carelessly become caught in its web.  "Step on it," he said
laconically.

Obediently Donoran upped the speed to ten kilometers over the maximum
allowed on the winding two-lane road.  They'd left Westport and were
headed west.  After a few turns Donovan knew they were paralleling the
southern coast of Clew Bay, a large shallow body of water dotted with
hundreds of small, treeless islands and surrounded by a mucky sandy
shore--the apparent source of the mud on the floor of the BMW Erin's
mother had left at the Ballyshannon Lodge.

He gripped the wheel more tightly as a frightening new thought struck
him.  Brian Cairns, the day clerk at the lodge, was killed many hours
before Donovan and Erin arrived.

O'Shaughnessy--and his assassin--were the most logical suspects.
Somehow--probably through the BMW license--they'd traced Margaret
Sullivan to the lodge, and found out where she was headed from the
luckless clerk.  Then Chameleon had killed him so he wouldn't identify
him and O'Shaughnessy.  But why even ask the clerk where she'd gone
when the circled map pointed the way?

In his mind, Donovan saw the map, left so conveniently in the BMW's
glove box.  Why hadn't Caims's killers found it?

Stiffening with impotent rage, Donovan knew the answer.  O'Shaughnessy
himself had left the map to be sure he and Erin came to Clew Bay.  Once
they'd arrived, 'he planned to kill Erin, her mother, and Donovan and
blame their deaths on him.  He and Erin must have been followed again
after they left the Ballyshannon Lodge.  That's how O'Shaughnessy found
them so quickly at the bed-and-breakfast.

His gut twisted into a hard knot.  It seemed likely that Chameleon
waited for O'Shaughnessy where they'd found Erin's mother.  Donovan
knew she would never have left him tonight unless she intended to join
her mother.  Was she headed straight into a monstrous web where a
killer spider would be waiting?

Chapter Fifteen

The red-haired man had barely stepped out of the car when Erin ran
toward him.

"Quick!"  she gasped.  "We've got to get out of here."  Without a word
he jumped back inside the Cherokee.  Before Erin could fasten her seat
belt, the Jeep lurched ahead and made a left turn across the bridge.

"What's wrong?"  He glanced toward her With eyes so like her own that
she seemed to be looking into a mirror.  "Did something happen before I
got here?"

"Yes," she said, still breathless from her near encounter with Patrick
and Donovan and her run to the Jeep.  "My stepfather's here in
Westport.  He's with a man named Donovan who works for him.  They drove
past me only five minutes ago."

"Mrs.  Flaherty said Donovan was with you."  The stranger's rich voice
reflected stunned disbelief.

"He was--until I left to meet Mom."  Erin swallowed the sob in her
throat.  "I just saw him in the same car with Patrick."

He swore under his breath.  "Which way did they go?"  "Up this street.
The same way we're going."  Stretching her seat belt, Erin shifted
uneasily.  Because of her selfish insistence on allowing Donovan to
come, her stepfather now knew where they were.  A terrible bitterness
tightened her throat.  Somehow Donovan must have managed to inform him
of their whereabouts every step of the way.  She swallowed hard
remembering the sincere look in his eyes when he swore he wasn't
working for Patrick.

The man beside her cursed again.  "O'Shaughnessy's got eyes in the back
of his head."  Speed increasing, he swung around a corner, throwing
Erin sideways against the door.

"Just where do you fit?"  she asked, pushing aside her guilty feelings.
She had to find out who this man was.  "We look so much alike, you've
got to be a relative.  Are you my father's brother, or maybe a
cousin?"

For a long moment he was silent.  "Yes, we do look alike, Erin," he
said finally, "more so than I'd guessed."  His voice choked.  "For now,
you can call me Uncle Michael."

Uncle Michael?  Erin sensed he wasn't telling her the whole truth, but
why would he lie?  Awkwardly she cleared her throat.  "Then you are my
father's brother?"

"I'm Michael Riley, your mother's friend.  My brother died a long time
ago."

"Were you the man watching her in Dublin?  The one who came to my
cousin Jean's house asking for her?"  Anxiously Erin stared at the
profile so like her own.

"Guilty on both counts."  There was no trace of an Irish accent.  Had
he grown up with her father in the United States?  If so, what was he
doing back in Ireland?  Sensing his uneasiness, she struggled to
control her own anxiety.

"Then you drove with Mom from Dublin to Donegal?"  Erin asked, as
casually as she could manage.  "My stepfather said friends saw her with
a man in a town outside Dublin."

"O'Shaughnessy was lying," he asserted emphatically.  "She drove from
Dublin to the Ballyshannon Lodge alone."

She sighed.  "He claimed she'd been kidnapped."

"A lie to throw you off the track."  There was an angry note to his
voice.  "When I missed your mother at your cousin's, I drove to Clew
Bay, hoping she might go to my home here."

His home?  The way he said it, he sounded as though he'd lived in
Ireland all his life.  Then why no accent?

"But she didn't go to your place," Erin countered.  "She checked in at
the Ballyshannon Lodge."

"Right.  But she did phone me from there," he said.  "I drove from Clew
Bay up to Donegal and got her."

For Erin, a couple of pieces fell into place.  A surge of excitement
shot through her.  "And while there, you moved her car to the remote
parking lot, hoping my stepfather or one of his spies wouldn't see it
for a few days--until you could decide what to do."

"Right again.  How the hell did you figure that out?"  "We--I--saw the
Clew Bay mud on the BMW's floor."  A pang went through her as she
pictured Donovan's face when he looked up at her and the night clerk, a
clump of dried dirt in his hand.  With a determined shake of her head,
she forced the image away.

Beside her, her uncle sighed loudly.  "Then that must be how
O'Shaughnessy tracked us to Westport.  Through that damned Clew Bay
mud.  I was in such a hurry to get to your mother, I didn't wipe my
feet before I moved her car."

"No," Erin said, with sudden insight.  "The day clerk must have told
Patrick where Morn was going."  Of course that's what happened, she
thought, a great load dropping off her shoulders.  Donoran hadn't
informed Patrick of their whereabouts after all.  He couldn't have.
She'd been with him almost every moment.  So why was he with her
stepfather in the Mercedes?

"The day clerk at the Ballyshannon Lodge?"  Her uncle's voice was
incredulous.  "What's he got to do with this?"

Quickly Erin told her uncle about finding the clerk's body in the trunk
of her mother's car.  "Donovan--the man I was traveling with 'thinks he
was killed to keep him quiet."

"Why would your mother tell a clerk where she was going?"  Even more
incredulous, her uncle glanced sideways at Erin.  "She didn't even know
herself till after she'd called me."

Erin drew a long breath.  "Maybe he simply figured it out from your car
license when you picked her up.  Or maybe Mom thought I wouldn't find
the map she left in the glove box with Westport circled so she told the
clerk."  Her uncle gave her a piercing glance.  "What map?"  The alarm
in his voice made her catch her breath.  "The road map of Ireland in
the glove box.  Mom drew circles around both Donegal and Westport."

Her uncle shook his head.  "That map had nothing circled, Erin.  I made
sure when I checked the glove box before we left."

"Then who did it?"

"O'Shaughnessy," her uncle said grimly, confirming Erin's worst fears.
"He wanted to be sure you and Donovan joined your mother.  It seems
he'd like to see you both dead, Erin, along with your mother."  He
stepped down hard on the accelerator.  "She can clinch the case against
him."

Her stomach churning with dread at her uncle's words, Erin clutched her
armrest.  The Cherokee was going much too fast for this narrow road.
BUt with Patrick headed in the same direction, they had to get to her
mother first.

They roared around a curve.  "She stumbled onto some pretty
incriminating records," her uncle went on.  "Robert, the butler, who's
part of the counterfeiting operation, figured out what she was up to.
She got away before Robert could tell O'Shaughnessy or she'd probably
be dead now."

"If Patrick and Donovan get to your house before we do," Erin said,
putting her fears into words, "can they get inside and hurt Mom?"

The road straightened, and her uncle inched the Jeep's speed up another
notch.  "It's not a house, Erin, it's a castle.

"A castle!"  she interrupted.  "Then you must have a staff--someone to
protect her."

"Not really," he said, dashing Erin's hopes.  "Most of the building is
closed off.  Right now there are only six people working
full-time--none of them know beans about weapons."

"At least Mom's not alone."  Erin studied her uncle's profile.  In the
reflected light from the Cherokee's dashboard, she could make out his
aquiline nose and straight forehead, so like her own that shivers ran
across her shoulders.

"I left orders for the doors to be barred," he said, "but it's a big
place with lots of entrances.  Somebody who wanted to sneak in,
probably could."

In her mind's eye, Donovan appeared in the window outside her bedroom.
Erin sucked in her breath.  "Donovan can sneak in anywhere.  He says
he's a CIA agent investigating Patrick's counterfeiting, but I'm sure
he's lying."  An odd mixture of admiration and fear rippled through
her.  "He climbs walls and breaks into places like a professional cat
burglar."

For a long moment her uncle hesitated.  "Why are you so sure Donovan
still works for O'Shaughnessy?"  he asked finally.  "Your mother
thought so, too, after Mrs.  Flaherty said he was with you and that you
didn't trust him.  That's why she insisted you tell no one I was
picking you up."

Her uncle paused long enough for Erin to recall her anxious request
that her landlady withhold information from Donovan about her mother's
message.

"If he's a CIA agent, maybe he's only pretending to be loyal to
O'Shaughnessy," her uncle went on.  "Does O'Shaughnessy have any idea
he's an agent?"

"Yes," she said softly.  "Donovan told me Patrick knows."

"Then there's your answer."  Erin heard the satisfaction in her uncle's
voice.  "O'Shaughnessy would never trust an agent."

"I have only Donovan's word for all this."  Erin's heart sank as she
realized how completely she'd been taken in.  "He's the one who said he
was an agent and that Patrick knew.  Maybe the whole story was a
lie."

"And maybe it wasn't," her uncle persisted.  "Since you're an
intelligence officer who could spot a lie, would he make up an
outlandish story like that without some sort of proof?"

Quickly Erin told her uncle about the assassination attempts in
Washington and the restricted CIA files.  Her voice quavering, she
repeated the words she'd heard Donovan say so many times.  "According
to him, baksheesh can buy you anything."

"Can it buy Mr.  Donovan?"  Hr uncle's tone was insistent.

"An hour ago, I would have said no," Erin whispered, close to tears.
"But now, after seeing him with Patrick, I'm not sure.  God help me,
I'm not sure of anything."  Erin had never been so miserable, or so
frightened, in her life.

The man beside her seemed to sense her fear.  "I'm not going to let
anything happen to you or your mother," he assured her with quiet
emphasis.  "They'd have to kill me first."

Her heart overflowing with gratitude, Erin turned toward him.  "Thank
God you were here for us when we needed you Uncle Michael."

She heard a choked sound, as though he were swallowing something caught
in his throat.

Leaning forward, she waited anxiously for him to say something.  But he
didn't.  Instead, he quickly turned off the blacktopped road onto a
narrow, unpaved lane angling toward the bay's shoreline.

As the Jeep lurched over the rocky road, Erin gripped the armrest,
engrossed in the scene ahead.  In the beam from the headlights, she saw
the sandy mud of Clew Bay, stretched out ahead of them like mucky gray
quicksand.  Did his castle lie across the muck, perhaps on one of the
low treeless islands rising blackly from the tide flats

Then the road curved around a low hill, and she spied the castle, a
dark shadow of turrets and towers looming three-stories tall against
the night sky.  Only the lower floor of the middle section glowed with
light, the rest barely visible in the darkness.  Erin's heart swelled.
Her mother was inside, probably eyeing the approaching headlights with
the same eager anticipation Erin herself 'felt, The anxious worry, the
waiting, the bone-chilling fear--they'd be over soon.

"Hang on," her uncle said.

A moment later the Jeep's wheels spun in the muck, caught, and carried
the vehicle forward across the tide flats

"How do you get to the castle when the tide's in?"  Erin asked, viewing
the muddy expanse in the headlights' circle.

"We take the lane around behind," he said.  "Cutting across the
flats'll save us a few minutes."

Hearing the urgency in his voice, Erin stiffened.  They weren't home
free yet, not by a long shot.  "We've seen no sign of Patrick and
Donovan.  Do you think they know Mom's here?"

Her uncle didn't hesitate.  "O'Shaughnessy has eyes and ears
everywhere.  Once that clerk told him Margaret Sullivan was headed for
Clew Bay, he'd have no trouble deducing she was at Castle Clew, the
Riley ancestral home."

"Yes, I'm sure Mom told Patrick about my biological father," Erin said,
trying to control her mounting dread.  "So he'd recognize the name
Riley."

"O'Shaughnessy might have beaten us here."  Her uncle's voice was tight
and drawn.  "Listen to me carefully, Erin."

The Jeep left the rocks and muck of the shore and started up an incline
toward the massive front door.  "If we run into trouble and you need to
hide," he instructed, "there's a door under the largest oil painting in
the dining room.

The door's built into the molding and hard to see, but if you push on
the molding, it'll swing open.  It leads into tunnels that exit at the
bay."

Pulling into a circular driveway, he braked to a stop.  "I've had
lights put in the tunnels for safety, but watch your step and stay
close to the wall.  There's a dangerous drop-off."  Walking with the
slight limp of a one-legged man, he got out of the Jeep and came around
to her side.  "Don't go near the tunnels unless there's an
emergency."

Erin jumped out of the car and headed toward the house with her uncle a
step behind.  They reached the massive front door.  Heart in her
throat, Erin stepped back while he twisted a key in the lock.  Hope and
fear warred within her.  Would her mother be waiting?  Or Patrick and
Donovan, with weapons drawn?

At her uncle's push, the door swung open.  Carefully he peered inside.
Erin caught a glimpse of wide staircases on either side of an elegant
entryway, of an elaborate crystal chandelier hanging from a ceiling
three-stories high, of a gleaming black-and-white tile floor.

But her mother wasn't there.  Nobody was.  After glancing to his left
and right, her uncle went in.  Erin followed.

Suddenly the enormous wooden door slammed shut behind them.  Every cell
in Erin's body screamed with alarm.  In her peripheral vision, shadows
moved toward her, lengthening and shortening in the light from the
chandelier swaying overhead.  She jerked swiftly toward the movement.

Her body stiffened with shock as she saw who lurked there in the space
left by the closed door.  It was Patrick O'Shaughnessy and a man she
didn't recognize.  But her blood ran cold at the sight of him.  With
his bones prominent in his cadaverous face he seemed more skeleton than
flesh

The assassin, Chameleon.  It had to be he, in another of his infamous
disguises.  She could hardly believe a man with the face of Adonis
could turn himself into such an inhuman creature.  In his hand he held
a lethal looking revolver.

But where was Donovan?  Not here.  Had her uncle been right about his
innocence?  Petrified with terror she glanced from the assassin to
Patrick.  Her stepfather, his big body dressed in unfamiliar gray
sweatpants and shirt, seemed a complete stranger.  Brandishing a
pistol, he leered at Erin, a smug smile on his florid round face.

"Welcome to Castle Clew, stepdaughter and Mr.  Riley.

Would you please come with us?"

"No!"  roared her uncle.

Erin sensed his movement rather than saw it, a vicious kick that
smashed into Patrick's hand.  Her stepfather screeched with pain, and
his pistol clattered to the tile floor.

"Run, Erin," her uncle yelled, pointing toward the long hall ahead of
them.

The precious few seconds provided by her uncle gave Erin her chance.
Running for her life, she dashed past her uncle, past Patrick and
Chameleon who were facing him, to an open archway off to one side of
the hall.

Behind her she heard a weapon fire.  It had to be the assassin's gun.
With only a short distance to his target, he couldn't have missed.  Her
newly found uncle must be dead.

Panic-stricken, Erin dashed through the archway.  The assassin's next
shot would be for her.

THROUGH A BLANKET of swirling black fog, Donovan fought to wake up.
Breathing deeply, he struggled to his senses.  Hazily he remembered the
bag they'd put over his head, the suffocating smell of chloroform. He'd
tried not to breathe, but finally he couldn't hold out any longer.

His head hurt like hell.  Through the throbbing pain, he forced his
eyes open.  Blackness.  But when he waved his hand before his face, he
could see it.  There must be light coming from somewhere.  Under the
door.  A faint glimmer as though from a long distance.  If there were
windows, they must be covered with heavy curtains.  Not the slightest
flicker of light from outside revealed their presence.

Where was he?  Lying on a hard surface, like a wooden floor.  In the
air around him, he could smell the acrid odors of paint and new
plaster.  O'Shaughnessy and Chameleon must have dumped his unconscious
body in an area of the castle under renovation.  As soon as Donovan had
seen O'Shaughnessy's associate, waiting for him in the castle, he'd
known it was the assassin.  Nobody but a man in disguise could so
resemble a skeleton and still be a living human being.

Why hadn't they killed him?  Because.  they must want him alive.  He'd
been right with his guess in the car: O'Shaughnessy planned to blame
him for whatever devastation he would cause tonight.  Donovan couldn't
bear to use the word murder, even in his mind, because Erin and her
mother would surely be the victims.  And he'd be accused of the crime.
Blaming him must be why they hadn't tied him.  The ropes would leave
marks on his arms and feet, marks the authorities would recognize.

Slowly he sat up, then patted his pockets.  Empty.  Damn.  He still
wore his sweatpants, sweater-and jacket, but' they removed everything
from his pockets, including his tools.

Standing, he tried the door.  Locked, of course.  And the double bolt
lOCk felt smooth and new to his practiced fingertips, the kind of
device he couldn't open without tools.  How the hell was he going to
get out of here?  Some light would help.  Fighting to stay calm, he
moved his hands across the plaster around the door, hunting for the
light switch.

There it was.  He flicked it up and down.  Nothing.  The electricity
must be off in this part of the castle.  So was the heat.  It was cold
as Hades.

Rather than waste time hunting in the darkness for something to pry
open the door, he put his shoulder to it and pushed.  It didn't budge.
Next he aimed a kick at the center.  In his rubber-soled shoes, he did
no damage.

Find the windows, Donovan told him selL groping his way across the
room.  Perhaps they'd offer an escape.  After he'd felt along the wall
opposite the door, he realized there weren't any.  He was in a
closed-in room, about ten by twelve, probably a closet or storage
chamber,

He clenched his fists in impotent rage.  How the hell was he going to
get out of here?  Breathing deeply, he was even more conscious of the
strong odor of paint and turpentine.  Renovation supplies must be
stored here.

Moving carefully, Donovan groped around until he stumbled over a metal
canister.  There were others sitting in the same general area.  Propped
against the wall behind the paint cans was a wooden ladder.  When he
lifted it, he discovered the ladder was satisfyingly heavy.  He'd use
it as a battering ram.

His first lunge at the door jolted but didn't crack it.  His second
lunge smashed the ladder, leaving the top dangling uselessly from the
base.  But the door had splintered all the way through.  A shaft of dim
light poured through the vertical crack.

Ripping the ladder's dangling top off, he thrust at the door with the
base.  Time after time he continued, until finally a small opening
appeared.  More dim light filtered into his dark prison.

But the door was solid, made of hardwood.  His escape was taking
forever.  With every minute that passed, the danger grew.  Since her
mother must be somewhere in the castle, Erin was probably headed here
fight now.  She'd soon arrive, if she hadn't already.  The thought of
her in danger made him scour the room with savage intensity, looking
for something to get him out.

In the dim light provided by the crack in the door, Donovan probing
eyes focused on something that might be useful.  Amid the paint cans
sat one containing brushes and a couple of screwdrivers used to open
the cans.

Eagerly he seized one.  Using the screwdriver as a lever and the
unattached ladder top as a hammer, he removed the pins from the hinges
and forced the door wide enough to squeeze through.

After peering up and down the dark hall outside, he started toward the
light at one end at a fast trot.  When he heard the first shot, he
started running.

As SHE N, ERIN'S FEET seemed weighted with rocks.  Her lungs bursting,
she darted through the open archway.  Her quick movement saved her
life.  The bullet meant for her ricocheted harmlessly off the
black-and-white tile floor.

Behind her she heard footsteps and a shout.  "Don't let her get away."
The voice was Patrick's.

She found herself in a peach-colored drawing room.  Without slowing her
pace, Erin sprinted across a magnificent Oriental carpet toward the
nearest door.  Though table lamps had been turned on, casting a soft
glow over the stylish upholstered furniture, no one was in the room.

After the longest minute in her life, she reached the door, yanked it
open, and slammed it shut behind her.  Breathing hard, she clung
desperately to her fragile control.  Had Patrick and the assassin seen
which way she went?  Maybe not.  The room had several exits.  But they
were getting close.  Through the closed door she detected the lighter
sound of their footsteps when they pounded off the tile onto the
drawing room's wood floor and then muffled thuds as they crossed the
Oriental carpet at its center.

"You take that door, I'll try this one."  It was Patrick's excited
tenor voice.

So they didn't know where she was.  Frantically glancing around for the
quickest escape route, Erin's eyes passed over a long table with chairs
neatly lined up alongside--then to the nearest door.

Praise God, she was in the dining room.  Thanks to her uncle, she'd
found it.  That's why he had pointed in this direction.

Instantly she spotted the painting her uncle mentioned.  Twice as large
as any of the others, it featured a mare and her foal in a verdant
pasture, with the spires of Castle Clew looming in the background.

With panic welling in her throat, Erin darted to the painting. 
Standing directly underneath it, she pushed on the molding nearest the
painting's center.  Nothing happened.  Sliding her hand down, she
shoved again.  Still nothing.

Ordering herself to keep cool, she shoved yet again.  Something clicked
and the hidden panel opened inward.

"Over here!"  Behind her she heard Patrick's eXCited shout.  "Let's get
her."  He'd seen her open the tunnel door.

WHEN DONOVAN SAW the corpse sprawled against the wall in the castle's
entry hall, he knew right away who it was.  He must be the one-legged
man Erin's mother had seen.  With one pant leg empty and his head
slumped on his chest, the body appeared to be a redheaded life-size rag
doll.  What had happened to his artificial leg?  It wasn't near the
body.

Though certain the man was dead, Donovan knelt down to check his pulse.
Pale blue eyes that were very much alive stared into his.  Startled;
Donovan jerked back.

"I'm not dead, at least not yet," the stranger wheezed in a halting
voice.  "O'Shaughnessy's saving me for later.  Said he wanted
her--Margaret--to watch me die.  They yanked off my damn leg and took
it with them to slow me down--as if I could run with a bullet in me."

"Who are you?"  Carefully Donovan removed the stranger's dark suit
coat.  The white shirt underneath was wet with blood, but the wound did
not seem to be bleeding excessively.

"Don't waste time on me.  You've got to stop them, Donovan.  They're
after Erin."

At the sound of her name and his own, Donovan stiffened, his blood
turning to ice water.  "She's here?  Where did she go?"

"That way."  He waved a limp hand toward an arch off the hallway.
"O'Shaughnessy and his hit man're behind her."

His voice weakening, he paused to catch his breath.  "Through arch to
lounge to dining room.  Door to tunnels hidden in paneling under
largest painting.  Press molding."  Donovan lurched to his feet.

"Wait," the stranger whispered.  Donovan bent down to hear him.  "The
passage has a dangerous drop-off where the tunnels meet.  Stick close
to the walls and watch your step."  '

After laying the injured man down with his own coat over him and
Donovan's jacket under his head for a pillow, Donovan whirled and took
off.  He needed only a few seconds to find the dining room.  Next to it
was the kitchen.  He needed a weapon and the kitchen was the place to
find one

Impelled by an awful sense of urgency, he yanked drawers open until he
found what he was looking for--an eight-inch butcher knife, and a
vicious-looking meat cleaver, its cutting edge glistening bright silver
in the strong overhead light.

CARVED OUT OF SOLID ROCK, the low, narrow.  tunnel bris fled with sharp
outcrops.  The first time Erin stumbled on the uneven floor, she hit
her arm on a jagged stone and had to bite her lip to keep from crying
out.  If she hadn't been wearing a coat, she'd have been gashed by the
impact.

At least the passage curved frequently so she was out of sight of her
pursuers, and they couldn't get a shot at her.  But they were gaining.
Gasping, she panted in terror.  She could hear them behind her, not
bothering to muffle their curses and animal-like grunts.  The.tunnel
was like a sound chamber, amplifying their voices.

"We're going to get you stepdaughter," Patrick yelled.  "You might as
well sit down where you are and wait for us.  It'll be easier for you."
His voice echoed hollowly down the tunnel like some surrealistic
monster's.

Erin's blood ran cold when she heard a hissing noise and realized the
frightening sound must be coming from the assassin.

"Let me get her before you kill her, boss."  His words were vicious as
poison.  Obviously said to scare her witless, the threat added wings to
her feet.

How far were they behind her?  Fifty yards?  Two hundred?  She couldn't
tell from the reverberating sound.

"You hear that?"  Patrick shouted.  "If you keep running, I'll let
Chameleon have his way before I put you with the others."

The others?  Obviously that included her mother, Donovan and the
household staff.  What did her stepfather intend to do with them?  The
answer was so frightening, a sob rose in her throat.  If he didn't
intend to murder them all, he'd never have revealed himself to her--and
probably to Donovan.  How could she have thought Donovan would betray
her?  Patrick must have taken him captive, along with her mother and
the staff.  Erin prayed to God they were still alive.

Slow down, she told herself as she ran to the next curve.  So far she
hadn't seen any drop-offs, but after her uncle's warning, she was
taking no chances.  With every curve she inched her way around the
wall, close to the jagged surface.  And with every curve, her pursuers
got closer.

Hugging the wall she rounded a curve.  Erin's heart lifted.  Ahead she
saw a division in the passage.  Maybe there was a chance for her after
all.  They wouldn't know which way she'd gone.  Hoping she wasn't
headed into a dead end, she took the left fork.

She heard their oaths when they reached the division.

"We'll have to split up," Patrick said.  Though he lowered his voice,
Erin still heard him clearly.

God help her, they were only one curve behind.

Chapter Sixteen

Chameleon was coming for her.

As Erin inched her way around the next curve, she heard him close
behind, hissing like a fanged reptile.

"I know you're there; just around that wall."

Erin took off toward the next curve.  Dodging the jagged rocks in her
path slowed her down, and she knew Chameleon caught sight of her before
she could squeeze herself around the wall.  Glancing back she saw him,
a grotesque parody of a man, edging around the curve behind her.

With his skeletal face and dark clothing, the assassin could have risen
from some stony burial ground.  Somehow knowing a comely face lay
hidden under that ugly disguise made him seem more horrid--because the
cover-up reflected the twisted demon inside him.

Like Erin, Chameleon stayed close to the wall where it curved.  When he
spoke again, there was no trace of the hissing sound he reserved for
her.

"Boss?"  Though the assassin didn't raise his voice, it sounded almost
as loud as Patrick's shouted answer.  "Yes, I hear ya."

"She's in this corridor."

"Good.  Take care of her..."  Patrick's voice echoed through the
tunnels, an otherworldly omen of catastrophe.

Stark terror jolted through Erin.  She couldn't help trembling as she
visualized her own death at this gargoyle's hands.  No!  She couldn't
let him catch her.  Taking a desperate deep breath, she murmured a
prayer, determined she would not be caught.

Darting toward the next curve, she eyed the thin electric cord
connecting the bare lightbulbs on the left side of the tunnel.  Spaced
about fifty feet apart, they provided only dim light.  But if she broke
the cord, even that light would be gone, and the tunnels would be
plunged into total darkness.

Anything would be better than her present situation.  Or would it?  In
the dark Chameleon could creep up on her, and she'd never know until he
grabbed her.

Shuddering, she imagined his fingers slithering across her face until
his hands coiled around her throat.  Her skin crawled with revulsion.

Erin didn't kid herself.  She'd never escape once he got hold of her.
Worse, in the light he could aim and fire his weapon.  Though the
darkness 'was terrifying, she'd be better off if he couldn't see her.

She reached for the cord and gave it a good yank.  It didn't break. The
lights flickered but didn't go out.  To snap the cord, she'd have to
find a jagged rock.  But she had no time.  Chameleon was on the
backside of the curve, only feet behind her.  Her heart ready to
explode, she swerved around rocks in her path, sprinting as fast as she
dared to the next curve.

"Erin, don't let them catch you."  The voice echoing down the tunnel
wasn't Patrick's or Chameleon's.  It sounded so much like Donovan that
at first Erin thought she was hearing things that her confused mind was
conjuring up a miracle.

Then the voice spoke again, and she knew she wasn't wrong.

It couldn't be, but it was--Donovan's voice echoing through the rock
corridors.

"Keep running," he yelled.

Hearing him, Erin almost sobbed with relief.  She didn't question where
he'd been or how he'd found the tunnels.

No longer did she wonder if he was involved in some elaborate scheme
with her stepfather.  He was here to save her, and she loved and
trusted him with all her heart and soul.  Nothing mattered but the two
of them together.  And to touch him again, she had to keep running.

"Take the left fork," she screamed, and couldn't believe the resonant
tones that vibrated through the rock corridor were echoes of her own
voice.

"I'm coming," he yelled, to let her know he'd heard.  Hugging the wall
on the next curve, she listened for Chameleon, but heard nothing.  Was
he sneaking up on her even now?

At the sound of Donoran's voice, all the small noises connected with
the assassin's pursuit had ceased, as though he'd stopped to wait for
Donovan to appear.  But Erin was sure he hadn't stopped.  He was just
moving more quietly so she--and Donovan--wouldn't hear him.  Neither
the demon nor his master spoke, probably hoping to surprise Donovan.

"Both Patrick and Chameleon are in the tunnels," she yelled to alert
him.  "Patrick took the right fork and Chameleon the left.  The
assassin is close behind me."

"I hear you" Donovan cried.  Already he sounded nearer, but the echo
disguised distances.

There was no drop-off around this curve.  But ahead lay the longest
stretch of fairly straight corridor she'd encountered.  It was low and
so dark she could barely make out the next turn.  Bending, she threaded
her way through the jagged rocks.  Mindful of her uncle's warning about
the drop-off, she scrutinized the space ahead, slowing her pace with
each shadowy dip in the tunnel's floor.

In the distance she heard the slap, slap, slap of Dono-van's shoes
against bare rock.  From the sound, he was jogging toward her, moving
more rapidly than she or Chameleon since he wasn't inching his way
around each curve.  Her heart sang with hope.  He'd be here any minute.
Was that why the assassin was making no noise?

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Chameleon's black costumed figure
edge around the shadowy curve behind her.  In the dim light, she
couldn't make out his skeletal features, only the blurry 'whiteness of
his face.

Erin flinched, expecting to feel a bullet slam into her.  But he turned
from her and backed away from the curve, staring at the direction he'd
come, his weapon drawn.

"Donovan!  Watch out!"  Erin screamed, panic rioting within-her.

There was no reassuring shout of reply, no change 'in the rhythmic
slap, slap of the approaching footsteps.

Before she reached the next bend in the tunnel, Erin peered over her
shoulder again.  Chameleon had backed to a position midway down the
corridor.  Ignoring her, he stood facing the curve he'd just rounded.
With her eyes glued to the tunnel floor, Erin resumed her careful pace
down the rocky corridor.

She didn't see the drop-off until she was right on top of it.
Camouflaged by the tunnel's curvature and rock formations, it dropped
twenty-five feet or so to a rough stone bottom.

Sweat dripping down her back, she eyed the black hole.  Though fifteen
to twenty feet in diameter, it was almost impossible to see.  If she
hadn't been watching for it, she'd have fallen for sure.

Across the drop-off, two other tunnels curved away from the abyss, one
leading downward, the other up.  The upward passage must be the right
hand fork Patrick took, joining the left here at the booby trap.

Echoing through the system, she heard her stepfather's voice.  "It's
me, O'Shaughnessy," he yelled to Chameleon.  "Don't shoot."  Her eyes
glued on the opening to the tunnel opposite her across the abyss, Erin
waited for him to appear.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught a movement off to one
side.  Turning her head, she saw a gray-suited figure come around the
bend Chameleon faced.  Donovan!  In the dim light she saw him, wearing
the gray sweatpants and shirt Erin had last seen him in.

"Watch out!"  she screamed.

A second later, Chameleon fired.  But Donovan didn't fall.  Raising his
hands in a helpless gesture of submission, he stumbled forward, mouth
opening to speak.  Chameleon fired again, the sound reverberating
through the tunnels.  With the second shot, Donovan slumped to the rock
floor.

Unable to move, even to breathe, Erin clutched the wall, her eyes wide
with horror and a terrible longing for what now could never be.  Hit by
two bullets fired at point-blank range by a professional killer,
Donovan must be dead.  And with him all her hopes and dreams.

In the space of a few minutes, she'd plunged from a pinnacle of
complete trust and love for this man to a valley of emptiness and loss
so acute she wanted to die.  And death lay only a few feet from her.  A
sob in her throat, Erin swung around toward the assassin.

For a precious half second she stood facing Chameleon, her full body
exposed, a perfect target.  But the assassin, bending over the body,
didn't glance toward her.

Her mind spinning, Erin bit her lip until it throbbed like a pulse. The
pain brought back her reason.  What was she thinking of?.  Donovan had
just sacrificed his life for her, yet here she stood, ready to submit
without a fight.  As long as there was breath in her, she
wouldn't--couldn't--give up.  Returning to the wall, she began to inch
her way around the drop-off.

In the tunnel opening across the chasm, a man appeared.  Instinctively
she flinched.  Patrick!  With no place to hide, she was finished.  He
could kill her with one quick shot.  Trying to shrink into herself so
she'd be a smaller target, she stared across at him.

Even in the dim light, Patrick looked taller and slimmer than Erin
remembered.  And his hair was darker.  Much darker.  She blinked.  The
man across from her wasn't pointing a weapon at her.  He was waving.

"Erin!"  he called.  It-wasn't Patrick's voice.  It was DonOVan

A cry of pure joy broke from her lips, and hot exultant tears trickled
down her cheeks.  Donovan wasn't dead.  He was alive, standing across
the abyss from her, smiling, waving.

But how?  Suddenly, her heart overflowing, she understood.  When
Patrick first heard Donoran's voice, he'd returned to the left fork in
pursuit.  But Donovan hadn't gone down the left fork after all.  The
footsteps she'd heard had been Patrick's not the man she loved.

Somehow, someway, Donovan had figured out the two upper corridors came
together here at the drop-off.  So he'd taken the right-hand corridor
hoping to overtake Patrick and link up with Erin.  But he couldn't call
out and tell her what he planned or he'd rain his surprise.

Well, they'd been shocked, all right, so confused that the' demon had
killed his own master.  Thank God!  Maybe now

Chameleon would go away and leave them alone.  "Erin!"  Donovan yelled
again.  "Behind you."  Fearfully she looked-back over her shoulder.
Chameleon stood there, his weapon in his hand, close enough to touch
her.  Shuddering, she tried to move away, but she couldn't.  Her feet
seemed frozen to the rocky ledge.

Leering at her, his eyes sunken in their sockets, the assassin reached
out and grabbed her arm.

"I'm going to get you!"  he snarled.  "You're going to suffer for all
the chaos you've caused.  Then I'm going to kill you a lovely slow
death."  He gave an evil laugh, showing yellow, jagged teeth in
decaying flesh.

Erin's heart seemed to stop beating.  She tried to shrink away, but his
grip on her arm was too strong.

From across the chasm she heard a loud roar of pure male rage.  Quickly
Chameleon swung around to face Donovan across the drop-off.

For an instant, as he turned and lifted his arm to fire, his hold on
Erin loosened.  She saw her chance and jerked ferociously away from
him.  Off balance, the assassin missed Donoran, his bullet ricocheting
harmlessly off the rock wall behind him.

Before he could fire again, something bright flashed through the air.
Erin cOUld only stare in horror as a silver meat cleaver struck
Chameleon squarely in the chest.  She heard the soft thump as the knife
buried itself deeply in his flesh, saw his mouth open, his sunken eyes
turn glassy in the dim light.  The gun dropped from his hand,
clattering noisily into the abyss.

An instant later, the assassin's skeletal body toppled forward.  He
seemed to dangle forever, floating in a crazy free-fall.  Then his body
disappeared in the darkness below.  She heard a hollow thud as it
struck the rock floor.

Somehow Erin managed to get her leaden feet to move, managed to inch
the rest of the way toward Donovan who was coming toward her.  With a
sigh, she fell into his reaching arms.

"Erin!  Darling, are you all right?"  Then he held her so close she
could hear the blood pounding in the veins in his neck.  "Did he hurt
you?"

Through chattering teeth she managed a shaky "No."  But in spite of
Donovan's arms around her and her eye-witness of Chameleon's demise,
she couldn't believe he was really gone.  Peering around Donovan's
shoulder, she half expected to see his skeletal face emerge from the
black hole where his body lay.

Carefully DonOvan swung around until her back was to the hole, but that
was even worse.  Now she could imagine the assassin crawling up the
chasm's stone wall and creeping toward them from behind.

"Let's get out of here," she whispered, shaking.  "I've got to find my
mother."

"I'm sure she's okay," Donovan assured her, tenderly kissing her
forehead.  "She and the household staff are locked up somewhere in the
castle."

"How can you be certain?"  Erin peered at him searchingly.

"Because your stepfather as good as admitted he intended to massacre
them and make it look like I did it.  He's the one who circled Westport
on the map to make sure we'd know where she'd gone."

Understanding flooded through her.  "Uncle Michael said neither he nor
Morn marked the map, so Patrick must have done it.  "But how did he
manage to find you so easily at Mrs.  Flaherty's?"

Donovan took her hand and led her carefully toward the passageway
leading down to the bay.  "We must have been followed from the
Ballyshannon Lodge--probably by the same people who tailed us from your
cousin's.  O'Shaughnessy wanted to make damn sure to get us cornered in
one spot so he could kill us all and blame the deaths on me."

"Maybe he's already murdered Mom."  A terrible new fear rose in her
throat.

Putting his arm around her waist, he walked with her down the narrow
passage toward the bay.  "If he'd already killed her and the staff, he
would have killed me, too.  And he told the injured man in the entry
hall he wanted him to witness their deaths."

"Uncle Michael?"  she gasped.  "He's still alive?"  Erin's heart filled
with gratitude.  "He was shot trying to save me."

"He was alive when I left him.  I'm no doctor, but his wound didn't
look fatal."

"But why didn't they kill him?"  Erin asked.  "After he kicked the gun
out of Patrick's hand, Chameleon shot him.  That's how I got away."

Hugging her closer, Donovan stared down at her.  "O'Shaughnessy told
him he'd be killed in a time and place with your mother watching.  As
if that would make her suffer.  Almost as though..."

"Almost as though they were lovers," she concluded for him, guessing
his thoughts.

Erin increased her pace.  All at once she couldn't wait to see her
mother's welcoming smile, to hear her explanation in her own melodious
voice.  She and Donovan were so close to finding her, so close' You got
here in the nick of time," she said, managing a wry smile.  With his
arm still around her waist, they left the tunnel and started across
Clew Bay's sandy mud.

"The same way you arrived at the cathedral in the nick of time to save
me," he replied.  "Hey, we're getting pretty good at this."  He pulled
her closer to his side.

"So how did you know about the tunnels?"  Erin's feet sank into the
Clew Bay muck, but she didn't care, not with Donovan unharmed beside
her, and her uncle still alive in the entry hall.  Now if her mother
were just okay... "Your uncle told me about the tunnels," Donovan
replied.  "Thanks to him I knew where you'd gone and that the two
tunnels joined at the drop-off."

"Uncle Michael again," she breathed.  "He said he'd give his life for
me and Mom."

Donovan's arm tightened around her as they started up the incline
toward the castle.  "He meant what he said.  If he hadn't kicked the
gun out of O'Shaughnessy's hand so you could get away, we'd all be
dead."

THEY FOUND ERIN'S UNCLE lying in the entry hall where Donovan had left
him.

"O'Shaughnessy and his hit man are dead," Donovan announced.  "As soon
as we find Erin's mother, I'll go for a doctor and the police."

Her uncle's blue eyes, so like her own, glistened with unshed tears of
happiness.  "Hurry and find your mother, Erin.  She's probably locked
in one of the upstairs bedrooms.  If O'Shaughnessy's done anything to
harm her--"

He reached into his pocket and took out a key ring.  "The keys to all
the doors are here."  He dropped the ring into her palm.  "Now, please
hurry."

Mounting the stairs two at a time, Erin and Donovan climbed to the
third floor.

Breathing in shallow, quick gasps, she called out.  "Mom, it's Erin.
Are you up here?"

She heard no answering cry, only the-dull thump-thumping of feet
pounding against wood.  Even as they stood at the head of the stairs,
the sound doubled, tripled in intensity.

"Quick!  It's coming from over here," Donovan said, turning toward the
right side of the upper hallway.

The door was locked.  Donovan reached for the keys in Erin's hand.
After trying a couple of them, he found the right one and pushed the
door open.

Erin's heart overflowed as she followed him in.

There was her mother lying side by side on the wood floor with several
others, their mouths taped, their hands and feet tied.  All appeared to
be alive.

Carefully Erin removed the tape from her mother's mouth while Donovan
worked on freeing the household staff.

"Where's Kevin?"  her mother cried, even before Erin started untying
her ropes.  "Why isn't he here with you and Mr.  Donovan?"  Dressed in
blue jeans and a bulky sweater, she didn't seem to have even one dark
curly hair out of place.

Erin dropped to the floor beside her.  "Who's Kevin?  The only other
person in the house outside of the staff is Uncle Michael."  Pausing;
she studied her mother's dark blue eyes.  "Unless you mean Patrick. And
you must know he planned to kill all of us, including you."

"O'Shaughnessy's dead," Donovan volunteered.  "Shot by his own hit
man."

Her mother's mouth drew down in a frustrated frown.  "It's not him I
was referring to, Erin.  But I thank God that awful man's gone.  How he
could have fooled me so completely, I'll never know."

"Then who are you talking about?"  Erin wondered if her mother's
horrible ordeal had confused her mind.  She set to work undoing the
knots binding her mother's wrists.  Obviously tied by an
expert--Chameleon--they were almost impossible to loosen.

Silently Donovan drew a knife from his shirt front and handed it to
her.  It sliced through the rope as easily as through a loaf of stale
bread.  In a moment her mother was free.  Instantly she sat up. Leaning
against the bed, she gathered Erin near her side, her arm around her
shoulders.

"I'm talking about the man you called your uncle Michael," her mother
said softly.  "He'd not your uncle, Erin.  After all these years, I've
found your father.  Or rather, he found me."

Erin's mind reeled.  "My father?  What do you mean, Morn?  Dad died
last year."

"Not the dear general, Erin.  Your birth father, Michael Kevin Riley.
You've already met him."

"But that's not possible."  Erin stared in shock at her mother.  She
had to struggle to keep her voice calm.  "Kevin Riley died in Vietnam."
Her throat felt choked and dry, full of dust.  Dimly she was aware of
movement around her, of the other people in the room talking,
stretching, hugging one another.  But nothing could interfere with her
concentration on her mother's sapphire blue eyes.

"You must forgive me for the lie I told so long ago," she begged, her
voice quivering.  "I did it for you because I didn't want you to think
your father abandoned you.  After a while, I came to believe the lie
myself."

All the poisonous resentment Erin had felt for such a long time came
bubbling to the surface.  "But he did abandon us, Mom.  He left you
pregnant and me without a dad.  He--"

Her mother put a finger across Erin's lips, silencing her.  "He lost
his leg to a land mine only a few days after he arrived in Vietnam.
That precious man thought he'd be use-' less to me without his leg."
She smiled fondly, the way she used to smile at Erin when she'd done
something foolishly brave.  "That's why my letters were returned
unopened, not because he'd died."

"An honorable man doesn't let his child live without a father," Erin
argued stubbornly.  Glancing around she saw they were alone in the
room.  Instinctively she knew Donovan had left to get help.

"Your father didn't find out about you until after I'd married George
Meyer," her mother replied.  "After checking, he found out what a fine
man George was and decided he'd be a good husband and father and the
best thing he could do was stay out of our lives."

"How convenient for him."  Erin didn't hide her sarcasm.

"Not really," her mother said, smoothing Erin's hair with her hand.
"Like some guardian angel, he's watched over us all these years," her
mother said, with stars in her eyes.  "Even though he'd sworn himself
to silence so he wouldn't interfere in our lives, he was always there
for us, ready to step in when we needed him."

Her mother's eyes shone with a light Erin recognized.  She still loved
Kevin Riley, even after all these years.  "Your father sensed that I'd
seen him watching me in Dublin.  He didn't want to scare me so he told
me who he was.  That was only a few hours after you and I talked on the
phone.  We' planned to have coffee the next morning."

She gave Erin a mischievous smile.  "It was all perfectly innocent.  We
just wanted to get caught up."  Her expression sobered.  "But later
that day I found out about Patrick's counterfeiting and knew I had to
get away.  When I didn't keep the appointment with your father, he got
worded and tried to find me at Jean's, where the household staff said
I'd gone.  Then, since he'd given me the phone number and address here
at the castle, he drove straight to Clew Bay from Dublin, on the off
chance I might be in trouble and come to him for help."

"I know," Erin said.  "On the way here from Westport he told me how
he'd rushed to the Ballyshannon Lodge after you called."

Her mother's eyes misted.  "Dear girl, your father would have given his
life for us."

The floodgates opened as Erin pictured the injured man lying
downstairs.  Standing, she helped her mother get up.  "He almost did,
Morn."  Her voice wavered.

Her mother's face turned the color of chalk.  She clutched Erin's arm.
"How?  Where?  Tell me what happened."

"Downstairs about an hour ago.  He kicked the gun out of Patrick's hand
so I could get away."  Erin spoke slowly, trying to soften her words.
"Uncle Michael--er--Kevin is going to be okay, but he was wounded by
Patrick's hired assassin."

Her mother's shudder seemed to shake her entire body.  "Shot by that
awful skeleton man?"  She dashed for the door.  "I've got to get
downstairs."

DONOVAN HEARD THEM coming when they were still on the third-floor
landing, Erin's calm lilting soprano voice answering her mother's
excited Contralto.  During his few minutes alone with the injured man,
Donovan had learned he was Erin's biological father.

Now, as he squatted next to Kevin Riley, he heard' his name
whispered.

"Donovan?"  Riley said, his voice weak.  "Prop me up against the wall
so I don't look so puny when she first sees me."  '

Opening Riley's shirt, Donovan examined the wound.  The bleeding had
slowed to a trickle.  Carefully, Donovan raised him to an upright
position and draped his coat over his shirt to hide the blood.  A tall
slender man with broad shoulders, Riley was heavier than he looked.

Erin's mother hit the bottom stair running.  An instant later she was
kneeling beside Riley, holding his face in her hands.

"Oh, Kevin, are you all right?  "If he'd killed you I don't know What
I'd have done."  Her eyes brimming, she caressed his cheek with her
fingers.

"I'm fine, Peg.  It's only a flesh wound and Donovan says the bullet
went clear through so it's nice and clean."  His eyes locked with
hers.

She lifted his shirt and gasped.  "This doesn't look like a flesh wound
to me."  She glanced at Erin.  "Get me a clean cloth and some hot
water."

Her attention turned to Donovan.  Suddenly her voice took on the
strident tones of an imperious drill sergeant.  "Where's the doctor,
Mr.  Donovan?  Why isn't he here?"  For one of the few times in his
adult life, Donovan felt awkward."  "I tried to call a doctor, but the
phone line's been cut," he explained lamely.

Erin's mother glowered at him.  "Well, there are cars in the garage.
Why are you still here?"

Donovan cleared his throat.  "I didn't want to leave Mr.  Riley until
you and Erin got here."

"We're here," she returned abruptlY.  "Now go for the doctor.  And
Erin, Why are you standing there with your mouth open?  Get me that hot
water."

Erin eyed her mother anxiously.  "You've been through an awful lot in
the past few hours, Mom.  Let me take over while you get some rest."

Her mother's glance was positively glacial.  "N9nsense!  Your father
needs me."  But when she glanced up again and gazed into Erin's eyes,
her expression softened.  "You need rest far more than I, dear girl.
You're the one who's been shot at and chased by two maniacs.  Call one
of the servants to help me."

Now it was Erin's turn to throw a glacial glance.  "I'll do no such
thing!"  Kneeling beside her parents, she felt the comforting pressure
of her mother's arm around her shoulders.

"Thanks for coming to my rescue, Erin," she said softly.  "Now, if you
really want to helps-"

"I'll get the hot water," Erin replied.  No errand had ever seemed
sweeter.

HOURS LATER, after the doctor had come and gone, Erin and Donovan
walked hand in hand across the castle lawn in the rosy light of an
early Irish morning.  In an upstairs bedroom, Erin's mother hovered
protectively over the man she'd never stopped loving.

"Did your mother tell you how a disabled American Vietnam vet ended up
with a castle on Clew Bay?"  Donovan asked, as they reached the lawn's
edge.  Beyond, the water was creeping up, slowly covering the mucky
sand.  Erin could smell the salty fragrance of the incoming tide.  She
flashed him a quick smile.  "The uncle he's named for left him the
castle a couple of years ago.  When Mom moved to Dublin, Uncle
Michael--er--Dad followed her.  Since he was in Ireland, he decided to
renovate the castle and turn it into a hotel: Dublin and Clew Bay are
only a couple hundred miles apart so he figured he could keep an eye on
her and still oversee the work at the castle."

Donovan kept his gaze fastened on the many islands dot ting the shallow
bay.  "Where'd he get the money?  Turning a castle into a luxury hotel
is a hell of an expense."

"Computers," Erin said.  "He got in on the ground floor and did pretty
well.  And now he's got backing for the hotel from some well-known
companies.  Mom's all excited about it."

"Then she's going to stay here in Ireland?"

"I'm sure she will as long as Dad's here," Erin replied,

the word Dad now rolling easily off her tongue.  "She says her place is
with him."

"How do you feel about that?"  Donovan asked.  "Do you think a woman's
place is with her man?"

Erin thought she heard subtle laughter in his voice.  But when he
turned toward her, he wasn't smiling.  His intense searching look made
her heart do flip-flops.

"Let's put it this way," she said, hope spiraling within her.  "I think
people who love each other should be together."

"If we're going to be together, we need to make some important
decisions about our jobs."  His husky voice held a challenge.  "I
gather you're not too happy with yours.  Well, after the way the
agency's handled the Shamrock Conspiracy, I feel the same way about
mine."

"What about your freedom?"  she asked, dumbfounded.  "You're the one
who's against commitment."

"Not anymore," he returned quickly, casting a sidelong glance at her.

"Since when?"  Erin held a trembling breath, waiting for his answer.

"Since I met you.  I Want us to be free together."  There was a sincere
fervency to his voice.

She let her breath out in a long sigh.  "Would you really quit your
job?"

Donoran snapped his fingers.  "Just like that.  I'm a different man
from when I gave you that bunk about freedom, Erin.  No man in love
wants to be truly free if freedom means being without the woman he
loves."

Turning to her, his face lit up with a glow to rival the dawn sky. "Why
don't you resign your commission and we'll both go to work for your dad
at the castle?"  Clew Bay's a great place to raise a tribe of young
Donovans.  Think what fun they'd have playing hide and seek in the
tunnels."

"We'd have to fill in the drop-off," Erin responded without a second
thought.  "It's terribly dangerous."

Donovan grinned at her.  "That sounds like you accept my proposal."
Relief filled his voice.

Eyes wide, Erin stared at him.  This couldn't be happening.  Could all
her dreams be coming true at once?  In the space of a few hours she'd
rescued her mother, witnessed the resurrection of her birth father, and
heard the sincere proposal of the man she wanted to spend the rest of
her life with.  What more miracles did life have in store?

"Yes, oh yes," she said joyously, her heart filled with love.

In the east the pale pink sky bloomed to a rosy yellow, paying the
smooth surface of the water with gold.  For the rest of her life,
whenever she saw Clew Bay in the early morning, Erin would remember
this special day and its three wonderful miracles.