“Welcome to your home away from home for the next ten days,” Lia said.

Magliore cast an appraising glance over the cozily furnished room, then looked back at her. “You mean we’re to share this cabin…alone?”

Her pulse reacted to the low, velvety timbre of his voice. She cleared her throat briskly. “The other agents will be less than fifteen feet away in the next building. You’ll be more than safe.”

Magliore chuckled low in his throat. “Believe me, Miss Charles,” he drawled, trapping her in the smoldering beam of his gaze, “that was never my concern. No man in his right mind would protest forced confinement with such an exquisitely beautiful woman as yourself.”

Lia’s heart thudded.

Damn. She was losing control of the situation, of herself. In the six years she’d worked for the Secret Service, not once had she ever crossed the line with a protectee. She’d never been tempted. But Armand Magliore, with his dark good looks and raw animal magnetism, was the living, breathing embodiment of temptation. This was a man who would persuade a nun to cross the line into sin with one little crook of his finger. Lia doubted he’d ever met a woman he couldn’t bend to his will.

Books by Maureen Smith

Kimani Romance

A Legal Affair

A Guilty Affair

Secret Agent Seduction

Kimani Arabesque

With Every Breath

A Heartbeat Away

MAUREEN SMITH

is the author of ten novels and one novella. She received a B.A. in English from the University of Maryland with a minor in creative writing. She is a former freelance writer, and her articles were featured in various print and online publications. Since the publication of her debut novel in 2002, Maureen has been nominated for two Romantic Times BOOKreviews Reviewers’ Choice Awards and twelve Emma Awards, and has won the Romance in Color Reviewers’ Choice Awards for New Author of the Year and Romantic Suspense of the Year.

Maureen currently lives in San Antonio, Texas, with her husband, two children and a miniature schnauzer. She loves to hear from readers and can be reached at author@maureen-smith.com. Please visit her Web site at www.maureen-smith.com for news about her upcoming releases.

SECRET AGENT SEDUCTION

Maureen Smith

Dedicated to Mavis Allen, an extraordinary editor
whose vision made this book possible

Dear Reader,

I hope you enjoy following Lia and Armand on their dangerous trek through a dark Caribbean jungle and finally to a secluded cabin retreat in Maryland’s Catoctin Mountains, where they fall in love. I was thrilled to receive an invitation to write a story for the ROMANCE ON THE RUN series, which allowed me to combine two of my favorite plot elements—romance and suspense. My mission was to deliver pulse-pounding action balanced with an emotional, sizzling romance. I hope you discover that the mission was accomplished.

What I also enjoyed about this story was being able to dabble in the paranormal by giving Lia the ability to read minds. But rather than giving her access to Armand’s wicked mind, I let her find out the good, old-fashioned way what he was thinking about her. It was a lot more fun that way!

I’m seriously flirting with the idea of giving Armand’s twin siblings, Felicite and Henri, their own stories. What do you think? Drop me a line and let me know if you’d like to read more about the Magliore family!

Long live the ROMANCE ON THE RUN series!

As always, I love to hear from readers! Please e-mail me at author@maureen-smith.com, and visit my Web site at www.maureen-smith.com for news and updates on my upcoming releases.

Until next time, happy reading!

Maureen Smith

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 1

Friday, September 5, 2008
1900 hours
Muwaiti
West of the Dominican Republic
Day 1

Secret Service Agent Lia Charles lay in a thicket of mangrove trees surrounding a ramshackle cabin thirty miles off the coast. The cabin had a palm thatch roof that sloped low over the porch, so at night it blended with the surrounding jungle. The building served as the base of operations for a small cadre of rebel soldiers led by political revolutionary Armand Magliore.

Though night had fallen, the oppressive heat and humidity had not. Lia inhaled; the air was hot, heavy and thick, pushing its way down her throat and into her lungs. Sweat ran down her sides, back and arms, causing her camouflage BDUs to stick to her skin. She briefly fantasized about an air-conditioned hotel room with a shower, a clean bed and a mini-fridge stocked with ice-cold beers.

First things first, she reminded herself.

From the deep cover of jungle, she observed the cabin through her military-issue night-vision goggles. The base camp had been under surveillance by her special ops team for the past six days. During that time, they had observed approximately nineteen soldiers armed with enough AK-47s and Uzis and RPG-2 grenade launchers to fortify a small army. From sunup to sundown, the men had arrived in dusty, open-topped jeeps and departed in what appeared to be four-hour shifts.

But on this particular night, the camp was deserted.

Conspicuously so.

“Damn it,” Lia swore softly under her breath.

There was a faint rustling in the bushes behind her. She tensed, then relaxed as she was joined by Matt “Dutch” Connelly, one of the six members of her team, returning from his reconnaissance of the lowland area of the jungle.

Dutch, a Navy SEAL, was built like an NFL linebacker—big, burly, but surprisingly quick and agile. He and Lia had worked together for five years. Dutch, unlike many of his ex-military comrades, didn’t subscribe to the mind-set that women don’t belong on the front lines of battle. He’d always treated Lia as an equal. If he had any reservations about her role as team leader, he hid them well.

Lia began her Secret Service career as an anti-counterfeiting grunt in Financial Crimes. After distinguishing herself in there, she had been transferred to the protection detail, where she became responsible for protecting foreign heads of state and other visiting dignitaries. Her fluency in six foreign languages—Arabic, Chinese, Farsi, French, Italian and Spanish—made her a natural choice for these assignments. It hadn’t hurt that she also possessed a black belt in aikido and had graduated at the top of her class from an elite military academy for girls.

At twenty-eight, Lia was already considered one of the best agents ever to be recruited by the Secret Service. Her superior fighting skills combined with a razor-sharp mind and the innate ability to remain cool under pressure had earned her the respect of agents twice her age.

But what her colleagues didn’t know about her was that she could also read minds.

Lia had spent most of her life trying to avoid physical contact with others to keep from invading their private thoughts—which meant her love life was virtually nonexistent. But she had to admit that the gift had its perks. For example, she didn’t have to speculate about whether or not the grinning auto mechanic was trying to rip her off. All she had to do was shake his hand and intercept his thoughts. She didn’t have to wonder if a rude waitress had spit in her food to get even with her for sending it back as unsatisfactory; she’d know the moment she “accidentally” brushed against the waitress’s bare arm as she set the plate on the table. And nowhere had Lia’s psychic ability proved more useful than in her line of work. In some cases, being able to read a suspect’s mind during an interrogation had made the difference between setting a guilty man free or detaining an innocent one.

Lia’s military training gave her the clearance to participate in clandestine assignments that took her beyond the scope of the protection detail. One week ago, she had been summoned to the office of Bill McManus, assistant director of the Office of Protective Operations. She was briefed on her latest assignment, which was to lead a covert special operations unit into the jungles of Muwaiti, a war-ravaged Afro-French province in the Caribbean. Her mission was to extract revolutionary leader Armand Magliore from Muwaiti and escort him safely to the U.S., where, in ten days, he was scheduled to testify before the United Nations about a high-level assassination plot devised by his government.

Magliore had been a fearless, loyal soldier in the Muwaitian army until the assassination of the much-beloved president ushered in a new regime. President Alexandre Biassou had wasted no time establishing himself as a corrupt, ruthless dictator who disposed of anyone who dared to defy him. From innocent civilians to members of his own political party, no one was spared from his brutality.

Which made Armand Magliore something of a legend among his people.

He’d not only risked death and dismemberment by defecting from the Muwaitian army two years ago, but then he’d formed an underground resistance movement. Over the past year, he had led demonstrations and violent revolts against the government, amassing powerful enemies who would stop at nothing to keep him from leaving the country alive.

Which was what made the utter stillness of the base camp that night so unsettling to Lia.

Where are Magliore’s men? she wondered.

When Magliore first brokered a deal with the United States—political asylum for his family in exchange for his testimony before the UN—he’d been instructed not to alter his routine in any way that would arouse the suspicion of President Biassou and his mercenaries, who’d been vigilantly monitoring the revolutionary leader. On the date of his extraction, Magliore and his resistance fighters were to report to the remote cabin as usual and remain there until the arrival of Lia and her tactical unit. Once Magliore was safely in custody, his men were to disband and go into hiding for their own protection.

But where the hell were they? Had Biassou’s hired assassins gotten to them first?

“All clear,” Dutch whispered, as he resumed his position on the muddy forest floor beside Lia. Dressed in identical camo gear, he trained his night-vision binoculars on the silent cabin. “Any movement yet?”

Lia shook her head. “It’s quiet.” She frowned. “Too quiet.”

“Think we’re walking into an ambush?”

Lia’s frown deepened. Without answering, she scanned the thick jungle canopy shrouded in darkness and mist. The four remaining members of her team were strategically hidden in the surrounding brush, watching the camp’s perimeter, awaiting her signal to advance.

During childhood hunting trips, Lia’s father, a retired foreign service officer, had taught her to look from the corner of her eye for improved night vision, as well as to “see” with her other senses.

Reading minds won’t help you much out here in the wild, he’d told her. It’s just you against nature.

Lia listened now for the approach of enemy footsteps, swift and stealthy, but all she heard were the distinct night calls of exotic birds and the raucous wing-beats of mosquitoes and other nocturnal insects. Nearby a large snake curled around the lower branches of a tree eyed them suspiciously, but made no move to attack.

Not that Lia was concerned. The only kind of predators she needed to worry about were on foot.

Keeping her gaze trained on the cabin, Lia reached inside her field pack and pulled out a satellite phone and her GPS tracking device. Three earlier attempts to connect with the command post had failed, so she was relieved when at last she heard a crisp, familiar voice on the other line.

“We’ve been waiting for your call.”

“I couldn’t get a good signal,” Lia said.

“What is your position?”

Lia rattled off the latitude and longitude coordinates from her GPS.

The high-tech surveillance systems used by the U.S. military, CIA, Secret Service and other intelligence agencies had been designed to minimize casualties in dangerous rescue missions such as these. From a height of 40,000 feet and a distance of 150 miles, the radar systems could detect a human being under cloud cover on the forest floor or inside an underground bunker.

“We have one body inside the cabin,” came the report.

“Just one?”

“Yes. And you may have company soon. I count twenty bodies moving in your direction.”

“On foot?”

“Negative. Judging by the rate of approach, I’d say there are three vehicles.”

“How close?”

“Fifteen miles. You’d better—”

The satellite connection fizzled.

But Lia was already on her feet and hefting her M16 rifle. As Dutch followed her lead, she clicked her three-way radio. “It’s showtime, boys.”

They erupted from the deep cover of jungle and sprinted across the clearing toward the dark cabin. Lia led the way up to the porch. Beneath the sheltering overhang of the palm thatch roof, she held up two fingers, signaling that two of her men should stand guard outside.

Dutch kicked the locked front door, and with a loud splintering crack, it crashed inward. Leading with her M16, Lia swept into the cabin. It was pitch-black and as silent as a tomb.

At her signal, Dutch and the others separated to search the premises, moving soundlessly from room to room to check for trouble from alternate vantage points. Lia figured that Magliore was hiding somewhere, keeping himself out of sight just in case Biassou’s mercenaries arrived before her team.

Or maybe he’s not hiding. Maybe he’s hurt, or dead.

Moving slowly and stealthily, Lia advanced farther inside the cabin. Her night-vision goggles transformed everything into a world of green phosphor and shadows. The timber walls were covered with old maps, charts and diagrams, and a shortwave radio sat on a small table near the window, the lone item of furniture in the main room.

As Lia rounded the corner to another room, she felt a prickle of awareness on the back of her neck. She whirled around just as a dark, masked figure dropped from an opening in the beamed ceiling and landed on the floor with the agility of a panther. Before she could react, the crouching menace swung his leg in a roundhouse kick that knocked the M16 cleanly from her hand. The rifle flew from her grip and was snatched up in midair as if it weighed no more than a plastic water gun.

With an androit twist of her body, Lia delivered a high, powerful kick that caught the right side of her opponent’s face. He grunted, his head snapping backward. Not missing a beat, Lia kicked again, but this time he anticipated her move. Without releasing the M16, he caught her leg at the height of the kick and pulled her other leg out from under her. She fell to the floor, momentarily stunned by his speed and dexterity.

He wasted no time, giving her no opportunity to recover. Standing above her, he jabbed the butt of the rifle at her head. Lia rolled quickly to her side, evading the vicious blow. He swung downward again and she rolled away, onto her back, narrowly escaping the second jab.

With lightning-quick reflexes, she reached for the 9mm clipped to her waist and pointed the gun between his eyes.

“Drop the weapon!” she shouted above the clamor of heavily booted feet pounding in their direction. She repeated the command in French.

Her assailant hesitated, his head tipped slightly to one side as he regarded her through the narrow slits in his black mask. He seemed a little surprised.

“Who are you?” he demanded in English.

Despite the perilous situation, Lia couldn’t help noticing the deep, smoky timbre of his voice, tinged with the lazy lilt of the island. He was over six feet tall, solid power and muscle covered in black from head to toe.

“I’m not going to ask you again,” Lia said, low and controlled. “Drop the weapon.”

When he continued watching her in silence, her finger tightened on the trigger. “Don’t try anything stupid. You’re outnumbered.”

He sent an unhurried glance over his shoulder. He seemed unfazed by the three M16s pointed unerringly at the back of his head. From behind the mask he chuckled—a low, husky rumble that made Lia’s belly clench. “It appears that I am outnumbered.”

Unnerved by her body’s reaction to him, Lia said tersely, “Put the gun on the floor, then slide it toward me. Slowly.”

When he had complied and stood with his hands behind his head, his long legs braced apart, Dutch quickly patted him down for weapons. He confiscated a Glock 10mm, a 9mm with a sixteen-round clip, an AK-47 and a .45 caliber pistol.

Lia holstered her own Glock and slung the strap of her M16 over her shoulder, then sprang nimbly to her feet, aware of the minutes ticking by. The radar system had detected three vehicles fifteen miles from their location. If her team was to make it back through the jungle for their rendezvous with the chopper, they would have to leave very soon.

Every time Lia went on these assignments, she took great pains to conceal her femininity, though even a loose T-shirt and cargo pants still managed to accentuate her lithe, curvaceous figure. Her body armor concealed her frame under her camo gear, while the helmet she wore obscured her exotic features and long black hair, knotted tightly at the back of her head.

As Dutch shone his small but powerful NiCad light into the room, Lia removed her military-issue Special Forces helmet, complete with night-vision goggles and headlamp, and tucked it underneath her arm. Guided by Dutch’s light, she walked over to their captive and unceremoniously ripped off his mask.

The face that stared back at her was the same one that appeared in the dossier she’d received last week, but nothing could have prepared Lia for the searing intensity of amber-colored eyes that reminded her of a tiger’s, heavy-lidded and rimmed with a thick fringe of black lashes. The photographs had revealed a darkly handsome man with hard cheekbones, a square jaw and mahogany skin, but the camera lens had not captured the overwhelming sensuality of his mouth, the lush fullness of his bottom lip.

Lia cleared her throat, feeling strangely off balance. “Armand Magliore, I presume?”

He nodded once. Those feral eyes watched her with a kind of probing intensity that made her want to place her hands over vital body parts, as if he could see through her body armor.

“And you are?”

She quickly recovered her composure. “Special Agent Lia Charles. This is my team. We’re here to—”

She broke off in midsentence at the expression on Magliore’s face. As she watched, he looked incredulously at her and the other three agents.

And then, without warning, he threw back his head and roared with laughter.

Lia bristled. Under normal circumstances, she might have enjoyed the deep, sexy, rumbling sound—if it wasn’t coming at her own expense, as she suspected.

“What’s so funny?” she said through gritted teeth.

“No offense, Mademoiselle Charles,” Magliore drawled insolently. “But your government must not be serious about stopping Biassou if they have sent a woman to keep me alive until the hearing.”

Dutch and the others took umbrage. “Hey! What the hell—”

Lia held up a hand. “That’s all right, fellas,” she said in a mild tone. She refused to give Armand Magliore the satisfaction of knowing his sexist remark had gotten under her skin. Besides, it wasn’t the first time someone had underestimated her because she was a woman, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

“Mr. Magliore is entitled to his opinion,” she said coolly. “However asinine it may be.”

Dutch snickered. “And speaking of asinine, ask him why he attacked you a minute ago. Doesn’t he know we’re the good guys?”

“Apparently not,” Lia said wryly.

Magliore met her gaze unflinchingly. “I had to be sure you weren’t Biassou’s henchmen. I apologize if I hurt or frightened you, Miss Charles. Although,” he drawled, reaching up to touch the fresh wound above his right eye where Lia’s boot had connected, “it would seem that you’re the only one who came away from the skirmish unscathed.”

“Too bad I didn’t inflict more damage,” Lia muttered under her breath.

Magliore laughed. “Now that’s what I want to hear from the woman who’s been entrusted with my life.”

His words, though teasing, sobered Lia at once. What the hell was she thinking, threatening the man? Armand Magliore was her protectee. No matter how infuriating he may be, or how utterly attractive she found him, she had to remain focused and behave like the trained professional she was. His life—and her career—depended on it.

“Where are your soldiers?” she asked him.

“They’re not here.”

“I can see that,” Lia said levelly, striving for patience. “They were supposed to be here with you this evening. That was the plan.”

His gaze turned coolly belligerent. “I sent them away.”

“Why?”

“There was no need for them to be here. I’m the one you were coming for, not them.”

“Which is why you were instructed not to alter your routine in any way that would compromise the extraction,” Lia said tightly. “The sudden absence of your men would arouse suspicion in anyone who’s been monitoring the cabin over the last several months—namely Biassou.”

Magliore’s expression hardened. “My men have been fighting for me, and alongside me, for the last two years. They’ve repeatedly put their lives on the line and risked the safety of their families for a war I started! I instructed them to stay away from the cabin today because I didn’t want to risk their lives any more than I already have. If I die tonight trying to leave Muwaiti, there’s no earthly reason they should perish with me.”

Lia stared at him, torn between two warring emotions. On one hand she admired his unselfishness and fierce devotion to his men, but on the other hand she was furious that he’d willfully defied their instructions and possibly compromised the entire operation.

“We’ve got company,” Javier Garcia announced from the open doorway of the cabin. “We just spotted three jeeps heading down the road.”

Galvanized into action, Dutch and the others rushed out of the cabin, weapons at the ready. When Magliore moved to follow them, Lia reached out quickly, grabbing his arm to detain him.

He scowled down at her. “What are you doing?”

“I need to get you out of here,” Lia said authoritatively. “Unless I’m mistaken, those are Biassou’s mercenaries approaching the camp, which means we’re going to be under heavy fire in less than five minutes.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Magliore growled, anger and impatience radiating from his body. He tried to shake off her hand, but Lia held fast. His expression turned ferocious. “Damn it, woman! Give me back my weapons so I can help your men fight!”

“No! I can’t risk your life like that! It’s too dangerous.” When he tried to charge past her, Lia tightened her grip on his arm. She had the sensation of wrestling with a wild tiger.

“Look,” she ground out. “My men are highly trained operatives with over twenty years of combat experience among them. The fact is, they don’t need your help, Magliore. But your family does. And so do the people of Muwaiti, who’ve been suffering under the brutal dictatorship of Alexandre Biassou for years. You owe it to them to make it out of this country alive. You’re their only hope, the only one who can ensure that Biassou is removed from power and punished for his crimes. Are you going to let them down?”

Their gazes locked in a silent battle of wills. Leashed fury simmered in Magliore’s amber eyes. A pulse throbbed at the base of his jaw, and beneath Lia’s hand, his muscles were rigid, primed for action. She understood, even sympathized with his predicament. He was a soldier, trained to fight and defend his territory. He was born for battle, not to watch passively from the sidelines. It would be hard for him to surrender his power to another, let alone a woman. But that’s the way it had to be.

At least for the next ten days.

“We have to go,” Lia said, quietly but firmly. “Now.”

Magliore held her gaze for another tense moment, then relented. “We can leave through the back door. This way.” As he grasped Lia’s hand in the calloused warmth of his own, a flutter of heat ignited in the pit of her stomach.

But she was too distracted by the jarring discovery she’d just made to dwell on her reaction.

As Magliore led her quickly through the dark cabin, Lia realized that for the first time in her life, she had met someone whose mind she couldn’t read.

Chapter 2

The sounds of machine-gun fire and men yelling peppered the night air as Lia and Magliore crept stealthily away from the back of the cabin. After scanning the surrounding brush to ascertain that Biassou’s mercenaries were not lying in wait to ambush them, Lia signaled to Magliore, and together they quickly struck off into the deep jungle.

Lia had returned Magliore’s weapons to him so that he could defend himself if they came under attack. He brought up the rear as she navigated through the thick foliage, her rifle set to burst pattern, her eyes fixed on the green-tinted shadows in her night-vision goggles as she searched for signs of other men on foot. She knew the mercenaries would be in hot pursuit once they realized that Magliore had managed to escape undetected from the cabin.

All around them the dense, sultry jungle throbbed with plant and animal life. The air was damp and heavy with the scents of fecund earth and flowers that bloomed only in the dark. There was little visibility to the sky above, except where natural openings and thin spots in the forest canopy let in shards of moonlight. Wet leaves on the ground absorbed their footfalls, but the clay mud beneath the leaves made their footing tenuous, and every slime-covered log posed a hazard. Although Lia had been to Muwaiti once before, never could she have imagined the sheer vastness of the jungle.

As they traveled farther away from the base camp, the sounds of the firefight grew quieter. Lia didn’t allow herself to contemplate, even for a second, the fate of her team members. She had to remain focused on the mission that had brought her to Muwaiti: to get Armand Magliore safely to the United States. That was her first, and only, priority.

Glancing over her shoulder, she saw that Magliore was still shadowing her, his fingers clutching the barrel and stock of the AK-47 slung across his chest, ready to neutralize any threat. The rifle seemed an innate extension of him, as familiar to him as the rugged jungle terrain they were traversing. Lia could easily imagine him leading an army of brave soldiers into battle, conquering his enemy with a ruthlessness borne of pride, not cruelty.

Catching her eye, Magliore inclined his head in a nod, barely perceptible. Lia turned away, irritated with herself for romanticizing the man, as if she had nothing better to do.

She pulled out her GPS to check the approximate coordinates of the site where the chopper was to pick them up. The intermittent GPS readings on the incandescent screen confirmed that they were heading in the right direction. They should arrive at their destination in twenty minutes, barring any complications.

No sooner had she completed the thought than Lia heard a faint rustling in the trees to their right.

She froze, her heart thudding in her chest. Her finger tightened on the trigger of her M16.

Had the rest of Biassou’s mercenaries caught up to them? Or had her team members made the rustling noise as they crept through the dark jungle to meet her at the rendezvous site?

A quick glance at her GPS revealed that Dutch and the others were nowhere nearby. Which could mean only one thing.

Behind her, Magliore had stopped walking. Glancing over her shoulder, Lia signaled for him to remain silent. He nodded once.

Turning around slowly, Lia took three steps. Again she heard movement in the trees. This time the noise sounded as if it was coming closer.

Spurred by instinct, she spun around and dove in front of Magliore, knocking him to the ground just as a bullet singed the air above them. Before he could recover from the bone-jarring impact, Lia raised her rifle and fired into the dense foliage. A man’s gargled scream told her she’d hit her mark.

Anticipating the return of gunfire, she sprayed the trees with three more rounds of ammo. There were more screams and angry shouts.

Taking advantage of their opponents’ confusion, Lia and Magliore scrambled to their feet and ran through the thick undergrowth, keeping low to the ground as shots rang out over their heads.

They took cover behind the broad trunk of a massive tree strapped with vines. The dark jungle was lit with the deafening, staccato blasts of automatic weapons firing into the night.

Magliore returned fire, buying Lia time to reach inside her field pack and pull out a 40mm single-shot grenade launcher. With practiced ease, she attached the device under the barrel of her M16, loaded it with a high-velocity grenade and cocked the hammer. At Magliore’s signal, she reached around the tree and fired into the dense brush shielding their enemies. The explosion upended a small patch of trees and sent two mangled bodies hurtling through the air. They were dead before they hit the ground.

“Let’s go!” Lia shouted to Magliore.

They took off at a full sprint, slowed only by the tangle of branches and vines and slippery spots on the muddy forest floor. They ran until they reached a clearing in the jungle that stretched approximately sixty feet across, wide enough for a helicopter to land. On the opposite side, at the edge of the clearing, a small rock formation protruded from the ground. It would serve as a shield while Lia set up the flares to signal their readiness for pickup.

“We’ll take cover there,” she whispered to Magliore, pointing at the rock formation.

He nodded, and together they started off across the moonlit clearing, keeping their weapons drawn. Adrenaline pumped through Lia’s veins, and the fine hairs at the back of her neck tingled. The night had grown unnaturally still and silent, save for the call of birds soaring above the jungle canopy.

Lia clicked her three-way radio. “Dutch, do you read?”

Dead silence greeted her.

She clicked the radio again. “Garcia, what is your position?”

Nothing.

Lia’s mouth went dry. Glancing up, she found Magliore watching her, his expression unreadable in the shadowy moonlight.

Looking away, she forced herself to continue walking. She refused to speculate about whether or not her team members had been captured or killed by Biassou’s mercenaries during the shootout. Her men were trained professionals who knew the risks involved in such a dangerous operation. They knew, as did Lia, that every time they embarked on one of these assignments, there was a chance they wouldn’t make it back home.

Understanding the risks had never stopped any of them from accepting the call of duty.

“We can go back and get them,” Magliore said in a low voice.

Lia gave her head a vigorous shake. “No. My orders were to get you out of that cabin and safely onto the chopper, and that’s what I’m going to do.”

“What happens if your men don’t make it here on time?”

Lia hesitated. “There’s a second chopper on standby. We anticipated the possibility of getting separated.”

When they were halfway across the open stretch of jungle, they heard the noisy rumble of an approaching engine. They whipped around in time to see an open-topped jeep erupt from the dense foliage, as if it had been spewed from a cannon. There were six men inside the vehicle, all dressed in camouflage gear. All but the driver were armed with submachine guns.

As the jeep roared toward Lia and Magliore, the mercenaries stood and began firing at them.

They hit the ground, returning fire as they rolled. Shots cracked in the night air and bullets thudded into metal. Magliore picked off the front passenger, whose bullet-riddled body pitched sideways and toppled from the jeep.

Lia steadied her rifle and squeezed off two three-round bursts. One of her shots shattered the windshield and took out the driver.

Out of control, with no one manning the accelerator or clutch, the jeep veered sharply off course, skidding into a tailspin as the men’s panicked shouts rang out.

Not wasting a second, Lia and Magliore hurried to their feet and raced toward the rock formation less than thirty feet away.

They ducked for cover as the jeep, manned by a new driver, made a tight U-turn and began speeding toward them again. Three remaining gunmen in the rear deck fired at Lia and Magliore in rapid succession, the bullets peppering the rock they were using as cover.

Crouching beside Lia, Magliore opened fire, his AK-47 spraying a line of holes in the hood as the jeep barreled closer. Keeping her head down, Lia quickly loaded her grenade launcher, sweat rolling down her face and into her eyes, stinging them.

She had one shot, one chance to make it count. She couldn’t afford to miss.

When the jeep was within twenty feet of their position, Lia peered around the rock, trained her sights on the target and pulled the trigger.

The 40mm grenade covered the distance in a split second and detonated against the jeep’s fuel tank.

The explosion shook the ground, sending flames and black clouds of smoke billowing up into the sky.

Magliore grabbed Lia, instinctively using his body to shield her from flying shrapnel and debris. They lay motionless for several moments, but there were no more sounds of enemy gunfire.

After another moment, Magliore lifted his head and peered into Lia’s face. “Are you all right?” he demanded.

She nodded, pulling out of his arms. Her ears were still ringing from the explosion and her right shoulder hurt like hell from knocking Magliore to the ground earlier. But other than that, she was none the worse for wear.

She peeked around the rock at the flaming remains of the jeep. “They’re all dead.”

“Thanks to you.” Magliore’s crooked grin was a slash of white in the shadowy gloom. “Nice shot.”

Lia shrugged dismissively, ignoring an absurd twinge of pleasure at the compliment. After all, this was the same man who’d ridiculed her government for sending a woman to retrieve him.

In the distance she heard the whirling rotors of an approaching chopper, cutting across the dark jungle canopy as it closed in on their location.

Lia let out a long, inaudible breath.

The cavalry had arrived. Thank God.

But where were her men?

Armand Magliore stared out the window of the sleek government helicopter as it swept over the black jungle, heading away from the small island. His island. The only place he’d ever called home.

His chest tightened at the thought of never seeing his country again.

Armand had no illusions about what would happen if he failed to ensure Alexandre Biassou’s removal from power. He could never return home, nor could his family. Biassou would have them murdered the moment their feet touched Muwaitian soil, and he would brazenly display their mutilated corpses to send a message to all others who dared to challenge his dictatorship.

Armand suppressed a shudder at the thought. Even though he was willing to be martyred, he couldn’t let anything happen to his mother and twin siblings, whom he’d been responsible for since his father died eighteen years ago.

Armand had been only fourteen years old when Jacques Magliore was killed by an armed robber on his way home from work. Armand, the oldest of three siblings, had assumed leadership of the family, knowing this was what his father would have wanted—and expected—of him. It had forced him to grow up fast. Faster than any of his friends, who couldn’t understand why Armand had to work in the tobacco fields instead of joining them for a leisurely afternoon of swimming at the beach. Filling his father’s big shoes hadn’t been easy, and Armand had often felt overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of his responsibilities. But somehow he’d survived, and so had his family.

He’d be damned if he would let anything happen to them now.

Armand took comfort in the knowledge that, for the past two weeks, his mother and siblings had been sequestered in a federal safe house outside Washington, D.C., thousands of miles beyond Biassou’s reach. The Secret Service, in brokering the deal with Armand, had insisted that keeping him and his family at separate locations would be safer for everyone because Armand was Biassou’s primary target, and his proximity to his family only endangered their lives more. Putting aside his own misgivings, Armand had consented to the arrangement. He’d do anything to keep his mother and siblings out of harm’s way. Even if it meant staying away from them for a while.

After he testified before the United Nations Security Council and Alexandre Biassou was found guilty of his crimes, Armand would be reunited with his family. And then he would return to Muwaiti to help rebuild and restore his war-ravaged country to the idyllic paradise of his youth.

But if Biassou somehow managed to escape punishment, Armand would deliver justice for his people.

One way or another, Biassou would pay.

Until then Armand would bide his time, swallow his pride and entrust his life to the United States Secret Service.

Specifically, to the woman seated beside him in the chopper.

Lia Charles wore a calm, meditative expression as she gazed out at the dark expanse of jungle below. Her black hair was pulled back tightly from her face, except for a few stray wisps that clung to the damp skin of her forehead, cheeks and neck. To look at her, one would never suspect that she could kill with lethal precision and force. With long-lashed, dark eyes that tilted exotically at the corners, high cheekbones and a lush, sultry mouth that appeared sweeter than the ripe mangos he had devoured as a boy, Lia Charles looked more like an angel than an assassin.

Other than to answer a few questions about their travel itinerary, she’d spoken very little since they had boarded the helicopter. Armand had known she was worried about her men, though she’d tried her best to hide it. When she had finally received confirmation that they were safe and would be picked up by the second chopper, she’d closed her eyes for a moment and whispered shakily under her breath, “Thank God.”

Armand had been intrigued by the trace of vulnerability he’d glimpsed beneath her steel veneer.

And now as he stared at her, he had to resist the urge to touch the smooth curve of her cheek, to caress the slender column of her throat, to loosen the austere knot at the nape of her neck and work his fingers through the thick, lustrous strands of her hair.

He didn’t think she’d take too kindly to being touched—even by the man whose life she’d just saved.

In his thirty-two years on earth, Armand had never known another woman like her. Not only was she exquisitely beautiful, but she was also strong and fiercely courageous. She fought like a warrior and led with a confidence that dared anyone to defy her just because she was a woman.

He’d been stunned when she had removed her helmet inside the cabin and he had realized that she was the same beautiful, alluring woman who had haunted his dreams for the past eight years, ever since the first moment he had first laid eyes on her.

He remembered it as if it were yesterday. He’d been a brash young soldier in the Muwaitian army, stationed in his hometown of Port le Duc. On that fateful afternoon, he and a fellow soldier had been on their way to a neighboring military base to deliver medical equipment and supplies. They’d taken a detour through the bustling port city and found themselves stuck in a traffic jam caused by an accident that had just been cleared.

While their truck was idling at an intersection, waiting for the light to change, Armand had glanced out the passenger window.

And that’s when he saw her.

She was standing with a group of peace corps volunteers who had set up a booth outside the town clinic to administer free vaccines to children from the village. A long procession of mothers, with infants balanced on tired hips and small children in tow, inched along the narrow, winding road lined with palm and banana trees.

The moment Armand saw the beautiful young American, a hot rush of need swept through him, taking his breath away. Her long black hair was caught up in a loose ponytail, her smooth brown skin glowed beneath the Caribbean sun and her long shapely legs poured from a pair of khaki shorts that hugged her lush, round bottom.

He couldn’t take his eyes off her.

His heart constricted as he watched her interacting with the children, who were terrified of the scary-looking needles. Lia distracted them while they were getting vaccinated, telling jokes and making funny faces that coaxed shy giggles from them.

Armand had silently willed her to look his way, but she never did. As the truck lurched away, he watched her through the side-view mirror until she disappeared from sight. When he returned to the clinic the next day to find her, he was told that the American peace corps volunteers had left the island that morning. He felt an acute sense of disappointment.

And loss.

He never forgot her.

Even in the dark years that would follow, as his life became consumed with fighting Biassou’s reign of terror and violence, at night the beautiful American girl with the exotic Gypsy eyes and entrancing smile would come to Armand in his dreams.

And now, by some incredible stroke of fate, she was back in his life.

Armand had never been one to indulge in sentimentality. Life’s harsh realities had robbed him of any such tendencies. Yet he couldn’t dismiss the fact that Lia’s sudden reappearance in his life was nothing short of a miracle. And he couldn’t banish the uncanny sense that she had been sent there for a reason, one that transcended any political mission.

As the chopper swept out over the black ocean, bringing him closer to a foreign land, Armand realized that his destiny was irrevocably intertwined with the woman who sat quietly beside him.

Only time would reveal what that destiny was.

Chapter 3

Saturday, September 6, 2008
1900 hours
Thurmont, Maryland
Day 2

Dusk had fallen by the time an armored stretch limousine carrying Armand Magliore, Lia and three additional Secret Service agents approached an electronic gate manned by unsmiling marine guard patrols. After clearing the final security checkpoint, the limo began its gradual ascent up a steep hill that overlooked ninety forested acres nestled deep in Maryland’s Catoctin Mountains. The secluded retreat, located some seventy miles northwest of Washington, D.C., featured several comfortably furnished cabins, scenic mountain views, miles of hiking trails and a stocked trout lake.

But this was no idyllic retreat for lovebirds seeking a romantic weekend getaway. The rural property was one of several owned by the U.S. government and reserved for foreign heads of state, as well as other visiting dignitaries and high-level persons under Secret Service protection. Its proximity to Camp David all but guaranteed that there was no safer place on earth to stash a revolutionary leader pursued by a ruthless, bloodthirsty despot.

Or at least that’s what the Secret Service was counting on.

After the hot extraction in Muwaiti, the sleek, powerful chopper transporting Lia and Magliore had arrived at an undisclosed military base along the Gulf of Mexico just a little after 3:00 a.m. There they had been met by various top-ranking Secret Service officials, including Lia’s boss, Bill McManus. He had thanked Magliore for cooperating with the United States government and conveyed a personal message from the president, who lauded Magliore for his “remarkable courage and commitment to ensuring liberation and peace for the people of Muwaiti.”

While they had waited for the chopper carrying the rest of Lia’s team to arrive, she and Magliore had been fed and given clean clothes. A young medic had tended to the small wound above Magliore’s right eye, raising a censorious brow when he was told that Lia—not one of Biassou’s mercenaries—had put it there. She hadn’t bothered to defend herself, even when Magliore insolently referred to her as G.I. Jane.

Two hours later her team had arrived at the base—bedraggled, bleary-eyed, foul-tempered, but glad to be alive. When Dutch had hoisted Lia into his arms and spun her around in a dizzying circle, Magliore had watched them through cool, assessing eyes.

After an initial group debriefing with the brass, Lia and her men had been dispatched to their separate assignments—they went back to Washington, D.C., for another round of debriefing, while she was headed to the mountain retreat in rural Maryland.

Now she watched as the limo drove past a nondescript lodge used for clandestine intelligence briefings, and continued up the road before pulling into a circular driveway shared by two rustic cabins.

Lia remained inside the limo with Magliore while both buildings were checked by the other three agents who comprised the protection detail, tall men wearing dark suits, white shirts, subdued ties, dark sunglasses and the requisite earpieces. They wore microphones on their wrists and carried automatic weapons under their jackets. Lia had worked with all three men before and was satisfied that the assistant director had chosen the best for this protection detail.

While she waited for the agents to give the all-clear, Lia glanced over at Magliore, who’d been mostly silent during the ninety-minute drive from Andrews Air Force Base. He’d gazed out the window at the passing scenery, seemingly oblivious to the exchange of light banter between Lia and her colleagues. As she stole glances at him, she couldn’t help wondering what he was thinking about—which, of course, would have been unnecessary if she’d been able to read his mind.

Between extracting him from Muwaiti and sitting through hours of debriefing, Lia had had little time to dwell on the startling discovery she’d made back at the cabin. But once they were comfortably ensconced in the limo, bound for their new destination, the questions had resurfaced. Her inability to read Armand Magliore’s mind completely baffled her. She had never met anyone whose thoughts she couldn’t intercept, and the fact that Magliore was the first made him that much more intriguing to her. Was he the yang to her yin? she wondered. Did he possess some sort of rare gene that worked as an antidote, counteracting her psychic ability? Did such a thing even exist? If her great-grandmother Genevieve were still alive, Lia definitely would have asked her. After all, she reasoned, the notion of such an antidote couldn’t be any crazier than the phenomenon of mind reading.

At various intervals during the ride Lia had found herself studying Magliore’s handsome profile, admiring the strong bridge of his nose and the sensual curve of those full, masculine lips before she realized what she was doing and jerked her gaze away.

This time, however, she was startled to realize he was staring right back at her. Those unusual, amber-colored eyes roamed across her face in a way that trapped the air in her lungs.

“You’ve had a long day,” he murmured softly.

Lia glanced away, cognizant of her travel-worn appearance. “So have you. I’m sure you’ll want to lie down and rest after we have dinner.”

“Will you be joining me?”

When her eyes flew to his face, a hint of a wolfish smile curved the corners of his mouth. “For dinner,” he clarified.

Of course that’s what he meant! Get your mind out of the gutter, Lia!

She swallowed. “Yes. I mean, if you want me to.”

“I want you to,” he said huskily.

She nodded, shaken by the masculine heat and energy that surrounded him like a crackling force field. She averted her gaze. “All right.”

After what seemed an eternity, the other agents returned from securing the premises. Lia was almost as relieved to see them as she’d been to see the approaching chopper in the night sky over the jungle.

It had been agreed that Lia, as head of the protection detail, would share the two-bedroom cabin with Magliore while the other three agents would occupy the larger cabin next door. What had seemed like a perfectly logical decision at the time—before Lia had met the potently virile Magliore—now sent a whisper of alarm through her as the door closed behind them.

To mask her unease, Lia gestured airily around the living room, which featured rustic pine furnishings, a high ceiling supported by rough-hewn cedar crossbeams and an enormous brick fireplace carved into the wall above a raised hearth.

“Welcome to your home away from home for the next ten days,” Lia said.

Magliore cast an appraising glance over the cozily furnished room, then looked back at her. “You mean, we’re to share this cabin…alone?”

Her pulse reacted to the low, velvety timbre of his voice. She cleared her throat briskly. “The other agents will be less than fifteen feet away in the next building. You’ll be more than safe.”

Magliore chuckled low in his throat. “Believe me, Miss Charles,” he drawled, trapping her in the smoldering beam of his gaze, “that was never my concern. No man in his right mind would protest forced confinement with such an exquisitely beautiful woman as yourself.”

Lia’s heart thudded.

Damn. She was losing control of the situation, of herself. In the six years she’d worked for the Secret Service, not once had she ever crossed the line with a protectee. She’d never even been tempted. But Armand Magliore, with his dark good looks and raw animal magnetism, was the living, breathing embodiment of temptation. This was a man who could persuade a nun to cross the line into sin with one little crook of his finger. Lia doubted he’d ever met a woman he couldn’t bend to his will.

But Lia wasn’t just any woman. She was a highly trained Secret Service agent who’d been assigned to protect him. To do that, she needed to remain focused, professional. Detached.

And the first step would be to establish some ground rules.

Magliore was watching her, his eyes alight with keen interest. “Is something wrong, Miss Charles?”

“No. Yes.” Exasperated, Lia blew out a deep breath. “Look, Mr. Magliore—”

“Armand.”

“Excuse me?”

His mouth twitched. “After everything we’ve been through in the last twenty-four hours, don’t you think we’ve earned the right to be on a first-name basis with each other?”

Lia gave him a cool, measured look. “What I think, Mr. Magliore, is that I’m not here to amuse or entertain you or to keep your bed warm at night. I’m here for one reason and one reason only. To keep you alive until the date of your hearing before the United Nations. I don’t expect you to like the fact that your life has been entrusted to a woman. I think you made your feelings known back in Muwaiti. You may not respect my qualifications, but I do expect you to respect my authority and judgment—as well as my boundaries—for the duration of our stay here. Comprenez vous?”

Magliore held her eyes for several long beats, as if deciding whether to even answer her.

“Do you understand?” Lia repeated in a deceptively soft tone.

After another moment he inclined his head. “Oui. I understand perfectly, Miss Charles.”

“Good.” Lia nodded briskly, then glanced at her watch. “Dinner will be here shortly. Everyone usually walks to the main lodge for breakfast, lunch and dinner, but since we arrived so late this evening, we’re getting our meal delivered right to our front door. I hope you’re hungry, because it’s going to be quite a spread. One of the top White House stewards is on staff for the duration of the summer.”

“I look forward to it,” Magliore murmured. “Are there many others on the property at this time? It seems a little deserted.”

“It is—for now. Sometime tomorrow we’re expecting a delegation of high-ranking military officials for a three-day intelligence summit that couldn’t be rescheduled. We tried to keep the number of guests as low as possible, to minimize the risk of your exposure. Only a few people know that you’re here, and we’d like to keep it that way.”

Magliore smiled faintly. “Am I to wear a disguise for the next ten days? Dark sunglasses and a fake mustache?”

Lia chuckled softly. “That won’t be necessary. We’ve managed to keep the story out of the media, so even if someone were to recognize you over the next several days—which is a very remote possibility—they wouldn’t know why you were here anyway. Like I said, your presence in the United States is highly classified information that only a select few are privy to.”

When Magliore nodded wordlessly, she said, “If you’d like to shower and change before dinner, you’ll find everything you need in your bathroom. Towels, soap, toothpaste, shaving cream—whatever you need.”

Again he nodded, already starting toward one of two doorways that opened off the living room. Suddenly he stopped, looking expectantly at her over his shoulder. “Aren’t you coming?”

Lia stared at him, nonplussed. “Where?”

He frowned a little. “I was under the impression you would be guarding me at all times.” He paused. “Even when I’m taking a shower.”

Lia felt her cheeks grow warm at the thought of herself posted outside his shower stall, trying not to peek through the steamy glass door as ribbons of water sluiced down his hard, sculpted chest and taut abdomen before rolling down those long, powerful legs.

Her mouth went dry. “I, ah, don’t think that will be necessary. I’ll be right outside your bedroom door if you, ah, need me.”

Magliore nodded, a ghost of a smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “I won’t be long.”

“Take all the time you need,” Lia muttered to his retreating back.

When the bedroom door had closed firmly behind him, she let out a long, shuddering breath.

At that moment, with her pulse hammering wildly and her knees shaking, she realized that extracting Armand Magliore from the dark, treacherous jungles of Muwaiti had been the easy part.

Resisting her attraction to him would test the very limits of her endurance.

Dinner, as Armand discovered that evening, was everything Lia had promised it would be.

The lavish meal—prime rib, lobster, herbed potatoes and exotic pasta dishes he’d never heard of before—was far more palatable than anything he’d eaten in the past year during his self-imposed exile to the jungles of Muwaiti. And being seated at a table draped in fine linen made him feel almost civilized again.

The only thing that would have made the meal perfect, in his opinion, was having Lia as his only dinner companion.

He’d wanted her all to himself, but she’d made sure that they were joined by the other three Secret Service agents—no doubt to serve as a buffer between her and Armand. He didn’t know whether to be offended or encouraged by the fact that she thought she needed a buffer from him.

After she put him in his place earlier, he couldn’t help wondering if he’d only imagined the attraction between them, the powerful connection he’d sensed back at the cabin in Muwaiti.

But then he’d watched her reaction when he had asked her whether she would be guarding him while he took a shower. It was an outrageous question, one he’d fully expected to receive another tongue lashing for. But she hadn’t berated him. Instead he’d watched as a telltale flush spread across her cheeks, as those luminous, dark eyes turned smoky with desire while she tried her damnedest not to imagine him naked.

He’d grown instantly aroused.

And he’d reveled in the knowledge that she felt it, too. An explosive chemistry between them that promised unparalleled heights of ecstasy.

Now, as he watched Lia laughing and conversing with the other three agents, his irritation grew. It was the same way he’d felt that morning when he had watched one of her men, the big one they called Dutch, pick her up and swing her around the briefing room. Armand had been seized with a fierce, primal urge to march over and snatch Lia out of his arms, then give the man a vicious left hook that would have made him wish he were back in the jungle fending off Biassou’s mercenaries. Armand knew he had no right to feel so damn possessive over Lia, but he couldn’t help himself. She’d haunted his dreams for so long, he felt that she already belonged to him.

Never mind that, until about a week ago, she hadn’t even known that he existed.

The sound of her soft, smoky voice pulled him out of his reverie. “Would you like more potatoes?”

Armand looked at her. She held the serving spoon, poised to give him another helping of potatoes. Oddly touched by the simple gesture, he nodded, though he’d already stuffed himself and couldn’t conceive of swallowing another bite of food.

“Do you like sports?” asked the agent to his right, a black man with a smooth, bald head who’d introduced himself earlier as Will Cosgrove.

“I don’t follow American football, if that’s what you’re asking,” Armand replied, because they’d been talking about their favorite football teams throughout dinner. Lia, Armand noted, not only watched football, but was an avid fan who could hold her own when it came to analyzing and discussing the various teams’ strengths and weaknesses.

“You must like soccer,” Cosgrove said to Armand, determined to engage him in conversation. “Isn’t that the most popular sport in Muwaiti?”

“It is.” Armand hesitated, then, making an effort to be sociable, he added, “But basketball’s catching on there, too. There’s been talk about forming an Olympic basketball team.”

“No kidding?” Cosgrove and the other two agents exchanged vaguely amused glances. “No offense, but it’ll be a long while before your team could compete with ours. We’ve still got the best players in the world, I don’t care what anyone says.”

“I applaud your confidence,” Armand said blandly. “If nothing else.”

The others laughed at the subtle barb.

“Yeah, well, we’ll see who’s laughing after the Olympics,” Cosgrove grumbled.

“I’m sure Mr. Magliore has better things to do with his time than watch sports,” Lia said quietly, meeting Armand’s steady gaze across the table. “Like doing his part to ensure a better future for the people of Muwaiti.”

“Good point,” Cosgrove said sheepishly.

When they finished eating, Lia invited Armand and the other agents to join her in a friendly game of poker. Recognizing the ploy for what it was, Armand politely declined. Before he retired to his bedroom, however, his eyes met hers in a look that silently communicated to her that she couldn’t run from him forever.

She glanced away quickly.

Now, as Armand lay in bed, staring up at the darkened ceiling, a slow, satisfied smile curved his mouth.

Lia Charles challenged him like no other.

And nothing fueled Armand more than a challenge.

But pursuing her was more than a game to him. Contrary to what she believed, he wasn’t looking for a meaningless diversion or merely passing the time until the United Nations hearing. He wasn’t interested in having just any warm, willing body in his bed.

He wanted Lia because she aroused and captivated him, and he knew that they could bring each other indescribable pleasure.

He wanted her because she’d been embedded in his soul ever since he had first laid eyes on her.

He wanted her because he no longer knew what it was like not to.

Armand was a patient man. He’d dreamed about Lia for eight long, torturous years, never imagining that he’d see her again.

Eight years.

He could definitely wait a few more days—hell, even a week—to break through the barrier she had erected between them.

He knew that what awaited him on the other side would be nothing short of paradise.

Chapter 4

Saturday, September 6, 2008
0100 hours
Muwaiti
Presidential Palace
Day 2

Alexandre Biassou could not sleep.

He paced up and down the vast marble floor of his private sanctuary—the only section of the palace that servants dared not tread without his permission.

It had been nearly two hours since he’d received word that the mercenaries he’d contracted to assassinate rebel leader Armand Magliore had been killed.

All but one man had been annihilated by the Special Forces unit sent by the American government.

Even after ordering the beheading of the lone survivor—who’d whimpered and pleaded for his miserable life—Alexandre was still seething with fury. According to the information he’d obtained from the sniveling man, the American extraction team had been led by a woman, of all things.

A woman.

The very notion that he’d been thwarted by a mere female curdled Alexandre’s stomach. That’s what was wrong with the godforsaken country in the first place. It was run by women!

First they had allowed one of them to serve as secretary of state. But they hadn’t learned from that mistake, promoting yet another woman to the same position nine years later. As if that weren’t grievous enough, they’d allowed two successive women to preside on the nation’s highest court for nearly thirty years. And then, to add insult to injury, the country had elected a woman to become president!

Imbeciles.

And they considered themselves a respectable superpower? Nonsense!

With less than two years remaining in her current term as president, the old shrew had trained her sights on Muwaiti. To strengthen her bid for reelection, she’d had the unmitigated audacity to petition the United Nations to impose tougher economic sanctions on the country if Alexandre did not end what she called his “bloody reign of terror and violence.” Like the ceaseless harping of a fishwife, her shrill demands for justice for the people of Muwaiti had finally gotten the attention of the international community. Within the last year, exportation of Muwaitian goods had declined drastically as a result of aggressive trade sanctions imposed by spineless leaders who sided with the American president. Muwaiti’s economy was suffering, and tourism was at an all-time low.

All because of one interfering woman.

And now, to learn that he’d been foiled by yet another female was almost more than Alexandre could stomach. Thanks to that whore, Armand Magliore had made it safely out of Muwaiti—the very thing Alexandre had wanted to prevent!

“She fought like a warrior,” the wounded mercenary had whispered before he died. He had been with the men who pursued Magliore and the warrior-woman through the jungle. Six had been on foot, six had arrived minutes later in a jeep. And then there were the eight men who’d stayed behind at the cabin to fend off the Americans.

How had twenty assassins been taken out by an army of six?

Merde!

Jaw clenched, Alexandre stood at the windows with his hands clasped tightly behind his back and surveyed the dense jungle canopy that stretched for miles beyond the impenetrable walls of his fortress, a sprawling palace built of stone and glass and furnished with all the trappings of wealth. Far grander than anything inhabited by even the richest man on the island.

The thought brought him no consolation on this dark night.

Armand Magliore had been a thorn in his flesh for the past two years, ever since he’d defected from the Muwaitian army and formed an underground resistance movement to oust Alexandre from power.

For as long as he lived, Alexandre would remember the day of Magliore’s treacherous defection. It was the same day Alexandre had nearly lost his own life.

Long before Alexandre was introduced to Armand Magliore, he’d heard of the brash young warrior. The other soldiers had grumbled about his brooding intensity and maverick ways, while infatuated young girls whispered about his dark good looks every time he passed them on the street. Magliore, the firstborn son of a tobacco farmer, had joined the Muwaitian army at the age of seventeen to help support his family, whom he’d looked after since his father’s death. Though he possessed the keen intelligence of a scholar, Magliore had lacked the means to pay for an education. Fortunately for him, Francois Seligny, the former Muwaitian president, had believed in overcompensating soldiers for serving their country. Magliore had received a degree in engineering from the local university and kept his family afloat with the generous stipend he earned from the military.

Seligny, Alexandre later learned, had taken the promising young soldier under his wing, treating him like the son he’d never had. It was even rumored that Magliore would eventually marry the president’s eldest daughter, a match undoubtedly conceived by Seligny himself.

When Alexandre had stopped to consider all that he had taken from Armand Magliore, he realized it was no wonder the rebel leader despised him so much. Not only had Alexandre killed the man Magliore regarded as a mentor, but in so doing, he had ruined Magliore’s chance at happiness with the beautiful young woman he’d reportedly loved. After Seligny’s assassination, his wife and daughters had fled the country, vowing never to return. Magliore, Alexandre had assumed, must have been heartbroken.

He’d known all of this on the day he had ordered Magliore to drive him into the village on a personal errand. He’d wanted to exercise his authority over the surly young man, teach him that no matter what he thought of his new president, he had to honor, respect and obey him—or suffer the consequences.

But more than anything else, he’d wanted to break Magliore’s spirit.

When they had arrived at his mistress’s home that afternoon, Alexandre had forced Magliore to stand outside in the sweltering heat while he entered the inviting coolness of the house. After making love to his mistress several times and enjoying a sumptuous meal fit for a king, Alexandre had emerged hours later to find Magliore standing in the same spot where he’d left him—his posture erect, his uniform still dry, his face expressionless.

Alexandre had been enraged.

Watching from the open doorway, his mistress—that faithless whore!—had laughed and joked that Magliore, who’d demonstrated remarkable stamina, should join them in bed the next time.

Alexandre had wanted to strangle her. If he hadn’t thought Magliore would intervene, he would have.

During the long ride back to the palace, he’d deliberately taunted the young soldier, denouncing everything from his family to his blind devotion to Francois Seligny. Throughout the vicious verbal attack, Magliore had kept his eyes on the road and his hand steady on the steering wheel. The longer he remained silent and aloof, the more abusive Alexandre had become.

But no matter what he had said, no matter how offensive the slur, he could not goad Magliore into retaliating.

So he’d let down his guard.

Filled with good food and wine, and drowsy from hours of kinky sex with his mistress, he’d eventually dozed off in the backseat of the limousine.

He had been awakened by the cold, razor-thin blade of a knife pressed against his carotid artery. And the demon eyes that bored into his had been filled with lethal retribution.

It had been like something straight out of Alexandre’s worst nightmare.

He’d swallowed convulsively, feeling the sharp blade of the knife dig deeper into the soft folds of his flesh. “W-what are you doing?” he had demanded.

Magliore had smiled, cold and deadly. “Je vous déteste,” he had said, his voice a silky, dangerous caress that razored along Alexandre’s nerve endings. “I could slice your throat right now, from ear to ear, and not think twice about it. You deserve no less, you filthy son of a bitch.”

“You would never get away with it,” Alexandre had said with an implacable calm that disguised the shameful trembling in his knees. “My men would find you and kill you, then hang your rotting corpse from a tree in the town square.”

Unfazed, Magliore had arched an amused brow. “Before or after they pillage your palace and make off with all your riches?”

Alexandre had clamped his lips together, not even bothering to defend his militia. He knew all too well about their reputation as “gun-toting hooligans masquerading as soldiers,” as one acerbic American journalist had described them. Lawless, undisciplined men, who strutted around town brandishing their big weapons, lording their authority over everyone, stealing whatever they pleased and terrorizing poor farmers and merchants who were merely trying to provide for their struggling families.

Alexandre had known that his soldiers’ loyalty to him was based on fear, not respect or admiration. He had also known that if Magliore killed him and installed himself as de facto leader, the Muwaitian soldiers would fall under his command as easily as they’d fallen under Alexandre’s in the wake of Seligny’s assassination.

All this had gone through his mind as he stared into Magliore’s cold, feral eyes and saw the promise of his own death mirrored there.

Through the window to his left, Alexandre could see that they were parked along a narrow, deserted road flanked by dense jungle, miles from his estate. Magliore could have cut his throat and dumped him out here and no one would have ever found his body—at least not before the wild animals did their work.

Had that been Magliore’s plan? Had he been plotting this all along? Had Alexandre unwittingly facilitated his own murder by ordering Magliore to drive him into the village that afternoon, leaving himself alone and at the complete mercy of a madman?

After what had seemed an eternity, Magliore had finally spoken again. “I’m leaving your godforsaken militia,” he said, low and icy. “If you try to stop me, or if you harm a single member of my family, I will hunt you down and kill you. If you think for one minute that I could never make it past your armed guards, think again. Recognize this knife?”

Alexandre’s gaze had dropped to the pearl-handled knife at his throat, and his stomach plummeted sickeningly. He had recognized it. It had once belonged to Francois Seligny—one of many things Alexandre had stolen from him.

The irony of him being murdered with Seligny’s weapon had not been lost on him, nor on Magliore.

A malevolent gleam had filled the young rebel’s eyes. “I took the knife from under your bed last night—while you were sleeping.”

Alexandre had felt a chill at his words. The knowledge that Magliore had been prowling around in his bedroom while Alexandre slept—oblivious to the presence of an intruder, oblivious to the mortal danger he was in—had sent fear lancing down his spine, along with a healthy dose of outrage.

How had Magliore invaded the palace so easily? Where had the palace guards been? If Alexandre survived this terrible ordeal, he had vowed, heads would roll!

Magliore had leaned down and whispered softly in his ear, “Remember this every time you lay down to sleep, diable. I spared your life not once, but twice. I promise you that the next time we meet, I will not be so generous.”

Alexandre had closed his eyes, refusing to give Magliore the satisfaction of seeing the immense relief he felt reflected in his eyes.

When he opened them again, Magliore had vanished. Taking Seligny’s knife—and Alexandre’s false sense of security—with him.

To this day, he could not climb into bed without hearing Magliore’s threat whispering through his mind, taunting him. He’d never breathed a word of his near-death encounter to anyone. It sickened him to realize how close he’d come to losing his life, simply because he’d underestimated the extent of Magliore’s hatred for him.

He would not make that mistake again.

Not that it really matters anymore, he thought bitterly. If Magliore were allowed to testify before the United Nations on September fifteenth, Alexandre would be ruined. Not only would he be removed as president of Muwaiti, but he’d also be imprisoned—possibly executed.

He couldn’t let that happen.

He wouldn’t.

Alexandre had worked too hard to get where he was to have it all snatched away by some traitorous dissenter. He had no intention of relinquishing control of Muwaiti.

Not without a fight. A fight he fully intended to win.

Through the high arched windows, Alexandre watched as a small brigade of armed guards patrolled the vast grounds of the estate. After the nightmare ordeal with Magliore, Alexandre had tightened security measures at the palace, taking no chances. He knew there were others, like Magliore, who opposed his regime and would do anything to overthrow him, even if it meant taking his life.

Since illegally seizing control of Muwaiti four years ago, Alexandre had not fared very well in the court of public opinion. He was vilified as a ruthless dictator. An uncivilized brute. A greedy, bloodthirsty tyrant who was unable, and unwilling, to heed the counsel of others, especially if it threatened his own agenda.

So against his better judgment, Alexandre had followed the advice of his political advisor, who’d warned him that assassinating Armand Magliore would plunge the already beleaguered country into a state of pure anarchy.

Magliore’s brazen defection from the Muwaitian army two years ago had earned him thousands of loyal followers—weak, pathetic souls who came to regard him as their hero, their modern-day savior. Magliore represented everything Alexandre Biassou did not have—righteousness, integrity, goodness and valor. As long as the charismatic rebel leader remained alive, valiantly fighting for the cause of the Muwaitian people, they could hold on to their futile hopes and dreams for a brighter, more prosperous future.

As Magliore’s popularity grew, as he successfully mobilized a growing number of dissidents, Alexandre had wanted nothing more than to capture and publicly execute the insolent traitor, making him an example to anyone who dared to defy Alexandre’s authority.

But his advisor had warned him against taking such action.

“If you kill him, he will become a martyr. And nothing destroys a kingdom faster than the looming specter of a martyr.”

So Alexandre had proved his critics wrong, and heeded the man’s counsel.

For over a year he’d allowed Magliore and his coarse band of freedom fighters to lead their demonstrations and revolts, many of which ended in violent clashes with members of the Muwaitian army. Although he had lost several comrades along the way, Magliore had never backed down. If anything, he seemed to grow more defiant, more relentless in his crusade to overthrow Alexandre. It was as if the loss of each soldier strengthened him, giving him a renewed sense of purpose and commitment to his cause. And instead of blaming him for the senseless deaths of their sons and brothers, the Muwaitian people simply handed over more of their men to help in the fight.

Alexandre was infuriated. He had been severely tempted to disregard his advisor’s counsel and strike out, crushing Magliore beneath the heel of his boot like nothing more than an annoying insect. It didn’t help that in the back of his mind lingered a secret fear that Magliore would come back to finish what he’d started in the backseat of that limousine two years ago.

Get him before he gets me, Alexandre had often thought to himself.

And then the unthinkable happened.

Jean-Claude Baptiste, a high-ranking official in Alexandre’s party who was disgruntled over his limited share in Alexandre’s coffers, had turned on him. He’d gone straight to Magliore and told him everything he knew about Alexandre’s illegitimate presidency, including the most damaging part of all—Alexandre’s plot to assassinate the president of the United States.

By the time Alexandre had learned of Baptiste’s unspeakable treachery, it was too late. Magliore had already contacted the U.S. government and brokered a deal. His testimony against Alexandre in exchange for political asylum in America for his family.

Enraged, Alexandre had reacted swiftly and without mercy. He and his men had taken Baptiste out to the deepest, darkest bowels of the jungle and castrated him, leaving him there to slowly bleed to death. When Alexandre had returned an hour later, Baptiste had been gasping his last breath. Alexandre had spat in his face, then sliced open his chest and ripped out his heart. Baptiste’s mutilated remains had been left behind for predators to feast upon. His heart had been delivered to Armand Magliore with a note attached: This is what happens to traitors.

And then, for good measure, Alexandre had put a bullet between the eyes of his advisor.

If he had not heeded the foolish man’s advice in the first place, Magliore would have been dead and buried a long time ago. Instead he’d been allowed to run rampant, spreading his message of dissent among his oppressed countrymen, solidifying himself as one of Alexandre’s most formidable enemies.

Alexandre clenched his jaw. As evidence that Baptiste had been secretly devising his downfall for several months, he’d kept for himself indisputable proof of the assassination plot. After he was killed, a search of his residence had revealed a locked safe filled with taped phone conversations and audio recordings from clandestine strategy meetings that had taken place right inside the presidential palace. It was not known whether he had furnished copies of these items to Magliore before he died. In all likelihood, he had not. If the U.S. government were already in possession of irrefutable evidence of Alexandre’s guilt, he would already be in prison. No, they did not have the proof, he assured himself once again. They needed Magliore to appear before the United Nations Security Council and testify against Alexandre. Magliore was their secret weapon, their surprise witness. Without his official testimony, no charges could be brought against Alexandre.

He not only intended to keep Magliore from making it to that hearing, he intended to silence him permanently. As he should have done two years ago.

If only he could find capable assassins worthy of the task.

Alexandre ground his teeth. The bitter acid of bile churned in his stomach, rising in his mouth. His hands fisted so tightly that his nails dug into the calloused flesh of his palms. He didn’t so much as flinch.

There were two things on this earth Alexandre Biassou could not abide. One was cowardice.

The other was failure.

He may not have succeeded in his first attempt to eliminate the defector who posed the biggest threat to his future.

But Alexandre would not fail again. As far as he was concerned, failure was not an option.

Chapter 5

Sunday, September 7, 2008
0400 hours
Thurmont, Maryland
Day 3

Lia awakened at 4:00 a.m. to work out with the free weights and pull-up bar she’d set up in her room before going to bed the night before. As she went through her sets and reps, pushing her aching muscles to the limit, she watched as dawn broke over the Catoctin Mountains, spreading vivid flame in hues of orange and pink across the sky. It promised to be another beautiful day, one that almost made her wish she were at the scenic mountain retreat on vacation, instead of on assignment.

When she finished her workout, she showered and dressed in a crisp white button-down shirt and a pair of tan slacks. She’d washed her hair and blown it dry before she’d gone to bed. She now twisted it into a loose knot atop her head, then surveyed her reflection in the full-length mirror in the bathroom. She looked neat, sensible and professional—exactly what she’d been going for. God knows she didn’t want to give Armand Magliore any reason to find her attractive. Although, she noted grimly, her travel-worn appearance hadn’t seemed to make a difference at dinner last night. Every time she’d glanced across the table, she’d found Magliore watching her with that bold, possessive gaze. The heat he sent through his penetrating eyes surrounded her, leaving her with a liquid rush in unspeakable parts of her body.

She’d been secretly relieved when, after the meal, Magliore had not joined her and the others for poker, going to bed early instead. She’d waited until she could be sure he was asleep before she’d sent her colleagues on their way. And then she’d lain awake for hours, trying her damnedest not to think about the irresistibly sexy man in the room beside hers, trying not to imagine whether he slept in the nude. Of course, the more she tried not to imagine this, the more her mind wandered. She fantasized about sneaking into his room and sliding beneath his bedcovers to press her naked body against his hot, muscled flesh. He groaned huskily with pleasure and reached for her, cupping her buttocks and holding her tightly against his throbbing erection. She shivered, her clitoris swelling with arousal. She kissed his soft, sensuous lips and slipped her tongue inside his mouth as they writhed against each other.

Without breaking the kiss, Lia rose about him, straddled his hips and lowered herself onto his long, thick shaft. He swore hoarsely and began thrusting into her so hard and fast she nearly lost her balance astride him. But she held on tight for what would become the ride of her life.

The fantasy was so carnal, so real, that before long Lia found herself gasping for breath, two fingers pushed deep inside her body as she brought herself to a shuddering orgasm.

It had been a long night.

With a sigh of disgust, Lia slipped on a pair of low-heeled pumps and holstered her sidearm before heading out of the room.

It was still early, barely five-thirty. She hoped she had a few more hours to herself before Magliore woke up. She needed at least that much.

But as she stepped from her room, she noticed that his door was halfway open. She felt a slight twinge of disappointment.

So much for having a few hours to myself.

She paused in the doorway for a moment, listening for sounds of movement or running water within the room. It was silent.

She knocked softly. “Mr. Magliore?”

There was no answer.

Lia hesitated, then pushed the door all the way open and slowly entered the room. The large master suite had the same cozy, rustic furnishings as her own room, but it also featured a fireplace and a private seating area with two overstuffed chairs and an ottoman.

One half of the king-size bed was rumpled, the heavy comforter thrown back across the undisturbed side. On a wooden bench at the foot of the bed, a sturdy leather suitcase sat open, filled with the tasteful articles of clothing that had been purchased for Magliore before his arrival.

As Lia ventured farther inside the room, she prayed she wouldn’t stumble upon the man naked, or worse, answering the call of nature. How embarrassing would that be.

“Mr. Magliore?” she called out.

Still no answer.

The bathroom was empty.

The entire suite was empty.

Lia turned and headed quickly from the room. With a mounting sense of alarm, she checked the living room and the rustic, utilitarian kitchen near the back of the cabin.

Magliore was nowhere in sight.

Cursing under her breath, Lia reached for her sidearm and hurried toward the front door, adrenaline pumping through her veins. Her mind raced with possible scenarios of what had happened to him, foremost that he’d been kidnapped by Biassou’s mercenaries in the dead of night and taken somewhere to be tortured and killed.

Oh, God. Please not that!

Lia threw open the front door and burst onto the wraparound porch.

She was brought up short by the sight of Armand Magliore standing at the wooden balustrade that curved around the wide porch. His back was turned to her, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his dark jeans, as he stared out at the forested hills and mountains in the distance.

At her sudden appearance, he glanced over his shoulder. His lazy gaze ran the length of her, skimming over the service revolver gripped in her right hand before returning to her face.

“Good morning,” he said softly.

The adrenaline ebbed from her system, replaced by an overwhelming surge of relief—and anger.

“Good morning?” Lia echoed in disbelief. “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

He arched an amused brow at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“I thought you’d been kidnapped by Biassou’s men,” she burst out. “I thought they’d broken into the cabin in the middle of the night and snatched you out of bed. I thought you might already be dead!”

A ghost of a smile lifted the corners of his sensuous mouth. As he turned slowly to face her, Lia couldn’t help noticing how nicely his jeans fit him, riding low on his lean hips and clinging to the hard, sculpted muscles of his thighs and buttocks.

Did the infuriating man have to be so damn sexy?

“As you can see,” he murmured, “I’m very much alive.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Lia snapped. She holstered her weapon, glaring at him. “What the hell are you doing out here by yourself, anyway?”

“I wanted to watch the sun rise. It’s a simple pleasure I haven’t enjoyed in over a year.”

Something in the quiet admission made Lia feel guilty for yelling at him. Which only angered her more. “Yeah, well, I hope it was worth risking your life for,” she said testily.

“Oh, it was, believe me. It was the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in a long time.” Gazing at her, he added huskily, “Second only to you.”

Her heart thumped, and she swallowed with difficulty. Refusing to yield to the jagged need suddenly flooding her system, Lia returned his gaze steadily. “In the future,” she said, her voice carefully controlled, “please refrain from leaving the cabin unattended. My job is to protect you, but I can’t do that very well if you insist on wandering off alone.”

Magliore inclined his head. “Fair enough.”

“Thank you.”

Slightly mollified that he’d acquiesced so easily, Lia made her way across the wide porch to join him at the railing. She felt his eyes on her as she took a deep breath of cool, clean air, scented with pine and cedar and the soft perfumes of a dozen wildflowers in late-summer bloom. In the distance, the sunlight spilled over the shoulders of the Catoctin Mountains like liquid gold. Halfway up the side of the mountain range, an eagle soared above the tops of the Douglas fir and pine trees, wings outstretched as it climbed higher and higher in the air.

Lia watched in silence, letting the peace and beauty of her surroundings seep into her, if only for a few moments.

“Just for the record,” she murmured, “it was a breathtaking sunrise.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Magliore smile at her. “You watched it, too?”

“Yes. I watched it from a window in my room. I believe yours has one, too. A window, I mean.”

He chuckled softly. “Touché.”

“I don’t even know how you slipped past me,” Lia grumbled irately, unwilling to drop the subject. “I’ve been up for over an hour. I didn’t hear you get up or sneak past my door.”

He flashed a mischievous grin. “I can be very stealthy when I want to be.”

Lia frowned. “That may be true, but what about the security alarm? The control panel is supposed to emit a signal every time someone leaves or enters the cabin.” Her eyes narrowed suspiciously on his handsome face. “I read in your dossier that you’re very adept at taking things apart and putting them back together. Did you do something to that alarm?”

Again he chuckled. “I assure you, Miss Charles, I didn’t touch the alarm.”

Lia’s frown deepened. She’d secured the cabin before going to bed last night, and the alarm had been working just fine. Had someone else tampered with it? She and the other three agents were the only ones who had access to the cabin, and she couldn’t imagine any of them sneaking over in the middle of the night to disable the security system.

Don’t overreact, Lia. Maybe there’s a simple explanation for what happened. Maybe one of the wires had a short circuit.

“Let’s go back inside,” she said to Magliore, who was watching her intently. “I can make some coffee before we walk down to the lodge to have breakfast in an hour.”

“Sounds good,” he murmured. Gently he cupped her elbow and steered her toward the open doorway of the cabin, the warmth of his strong fingers penetrating the thin cotton of her blouse. Lia was too distracted by the mystery of the malfunctioning alarm to notice.

Or at least that’s what she told herself.

A thorough inspection of the alarm control panel revealed nothing amiss.

After questioning the other agents, who were equally baffled by what had happened, Lia got on the phone with her immediate supervisor in Washington. Nancy Janikowski was in charge of protective services for foreign heads of state, ambassadors and other visiting dignitaries. As team leader, she also served as liaison for agents in the field.

“Given how old those cabins are, you’re bound to have some issues with faulty wiring,” Janikowski said after hearing what had happened.

“How soon can you get someone out here to look into it?” Lia asked.

“It may take a day or two. I’ll put in a call as soon as I get off the phone with you.”

Lia nodded. It wasn’t quite the answer she’d been hoping for, but she knew there was nothing she could do about it.

All thirty cabins on the property were equipped with high-tech security systems that were networked to an off-site central command center. The alarms were largely viewed as a last line of defense, and a thin one at that. The rationale was that if any unauthorized person, such as a terrorist, somehow breached all the security protocols and made it past the marine guard patrols stationed at various checkpoints on the property, an alarm would be sounded long before the intruder reached any of the cabins.

For that reason, no one at headquarters would consider it a priority to dispatch an electrician to investigate faulty wiring at a cabin that would be vacated in less than ten days anyway.

Lia knew it, and so did Janikowski.

“Try to relax a little, Lia. You’re at one of the safest places in the world.”

“I know,” Lia murmured.

The rural mountain retreat was so secure that most agents felt comfortable giving their protectees more freedom and privacy. During a previous assignment, in which Lia had been a member of the protection detail for a Lebanese sheikh and his wife, the couple was allowed to go on long, leisurely walks while Lia and the other agents followed at a distance of a hundred yards. As long as the couple remained in their sight, the agents believed they were more than safe.

The difference between then and now, Lia reminded herself, was that Armand Magliore was no visiting dignitary. He was a hunted man. Hunted by a ruthless tyrant who would stop at nothing to keep Magliore from testifying against him. It would be foolish to underestimate Alexandre Biassou, to think the danger had passed simply because they were no longer on his turf. Lia had been trained to anticipate the impossible, to leave nothing to chance. As long as Magliore remained in her custody, she would do everything in her power to keep him safe.

Nothing less would do.

As if reading her mind, Janikowski said, “President Fordham expects us to take very good care of Magliore, to make sure all of his needs are met. Whatever he wants, we’re to give it to him—within reason, of course. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Lia said.

“Good.” There was a light tapping on the other end, and Lia could imagine Janikowski seated in her tidy little office back in D.C., drumming her lacquered fingernails on the glass-topped surface of her equally tidy desk.

Even before she spoke again, Lia braced herself to receive news she wouldn’t like. “You know Fordham will be traveling a lot over the next two months,” Janikowski began. “Giving speeches, making her rounds at all the party conferences and caucuses, meeting with the labor unions, making her final push before the November election.”

Lia shook her head at the beamed ceiling of her bedroom, where she’d retreated to make her phone call after breakfast. “Don’t tell me. You’re pulling the other agents from this assignment.”

“Just for a few days. McManus says they’re needed back on the presidential detail. You know how this works. It’s an election year, and we’re already stretched pretty thin as it is. What can you do?”

“Not much, apparently,” Lia muttered.

But she knew Janikowski was right. Burdened by the White House’s wartime security needs and the persistent threat of terrorism, the Secret Service had been showing considerable strain even before the current election year. Since September 11, the number of individuals granted Secret Service protection had doubled to include top White House aides such as the chief of staff, and national and Homeland Security advisors. In recent years, the agency had taken on additional Homeland Security jobs, which forced it to cut back on traditional financial fraud and cybercrime investigations. The reality was that the Secret Service’s duties had grown faster than its funding, which meant that the agency’s already stretched personnel and resources were going to be stretched even further in the years to come.

“If I didn’t think you’d be okay on your own for a few days, believe me, I’d have gone right back to McManus and raised hell. But you’re one of our best agents, Lia. If anyone can keep Armand Magliore alive and well, you can.”

Lia snorted. “With all due respect,” she said dryly, “resorting to flattery is so beneath you.”

Janikowski laughed. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I couldn’t resist trying, anyway. And it’s not like I was stretching the truth. You are one of the best, which is why you were handpicked for this assignment. We both know—” Just then her secretary’s voice could be heard in the background. Janikowski’s answer was muffled as she covered the mouthpiece with her hand.

She returned to the phone a moment later. “Hey, Lia, I’ve gotta run to a meeting. I’ll get someone out there to look into the faulty wiring as soon as possible. I promise. If you need anything else, you know how to reach me.”

“Thanks,” Lia said, before disconnecting.

When she opened her bedroom door and stepped back into the living room, she found Magliore standing near the fireplace, his posture rigid as he stared hard at the television, which was tuned to the twenty-four-hour cable news network. As Magliore watched the news broadcast, he wore an expression of lethal fury mingled with stark anguish. Lia was so startled by his appearance that it took her several moments to realize what the reporter was talking about, and when it finally registered, she had to suppress a horrified gasp.

“…Once again, I’m reporting live from the capital city of Port le Duc, where early this morning Muwaitian soldiers opened fire on a group of civilians, killing eight and wounding two. According to Muwaitian officials, the soldiers were provoked into violence by an angry mob of protesters issuing threats against President Alexandre Biassou—”

“That’s a damn lie!” Magliore exploded. In a fit of violent rage, he swept his arm across the fireplace mantel, sending a glass bowl of pine potpourri and a collection of wooden knickknacks crashing to the floor.

Lia held herself perfectly still. “Mr. Magliore—” she began quietly.

“They’re lying through their goddamn teeth,” he roared, upending the heavy wooden ottoman and scattering a stack of glossy coffee-table books. “Those soldiers weren’t provoked into anything. They killed those innocent people because that sadistic son of a bitch ordered them to do it—to send a message to me!”

Lia’s heart constricted with sympathy and a shared sense of outrage. “I’m sorry,” she murmured gently. She hesitated, then took a step toward him. “I wish there was something I could do.”

Magliore met her concerned gaze, his eyes cold and hard with controlled rage. “I have unfinished business with Alexandre Biassou,” he said in a low, flat tone that spoke volumes about violence and retribution. “Can you get me on the next plane to Muwaiti so that I can finish what I should have done a long time ago?”

A faint shiver passed through Lia. “You know I can’t do that,” she said softly.

A shadow of cynicism twisted his mouth. “Then there’s nothing you can do for me.” Without another word, he stormed past her and slammed out of the cabin.

Chapter 6

Lia waited a full minute before going after him, wanting to give him a moment of privacy, hoping that he wouldn’t venture beyond the porch.

She should have known better.

By the time she caught up to him, he was heading away from the cabin and down a densely wooded walking trail.

She fell in step beside him, lengthening her strides to match his own. He cut her a hard sideways glance.

“I’d like to be alone for a while.” He bit off his words.

Lia shook her head. “I can’t leave you alone. Not while you’re out here.”

He clenched his jaw, but said nothing more.

They lapsed into silence, punctuated by the faint rustling of leaves, the soft chatter of birds in the trees and the occasional piercing cry of an eagle soaring overhead.

After several minutes, Lia hazarded a glance at Magliore’s stony profile. “I’m a very good listener,” she offered quietly.

He gave her a mocking glance. “I don’t need a friend or confidante, Miss Charles. And unless I’m mistaken, neither of those duties fall under your job description.”

Lia ignored the barb. “You’ve had a terrible shock. I can only imagine—”

“Yes,” he growled, suddenly whirling on her, his tiger eyes flashing with fury. “That’s all you can do, Miss Charles. You don’t know what my people are going through, or how much they’re suffering. You can only imagine. So do us both a favor, and spare me the empty rhetoric.”

As he started away again, Lia reached out quickly, grabbing his arm. The look he impaled her with would have sent Goliath running for the hills, but Lia stood her ground.

“You’re right,” she said solemnly. “Beyond what I’ve read in the papers or watched on television, I don’t know what your countrymen are going through. I’ve witnessed their suffering from a safe distance, through the cloudy lens of an outsider. But believe me when I tell you that I am truly saddened by what is happening in Muwaiti. I would not trivialize your pain, or that of your people, with empty rhetoric.”

Magliore fell silent, a muscle ticking in his jaw as he stared at something over her head. He gave no indication he’d even heard what she said.

Lia had a sudden impulse to reach up and touch his face, to soothe his restless spirit, to ease the bitter torment reflected in his thick-lashed eyes.

Instead she dropped her hand from his rigid arm and nervously moistened her lips. “You may be surprised to know that I once visited Muwaiti,” she told him casually.

His gaze flicked to hers, but he didn’t speak.

“It was about eight years ago,” Lia continued, undaunted by his brooding silence. “I was twenty years old, on my second summer tour with the peace corps. We stayed at this cozy little hotel in Port le Duc that served the best rum punch on the island—which was an important selling point to us, being college students and all.” She gave a soft, reminiscent chuckle.

Magliore didn’t even crack a smile.

“Anyway,” she forged ahead, “we were only there for two weeks. Long enough for me to fall in love with the beautiful island, the gracious people, the rich, vibrant culture. And the food. God, I loved the food. We divided our time between volunteering at the clinic and delivering medications to elderly people in the village who couldn’t get around on their own. It was a wonderful experience. I met an old Creole woman, who reminded me a little of my grandmother, and when I spoke French to her, she swore I was her long lost granddaughter!” Lia laughed at the memory, and this time she noticed a slight softening in Magliore’s expression as he stared down at her.

She was suddenly determined to break all the way through that impenetrable mask. “No matter how late it was when we returned to our hotel,” she continued, “I never missed dinner. I’m telling you, I must have gained at least fifteen pounds during those two weeks alone!”

Wry humor tugged at the corners of his mouth. “I doubt that very seriously.”

Lia grinned at him. “Well, not for lack of trying, that’s for damn sure. Anyway, I didn’t want to leave Muwaiti. I was very sad when it was time for us to go. Don’t laugh, but I felt like something was compelling me to stay, almost like I’d be leaving a part of myself behind if I left the island.”

She felt, rather than saw, Magliore stiffen imperceptibly at those words. He studied her in a silence that vibrated like electricity between their bodies, his eyes probing hers, searching for something she couldn’t begin to decipher.

Inexplicably, her palms grew damp. “As our plane took off that morning,” she said, unable to break eye contact with him, “I looked out the window and, right then and there, I vowed to return to Muwaiti someday.”

“And you did,” Magliore said, ever so softly. “You did return.”

Lia nodded. “I did. Though not exactly in the capacity I’d always envisioned,” she said ruefully.

“Life can be that way sometimes,” Magliore murmured. “Unpredictable.”

Again she nodded, feeling strangely off balance. It was a feeling that had become all too familiar within the last two days—ever since she’d met Armand Magliore.

“Needless to say,” she continued, finally dragging her gaze away from his and focusing on a point beyond his right shoulder, “I was stunned when, four years later, I learned about the assassination of President Seligny, who had so graciously welcomed us into his country. The news came as a horrible shock to all of us who had met him personally during our stay there. To know that Alexandre Biassou may have been responsible—”

“There’s no may have about it,” Magliore interrupted curtly. “He was responsible for murdering Seligny. And I intend to make him pay.”

Lia met the lethal intent in his gaze, and a fine chill ran through her. “You’ll get your chance at the hearing,” she reminded him.

Magliore smiled, a cold, predatory smile that sent a whisper of warning through her. “Oh, I will get my chance. Hearing or not.”

Lia held his gaze unflinchingly. “I hope you’re not planning anything foolish. Alexandre Biassou is not worth losing your freedom over—or your life.”

Magliore shook his head slowly at her. “That’s where you’re wrong, Miss Charles. Because of Biassou, I’ve already lost my freedom. And my life…Well, my life bears no resemblance whatsoever to the one I knew before he seized control of my homeland. So the way I see it, I’ve got nothing to lose, and everything to gain, by ridding the world of him once and for all.”

“You have nothing to lose?” Lia challenged hotly. “What about your family?”

Something like pain flickered in his eyes, disappearing as swiftly as it had appeared. “My family,” he said evenly, “has been through more than you could ever imagine. No matter what happens from now on, they will survive.”

Before Lia could respond, he gently placed a finger against her parted lips. Heat shot through her veins as he said silkily, “Let’s not continue this unpleasant conversation, chère. I can see that it’s troubling you, and that’s the last thing I want to do.”

Lia jerked her head away, dangerously close to overheating from his touch. “I’m fine. You’re the one I’m concerned about.”

Magliore’s eyes glinted with amusement. “If I didn’t know better, Miss Charles, I would think you actually care whether I live or die.”

“Of course I care,” she grumbled. “It’s my job to care.”

“Your job. Right. Of course. And I suppose it’s also because of your job that you looked positively terrified this morning when you thought I had been abducted and murdered by Biassou’s henchmen.”

“That’s right.” Unnerved by the knowing gleam in his eyes, Lia added glibly, “Besides, I don’t want to go down in Secret Service history as the first agent to lose a protectee on only the second day of the assignment.”

Magliore threw back his head and laughed, a strong, deep sound that rumbled up from his chest and made her toes curl inside her pumps.

Clearing her throat, Lia averted her gaze, staring down the path of the wooded trail they’d been following. “Would you like to continue walking, or are you ready to return to the cabin?”

“You mean, I have a choice?” Magliore asked, managing to sound both skeptical and amused.

This time Lia laughed. “Of course you have a choice! You’re not a prisoner, Mr. Magliore. I don’t intend to keep you locked inside the cabin for the next nine days. In fact, you may go anywhere and do anything you want on these grounds—as long as you remain in my sight at all times. Do we have a deal?”

“Absolutely,” he murmured, his eyes searching hers. “You say I can go anywhere and do anything I want?”

Lia nodded.

“In that case, do you know what I’d like to do now?”

Lia could feel her pulse hammering at the base of her throat. She was almost afraid to ask, but she did anyway. “What would you like to do now?”

His gaze slid down her modest white blouse and simple tan slacks before easing back up to her face like a long caress. In a low, husky voice he said, “I’d like for you to remove that prim and proper outfit—”

Lia gasped.

“—and slip into something more comfortable so that we can, you know, go fishing.”

It took several moments for the rest of his words to register. “Fishing?” Lia echoed dumbly, staring at him. “You want to go fishing?”

Magliore nodded. “What did you think I was going to say?”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously on his handsome face, but his expression was innocent. Too innocent.

“Miss Charles?” he prompted, watching her expectantly. “Would you rather we do something else?”

“Oh, no!” Lia said so vehemently that he raised an amused brow at her. “We can go fishing. I don’t mind at all. I used to go fishing all the time with my father. It was fun. I’ll make the arrangements as soon as we get back to the cabin.”

As she fell in step beside Magliore once again, Lia took comfort in the knowledge that fishing was probably the only activity that not even this man could turn into a sexually charged undertaking.

With his arms folded behind his head and his long legs stretched out before him, Armand watched with a lazy smile as Lia, standing at the opposite end of their small motorboat, closed her eyes for a moment, whispered a quick prayer, then cast her fishing lure overboard. The bait-hook hit the water with a soft plop, setting off gentle ripples in the clear, sun-dappled lake.

“Come on, come on. Come to mama,” Lia muttered under her breath. Her lovely face was a study of concentration as she stared into the water, as if she were channeling all the trout beneath the surface of the lake to take the bait and come meet their demise.

“Third time’s the charm,” Armand called encouragingly to her.

Turning her head, she gave him a withering look. “I don’t need you to remind me that I’ve already failed in two previous attempts to catch any fish.”

Armand smothered a grin at her open hostility. “I was just trying to be supportive. But if you’d rather I didn’t, I’ll just sit here and enjoy the view.”

The view he was referring to had nothing to do with the idyllic beauty of their surroundings—the shimmering lake surrounded by lush green forest, set against a vivid blue sky. While impressive, the scenic landscape paled in comparison to the sight of Lia in a pair of dark blue jeans that showcased the lush swell of her bottom and molded those curvaceous, impossibly long legs of hers. They were the kind of legs that could wrap around a man’s waist and lead him straight to paradise, something Armand had fantasized about often enough over the past eight years.

She’d changed into a snug red T-shirt that offered enticing peeks of her midriff whenever she bent over or reached for something—which, thankfully, she’d been doing a lot during the last hour. Armand was hypnotized by the sliver of smooth, brown flesh that covered her flat, softly muscled belly. He wanted to touch her, wanted to run his fingers over her silky skin and cup her high, round breasts in his hands. He imagined leaning down and capturing a tight, dark nipple in his mouth, making her moan with pleasure as he suckled and caressed her with his tongue before lowering her body to the—

“Why is it,” said Lia, breaking into his steamy musings, “that I’m the one doing all the hard work when it was your idea to go fishing in the first place?”

Armand chuckled, trying like hell to ignore the throbbing ache in his groin. If he didn’t think she’d look over and catch him, he would have reached down and adjusted his jeans to relieve the straining at his zipper.

“Because we only have one fishing rod. And unless I’m mistaken,” he drawled, “you’re the one who kept bragging about what a skilled fisherman you are, how your father taught you everything he knew.”

“I am,” Lia insisted, scowling. “And he did. I’m just having an off day, that’s all. It’s been a while.”

She looked so adorably frustrated that Armand took pity on her. He started to sit up. “Here, let me hel—”

“No, no,” she said firmly. “I can do this. I’ll catch the fish, and you can clean and cook them for dinner. How does that sound?”

At the mention of dinner, Armand felt a surge of anticipation that had nothing to do with enjoying a delicious meal. He had another—far better—reason to look forward to dinner that evening.

He and Lia would be completely alone.

Earlier that morning, she’d informed him that the other Secret Service agents were being recalled to Washington to join the president’s protection detail. Armand had been thrilled to realize that he would have Lia all to himself for the next three days. Morning, noon and night, she would be his only companion, just as he’d wanted all along. It was almost too good to be true.

“I think I’ve got something!” Lia cried out excitedly.

Pulled from his pleasant contemplation of the evening ahead, Armand sat up, watching as Lia quickly reeled in her fishing lure. Sure enough, she had hooked a large silver trout weighing at least five pounds, a thing of beauty. But before she could haul it in, the fish wriggled free of the hook and splashed back into the water.

Lia watched, with an expression of abject dismay, as her prize catch swam away valiantly.

Armand waited a beat, then offered the first thing that came to mind. “At least you’re making progress. That trout was even bigger than the one you almost caught before.”

Lia gave him a look that told him, in no uncertain terms, just what he could do with his unsolicited feedback. Armand swallowed a bark of laughter.

“If Dad could see me now,” she grumbled, glaring at her fishing rod as if it were the source of all her troubles, “he would disown me.”

“Oh, I doubt that very seriously,” Armand drawled, reaching into the cooler on the floor beside him and pulling out two frosted beers. He twisted the cap off each bottle, then held one out to her. “Why don’t you take a short break? Sometimes all you need is a little time to regroup before getting back on the horse.”

Lia eyed the proffered beer for a moment, then, with a resigned sigh, she set down her fishing rod and came toward him.

Their fingers brushed as she took the cold bottle from his hand. Heat shot through his veins at the satin warmth of her skin. His body stirred with desire.

Oblivious to his reaction, Lia plunked down on the seat beside him, lifted the bottle to her lips and took a healthy swig of beer.

Armand studied her profile with a knowing grin. “It kills you, doesn’t it?”

“What?” she mumbled sullenly.

“Not being the best at something. It’s eating you up inside, isn’t it?”

She scowled. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I would. You’ve got steam coming out of your ears. Ouch! It just burned me.”

Her lips twitched, fighting the tug of a grin. “All right, so maybe I am a little annoyed.”

“Just a little,” Armand said, smiling.

Lia huffed out an indignant breath. “We’ve been out here for over an hour, and I haven’t caught anything!”

“What’s the rush?” Armand murmured. “The day’s still young. We’ve got all afternoon.”

“At the rate I’m going,” she grumbled morosely, “it’s going to take us all night.”

Armand took a long sip of his beer, thinking of at least two other things he’d rather be doing with Lia all night. Fishing was not one of them.

“I don’t understand what the problem is,” she continued in exasperation. “I’ve never had this much trouble before. The first time I went fishing with my father, I was only seven years old, and I caught plenty of fish the first hour we were out there! Same as every other time we went fishing. Now I’ll be lucky if I catch just one before we leave.”

Armand leaned back on his elbows, a soft, whimsical smile playing about the corners of his mouth. “Maybe I’m the problem,” he mused. “Maybe I’m bringing you bad luck.”

Lia shot him a dark look. “Now that you mention it, the same thought had occurred to me.”

When Armand roared with laughter, Lia grinned at him. With her long, black hair scooped into a ponytail, she looked so much like the spirited young beauty who’d captivated him all those years ago that for a moment he almost forgot they weren’t back in Muwaiti. But the sight of the Glock 9mm sidearm holstered at her waist served as a sobering reminder that things were not the same as they had been eight years ago.

In more ways than one.

Determined to keep reality at bay, at least for a while longer, Armand smiled gently at Lia. “When was the last time you went fishing with your father?”

“Six years ago,” she answered. “He and my mother took me on a two-week cross-country trip the summer I graduated from college, before I started my job at the Secret Service. Dad said it would probably be a long time before we could all go on another vacation together, so he wanted to make it really special.”

“And was it?”

Lia nodded. “Most definitely,” she said, smiling at the memory. “We rented an RV and drove from our home in Arlington, Virginia, all the way to California. Along the way, we visited just about every national historic landmark we could, including a number of slave houses and presidential museums, Churchill Downs, the Saint Louis Arch, Rocky Mountain National Park, the Grand Canyon, the vineyards in Napa Valley and Alcatraz Island. We ended our trip at Lake Tahoe, where my father and I went camping, hiking, sailboating and fishing while my mother mostly stayed behind at the cabin and tried to recover from our travels.”

Armand chuckled. “I don’t blame her. It sounds like quite an adventure you had.”

“Oh, it was,” Lia agreed, her smile widening as she warmed to her subject. “I’d never been to any of those places before, so it really was a treat.”

“Your family didn’t travel a lot during your childhood?”

She laughed. “On the contrary. We traveled all the time. Just not in the United States. See, my father was in the foreign service, so I grew up mostly overseas. While most American kids spent their summer vacations at camp or amusement parks, I was moving all over Europe and Africa. By the time I was thirteen years old, we had lived in England, France, Germany, Italy, Japan, Senegal and South Africa.”

Armand whistled softly through his teeth. “Quite the world traveler, weren’t you?”

Lia grinned ruefully. “You could say that. Now don’t get me wrong. I had a very fun, exciting childhood. I was constantly exposed to different people, languages and cultures, and I wouldn’t trade those wonderful experiences for anything in the world. But the downside of moving around so much was that I never really felt rooted anywhere. We were always on the go, like a Gypsy caravan. In fact, that’s what one of my tutors called me—her little American Gypsy.”

Armand smiled softly. “You have eyes like a Gypsy. Did she ever tell you that?”

Lia nodded, chuckling. “All the time.”

“Too bad,” Armand said huskily. “I was hoping to be the first.”

Lia met his gaze, her smile fading. Armand could tell by the way her eyes narrowed slightly that she’d caught his double meaning. Afraid that she’d put an abrupt end to the conversation and resume fishing, he smothered a wicked grin and returned to the original subject.

“Of all the places you lived, what was your favorite?” he asked.

Thankfully she took the bait. “Hmm. Let me see…” She pursed her full lips, pondering the question for a moment. “It’s hard for me to pick a favorite. Each place was so unique and different from the rest, and of course, they all had their pluses and minuses. But if I absolutely had to choose a favorite place, I would say Senegal. I’ll always remember the breathtakingly beautiful beaches, the exotic food and music, the vibrant people and customs. Come to think of it,” she said with a surprised little smile, “I loved Senegal for many of the same reasons I loved Muwaiti so much.”

Armand felt a thrill of pleasure at her words, similar to the way he’d felt earlier when Lia had revealed to him that she hadn’t wanted to leave Muwaiti eight years ago, that she’d felt as if she were leaving a part of herself behind. To know that she loved his homeland even half as much as he did made his chest swell with pride and satisfaction. It also made him feel ridiculously euphoric and hopeful for the future. Because if Lia truly loved Muwaiti and wanted to see the country restored to the peaceful paradise she remembered, then just maybe—

Armand stopped himself, shaken by the direction of his thoughts. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Magliore. Concentrate on surviving the next nine days before you go making any plans for your future, let alone someone else’s.

“Because we never stayed anywhere longer than two years,” Lia was saying, “I tried not to become too attached to any one country. Like I said before, it was hard to feel rooted to a place when you knew you’d be packing up and leaving at any time. Thankfully, I had the kind of parents who made anywhere we lived feel like home.”

Armand noted the softness that filled her voice and the warm glow that lit her dark eyes whenever she spoke about her parents. He wanted to keep her talking, wanted to learn everything there was to know about her. What made her happy? Or angry? What was her favorite novel? Did she live alone or with a roommate? Had she ever been in love or lost her heart to anyone?

Okay, Armand amended, maybe he’d rather not hear the answer to those last two questions.

“Do your parents still live in Virginia?” he asked instead.

Lia nodded. “My father is retired from the foreign service, and he and my mom spend most of their free time putting around in their garden, traveling—no, they haven’t had enough—and doing a lot of community outreach and fundraising. They like to keep busy, which works out fabulously for me. The busier they are, the less time they have to worry about me and my dangerous job.” She chuckled wryly, leaning back and propping her booted feet up on the opposite seat. “Never mind that the kind of upbringing I had pretty much guaranteed that I could never settle for a safe, boring desk job.”

“Naturally.” Armand grinned, giving her a deliberate once-over. “And somehow I can’t see you confined to a safe, boring desk job anyway.”

She gave a husky little laugh that made his pulse leap. “Thanks. I will definitely take that as a compliment.”

“You should,” he murmured. “It was.”

When Lia took a sip of her beer, Armand forced himself not to stare at the sight of her lush, pretty lips wrapped around the rim of the bottle, forced himself not to groan when the pink tip of her tongue flicked out to swipe a droplet of beer from her lower lip. She was a lethal combination of innocence and eroticism, strength, beauty and intelligence. It took his breath away.

Even though her posture was relaxed, he’d noted the way her dark, watchful eyes periodically scanned the surrounding forest, searching for any unseen threat.

The things a man could accomplish with a woman like her by his side, Armand thought.

Nursing their beers, they lapsed into companionable silence, lulled by the warmth of the afternoon sun on their faces, the lazy drone of a hummingbird hovering nearby, the gentle rocking motions of the boat as it bobbed in the water. Armand couldn’t remember the last time he’d ever felt so relaxed and at peace with himself and his surroundings.

It had been far too long.

At length, Lia broke the silence between them. “So what about you, Magliore? What was it like growing up on a tropical island?”

He gave her an amused sidelong glance. “I can guarantee you it wasn’t half as exciting as your globe-trotting childhood.”

She smiled easily at him. “Let me be the judge of that.”

“All right,” said Armand, setting aside his empty beer bottle and hooking his hands behind his head once again. For a moment he idly surveyed their booted feet, which were propped side by side on the opposite seat. He noted the differences in their shoe sizes, struck by how much larger his own feet were. Lia Charles may be a fierce warrior, but she was also a warm, beautiful, undeniably feminine woman.

“As you might imagine,” he began, “I spent much of my childhood on the water. Just to give you an idea of how much the ocean was a part of me, I learned how to swim before I could walk. I went swimming every day after school and on the weekends as soon as I finished my chores. My friends and I used to go deep-sea diving all the time. We spent hours exploring rock formations and the coral reefs, which were pretty amazing. But even when I wasn’t in the water, I had to be near it. I would walk up and down the shoreline, studying tide pool after tide pool until my parents called me inside. They usually had to send my younger brother or sister to get me. That’s when I would know I was in big trouble,” he added with a soft, reminiscent chuckle.

Lia smiled, listening to him with an expression of such rapt absorption that his chest expanded a little. “Did you get in trouble very often?” she asked.

“Not at all,” Armand lied with a straight face.

Lia didn’t buy it for a second. “Yeah, right!” she said laughingly.

He feigned an affronted look. “Now why would you say that?”

Lia rolled her eyes at him in amused exasperation. “One thing I’ve learned about you over the last two days is that you don’t follow rules very easily. Right or wrong, you march to the beat of your own drum, and something tells me you always have. So if you were even half as stubborn and maddening as you are now, then you must have stayed in trouble when you were a little boy.”

Armand grinned at her. “You think I’m stubborn and maddening?”

“Are you kidding? I’ve met mules that were more cooperative than you.”

He threw back his head and laughed.

Trying to hide her own smile, Lia lifted her beer bottle to her mouth and took a long sip.

As his mirth subsided, Armand shook his head slowly. “I don’t think I’ve ever been compared to a mule and come out on the short end of the stick,” he lamented. “That must be an all-time low for me.”

“Don’t feel bad,” Lia told him cheerfully. “At least one of those mules I was referring to had been given a mild sedative before I arrived, which made him a little less ornery.”

Mouth twitching, Armand arched a brow. “Are you saying you might need to sedate me in order to ensure my cooperation from now on?”

Lia laughed. “Of course not! Don’t be…” She trailed off as a sudden gleam of inspiration lit her dark eyes. “But now that you mention it, that’s not such a bad idea.”

He shook his head, chuckling. “I’ll have to keep a close eye on you, woman, just to make sure you don’t slip something into my drink.”

She grinned mischievously. “You shouldn’t have put the idea in my head.”

“Me? You’re the one going around drugging poor mules to make them less ornery.”

“What? I did not drug any mules,” Lia laughingly protested.

“Well, then, you were an accessory,” Armand said accusingly. “Which makes you just as guilty.”

Lia gaped at him in comical disbelief for a moment, then burst out laughing again.

Armand grinned at her, enjoying their nonsensical banter more than anything he’d enjoyed in months. He wished they could stay out there longer, keep the rest of the world at bay forever. But he knew better.

Eyes glittering with mirth, Lia said to him, “Enough about mules. I want to hear more about Muwaiti, what it was like when you were growing up.”

“How about I tell you more over dinner?” Armand proposed.

She nodded. “All right. Speaking of dinner, I’d better get busy catching some fish or we’re going to starve tonight.”

Armand nodded. “I have every confidence in your ability to catch the biggest trout in this lake. But if at any time you need my help, I’m right here.”

Lia hesitated, then nodded. “All right.”

Armand watched her get up, retrieve her fishing rod and resume her position at the opposite end of the boat. Before casting her lure over the side, she glanced back at him almost shyly.

He gave her a gentle smile of encouragement.

Her answering smile was as radiant as the afternoon sunshine. His heart thudded.

And at that moment Armand decided he would do whatever it took to make Lia Charles his.

Chapter 7

Sipping from a long-stemmed glass of white wine, Lia watched as Magliore used a spatula to turn over the large trout sizzling on the fired-up grill. Flame and smoke billowed, the savory aroma of grilled fish mingling with the scents of pine, hibiscus and night-blooming jasmine.

Two hours after returning from the lake that afternoon, she was still basking in the glow of her big catch—an eight-pound rainbow trout she’d needed help hauling into the boat, a feat for which Magliore had been more than generous in his praise. Afterward, with the prize trout slung over her shoulder, Lia had walked back to the cabin with a cocky swagger that made Magliore laugh uproariously.

Upon their return, she’d tossed a salad while he had cleaned, gutted and seasoned the trout. As they had worked alongside each other, Lia had found herself enjoying their relaxed domesticity. She couldn’t remember the last time, if ever, she’d felt so comfortable with a man, especially one who did such dangerous things to her nervous system. Armand Magliore was not only the sexiest, most compelling man she’d ever known, but he was also charming, intelligent and unselfish, with a wicked sense of humor that offset some of his brooding intensity. The more time Lia spent with him, the more she wanted to learn about him—beyond what was reported in his dossier. Although a nagging voice in the back of her mind warned her that getting to know Magliore wasn’t part of her mission, as the day wore on, she found it harder and harder to maintain her professional distance.

They decided to dine outdoors on the private deck that overlooked the lake and surrounding mountains. Lia felt incredibly feminine as Magliore pushed in her chair at the table, topped off her wine and served her meal with a gallant flourish.

“Thank you,” she said with a soft, grateful smile.

“You’re welcome,” he murmured, taking a seat across the table from her.

The round wooden table had been covered with linen and adorned with a single white candle in a glass holder, which Magliore had found in the kitchen. He’d also located a small portable stereo and some reggae, calypso and steel drum CDs that Nancy Janikowski had sent in an effort to make him feel more at home. Lia had secretly watched as he crooned softly to the music while manning the grill, his hips moving in perfect time with the melodic island beats, fueling lascivious thoughts that left her feeling decidedly hot and bothered. Her one and only consolation was that Magliore couldn’t read her mind any more than she could read his.

“Mmm, this is heavenly,” Lia said after sampling her first bite of the tender, succulent trout. She ate another forkful and made an appreciative sound. “Cooked to perfection.”

Magliore smiled. “I’m glad you like it. I can’t take all the credit, though. You’re the one who did all the hard work catching it.”

She shook her head, smiling a little. “It was a team effort.” Remembering the way he’d fought alongside her in Muwaiti, helping her fend off the mercenaries in the jungle, she said without thinking, “We make a pretty good team, don’t we?”

Something soft and intimate filled Magliore’s eyes. “I was just thinking the same thing,” he said huskily.

They gazed at each other for a long, electrified moment before Lia glanced away, becoming absorbed in the task of adding salt and butter to her baked potato. She racked her brain for a safe topic of conversation and said the first thing that came to mind. “Do you cook often?”

One corner of Magliore’s mouth quirked. “If heating up MREs and roasting fish over a campfire count as cooking,” he drawled sardonically, “then yes, I do cook often.”

Too late, Lia realized her gaffe. How could she have forgotten, even for a moment, that the man seated across from her had spent the last year living in exile, holed up deep in the jungle in a ramshackle cabin that he shared with at least nineteen other men? She couldn’t imagine that such a living arrangement afforded him many opportunities to hone his culinary skills.

Seeing her embarrassed expression, Magliore chuckled softly, taking pity on her. “Don’t worry, you’re not alone. Over the past twenty-four hours, even I’ve forgotten once or twice what my life has been like for the last year.” His voice softened as he gazed at her. “Being here with you, in this beautiful place, makes it easy to forget that the rest of the world even exists.”

Lia felt her insides melting at his words. Oh, no, she thought weakly. I’m in deep trouble.

Clearing her throat self-consciously, she reached for her glass of wine and took a long, fortifying sip, acutely aware of Magliore still staring at her. At that moment it occurred to her how romantic the scene might appear to the casual observer: the two of them enjoying a candlelight dinner against a scenic mountain backdrop, sipping wine from crystal glasses while Caribbean music played softly and invitingly in the background. For one insane moment, Lia allowed herself to imagine what it would have been like if different circumstances had brought them to that secluded mountain retreat, if they were two lovebirds simply enjoying a romantic getaway instead of two strangers being hotly pursued by a vicious madman. If things had been different, she and Magliore might have watched the sunset after dinner, then melted into each other’s arms to slow dance under the glittering stars. Afterward they might have slipped back inside the cabin, holding hands and wearing the dreamy smiles of lovers cocooned in their own private world. Magliore would build a fire, and they’d sit by the cozy hearth, sipping good wine and talking in low, intimate tones until he leaned over and kissed her, leaving her breathless and wanting more. More of his taste, his touch, his—

“Miss Charles?”

The sound of Magliore’s deep voice brought Lia’s forbidden daydream screeching to a halt—and not a moment too soon. A few seconds more, and they would have been tearing off each other’s clothes and going at it in front of the fireplace.

When her startled gaze flew to Magliore’s face, she found him watching her expectantly, the corners of his mouth twitching. Her face flamed, and for the second time that evening she thanked her lucky stars that the man couldn’t read her mind.

Drawing in a shaky breath, she reeled in her dangerous thoughts. “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “Did you say something?”

“Nothing important,” Magliore murmured. “I asked if you could pass the butter.”

“Oh! Yes, of course.”

After the exchange, he asked softly, “Where’d you disappear to a minute ago? You had a faraway expression on your face. What were you thinking about?”

“MREs,” Lia lied swiftly.

One dubious brow sketched upward. “MREs?”

“Yes.”

MREs—meals, ready to eat—were prepackaged food rations given out to U.S. soldiers during times of war or conflict. Lia knew from firsthand experience that the meals had the soft, unappetizing consistency of room-temperature baby food, but they provided necessary sustenance to soldiers who found themselves in field conditions where organized food facilities were not available.

“I, uh, was wondering where you and your men got them?” Lia asked.

“There was a soldier in the Muwaitian militia who believed in our cause,” Magliore answered, using his fork to cut into his trout. “At great risk to his own life, he provided the MREs to us, as well as some other supplies we needed.”

“Does that include weapons?”

Magliore gave her a brief, enigmatic smile. “Let’s just say he was willing to help our cause any way he could. Which is why he remained in the militia. He knew he could be of more use to us from the inside rather than the outside.”

Lia nodded, agreeing with the rationale. “There’s no question he was taking a huge risk. But what about you? How did you know you could trust him? Weren’t you afraid he might turn on you at any time? If he’d been caught helping you, surely Biassou would have tortured him until he revealed critical information about your operation.”

“He wouldn’t have revealed anything,” Magliore said with calm, implacable resolve.

Lia frowned. “How do you know?”

Magliore took a leisurely sip of his wine before answering, “Because I knew him to be an honorable, fiercely loyal man. He would have died before giving Biassou any ammunition to use against us. And,” he added, gazing at his twinkling wineglass, “he had his own personal reason for wanting to destroy Biassou.”

Lia waited a heartbeat. When he didn’t elaborate, her curiosity got the best of her. “What was his reason?” she asked, almost dreading the answer.

Magliore slowly lifted his gaze to hers. “His younger sister was one of Biassou’s many mistresses. She had the misfortune of becoming pregnant with his child. When he learned about the baby, he was furious and demanded that she get an abortion. He told her he didn’t need nor want another one of his bastards running around the island. When she refused to get rid of the baby, saying that she loved him and wanted to bear him a son, Biassou became enraged. He beat her to within an inch of her life.”

Lia let out a horrified gasp. “Oh, my God,” she breathed, staring at Magliore.

His expression hardened. “By the time her brother found her that evening, she was lying on the kitchen floor in a pool of blood, barely conscious. Biassou had beaten her so badly her face was hardly recognizable.” His jaw tightened. “She lost the baby. Which was what the sadistic bastard wanted, of course.”

Lia shook her head, a lump of sorrow and compassion wedged in her throat. “H-how old was she?”

“Nineteen,” Magliore said, his teeth clenched so hard his voice was like a growl.

Lia swallowed. “Is she…is she still alive?”

“She survived. But the injuries she sustained left her paralyzed from the waist down. She’ll never walk again, nor will she ever have children.”

“My God,” Lia murmured hoarsely. “That monster’s cruelty knows no bounds.”

Magliore’s lips twisted bitterly. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Lia suspected he was right. What she’d already read and heard about the unspeakable atrocities committed by Alexandre Biassou left her with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, along with a healthy dose of outrage.

Angrily she said, “No one would blame the girl’s brother for wanting to get even with Biassou, or at the very least, defecting from his damn militia.”

“You’re right. No one would blame him.” Magliore paused. “He remains in the militia so that he can take care of his sister and make sure all of her medical needs are met. The only reason he has not torn Biassou to pieces with his bare hands is that his sister begged him not to. Even bound to a wheelchair for the rest of her life, she still managed to show mercy to the one who put her there.” He shook his head, adding in a low, cynical voice, “That bastard has been shown more mercy than he could ever deserve.”

Lia said nothing, fragments of their earlier conversations whispering through her mind. I have unfinished business with Alexandre Biassou…I intend to make him pay…I’ve got nothing to lose, and everything to gain, by ridding the world of him once and for all.

Lia knew a threat when she heard one, and those had all been threats with a capital T. But what the hell was she supposed to do? If she had reason to believe that Armand Magliore was a loose cannon plotting to assassinate the president of Muwaiti, and she failed to alert her superiors, there’d be hell to pay. As universally reviled as Alexandre Biassou was, his assassination at the hands of Magliore—while he was in the custody of the United States government—would be nothing short of a diplomatic nightmare. Not only would the Secret Service come under fire for facilitating vigilantism and the assassination of a foreign leader, but Lia would be reprimanded, possibly fired, for her perceived negligence.

But that wasn’t even the worst outcome, Lia realized. If the United Nations Security Council failed to prove its case against Biassou, and Magliore decided to take matters into his own hands, he would be captured and imprisoned, or worse, killed. The idea of him suffering a slow, torturous death made her chest squeeze with an emotion akin to fear. What happened to this man mattered to her. Mattered more than she cared to admit, even to herself.

Lia frowned. If only she could get inside his head, find out what he was thinking so that she could at least try to talk some sense into him.

But it was no use. Since his violent outburst earlier, she’d already tried several times to read his mind, casually allowing her hand to linger on his arm, brushing against him as they walked back to the cabin. But all she got for her trouble were scorched nerve endings. No dark, brooding thoughts about revenge or assassination plots. Nothing.

For whatever reason, the inner workings of Armand Magliore’s mind eluded her.

Since her gift had failed her, Lia realized that the only way to get him to confide in her was to gain his trust. In order to accomplish that, she had to befriend him, convince him that she was on his side. Which she was. She wanted nothing more than to see Biassou punished for his horrific crimes against the people of Muwaiti. Hell, if she were anything but a federal agent, she might have loaned Magliore her gun to put an end to Biassou’s sorry life.

But she was a federal agent, which meant she couldn’t stand by and do nothing if Magliore decided to seek out justice on his own.

She was so absorbed in these grim musings that she didn’t notice him studying her over the rim of his wineglass until he murmured, “Time to change the subject.”

Lia snapped to attention. “What? Why?”

“Because you’re frowning. Which means whatever you’re thinking about is upsetting you. And it would be a shame to waste any more of this meal, or this wonderful view,” he said, gesturing toward the mountains, “on such an unsavory topic as Alexandre Biassou. So I propose that we change the subject. And the sooner, the better.”

“All right,” Lia agreed, managing a smile as she lifted her glass to her lips. “What would you like to talk about?”

“You.”

She chuckled wryly. “How’d I know that was coming?”

“I don’t know,” Magliore said with a lazy smile. “Maybe you can read minds.”

Lia choked on a sip of wine and began coughing.

Magliore frowned, leaning forward a little. “Are you all right?”

She nodded quickly, dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a linen napkin. “Went down the wrong way,” she said hoarsely.

He eyed her a moment longer, as if trying to determine whether or not she needed the Heimlich maneuver.

“I’m fine,” Lia assured him. To demonstrate, she ate a forkful of her baked potato, chewing and swallowing without incident. “What, uh, would you like to know about me?” Besides what I can’t actually tell you. Like the fact that I can read minds. Just not yours!

He gave her a lopsided grin that somehow managed to be sexy and boyish at the same time. “To throw your previous question back at you, do you cook often?”

This time it was her turn to grin. “That, er, depends on your definition of cooking,” she hedged.

He raised an amused brow at her. “Meaning?”

Lia’s grin turned sheepish. “I can boil water, heat up frozen dinners and toss a mean salad, but that’s pretty much the extent of my culinary talents.”

Magliore chuckled. “And why is that?”

“Well, for starters, I’m not home very often. I’ve grown accustomed to eating on the go, at restaurants, hotels, airplanes, presidential retreats or wherever my various assignments take me.” She shrugged, spearing a cherry tomato with her fork and popping it into her mouth. “I guess you could say I’ve spent the last six years, more or less, eating on my employer’s dime.”

Magliore smiled a little. “I guess the least they could do is feed you, considering that you put your life on the line for them every day.” As he picked up his fork and resumed eating, he remarked, “You must love your job.”

“I do, very much,” Lia agreed without hesitation. “There’s no such thing as a typical day. My job is challenging, diverse, rewarding in ways I could have never imagined. I’ve had the pleasure of meeting so many different types of people, from all walks of life. I have the utmost respect for the smart, dedicated people I work with. Well, most of them, anyway,” she amended with a wry grimace.

Magliore smiled, his gaze never leaving hers. She’d noted that about him from the very beginning, the intensity with which he zeroed in on her face whenever she spoke, as if what she were saying was of immense importance to him.

A woman could get lost in those beautiful, mesmerizing eyes.

“So what are the drawbacks?” he asked.

Lia blinked. “Drawbacks?”

He nodded. “To being a Secret Service agent. What are the drawbacks?”

“Hmm.” Lia pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Well, as an agent on protection details, you sort of learn the hard way that you can’t make any future plans because when the time comes, there’s a pretty good chance you might be halfway around the world. The reality of the job is that you’re forever on someone else’s schedule, and that can take some getting used to. Fortunately for me, moving around so much during my childhood prepared me to handle the transient nature of my job.”

“Still,” Magliore said, “it can’t be very easy on your social life.”

Lia gave a humorless laugh. “Social life? What’s that?”

“My point exactly.”

Poking at her salad, Lia lifted one shoulder in a flippant shrug. She didn’t bother explaining to Magliore that even before she’d joined the Secret Service, her social life had been practically nonexistent. Being a freak of nature had a way of keeping one isolated from others.

“You’re a very beautiful, desirable woman,” Magliore murmured. “You can’t expect me to believe you don’t have someone special waiting at home.”

Lia briefly considered, then decided not to berate him for asking such a personal question. Instead she met his knowing gaze with subtle defiance in her own. “What if I told you I don’t?”

“Don’t what? Have someone special waiting at home?”

She nodded.

A glimmer of satisfaction shone in his amber eyes. “Then I’d have to conclude that there’s something seriously wrong with the men in this country.”

Lia told herself it was not a twinge of pleasure she felt at his words. Surely she wasn’t that susceptible to male flattery—even from the mouth of a gorgeous, incredibly virile man like the one seated across from her.

“How do you know the men are the problem?” she countered mildly. “How do you know I’m not the one who’s not interested in a relationship?”

Magliore held her stare. “Are you?”

“Am I what?”

“Interested in a relationship?”

Lia pursed her lips for a moment, pretending to consider the matter. “Maybe,” she said enigmatically. “Maybe not.”

His gaze darkened. “That’s not an answer.”

“I know.” Against her better judgment, Lia found herself enjoying the heady sense of playing with fire, as if she were dangling a raw steak in front of a ravenous wolf. “At any rate, what I may or may not be interested in has no bearing on this conversation.”

Subtle challenge glinted in his eyes. “Doesn’t it?”

“No,” Lia said matter-of-factly. “It doesn’t.”

Instead of responding, Magliore tipped his head slightly to one side, regarding her in thoughtful silence for several long, unnerving moments. The longer he remained silent, the more Lia found herself wanting to squirm under his intense scrutiny.

Just when she thought she couldn’t take it anymore, he said softly, “You know what I think?”

Lia shot him an aggrieved look. “No. But I’m sure you’ll tell me.”

His mouth twitched. “What I think,” he said, “is that you’re very young.”

Lia made a strangled sound. “Excuse me?”

He held up a hand. “Hear me out. I’m not implying that you’re immature. I’m saying that you’re young. You’re only twenty-eight. Young, like I said.”

“What’s your point?” she said through gritted teeth.

“My point,” Magliore said, “is that you haven’t really lived long enough to know what you want.”

Lia bristled, her eyes narrowing sharply on his face. “Are you suggesting that I don’t know my own mind simply because I’m still in my twenties? That is pure nonsense—an insulting, ridiculous and unfounded generalization. And besides, you’re only four years older than me. That’s nothing!”

A shadow of a smile touched his mouth. “I’ve lived a thousand lifetimes in one, ma petite.” In his voice Lia heard sorrow, regret, anger and the terrible pain of loss. She heard the voice of experience from a world-weary, battle-scarred soldier who’d witnessed too many atrocities and lived to tell about them.

Although her indignation had been justified, she felt small and petty for challenging him, for inadvertently diminishing the horrors he’d experienced under Biassou’s brutal regime. He was right. He was a lifetime older than she, and wiser in more ways than she could ever imagine. She’d traveled around the world, immersed herself in different cultures and embarked on dangerous missions, but she’d never faced the level of adversity he had. She’d never been forced to endure the kind of hardship and suffering he had eaten, slept and breathed every day of his life for the past four years.

Before she could formulate a response, Magliore, his eyes roaming across her face, said huskily, “As to the other matter, don’t think for one moment that I don’t know exactly what I want.”

Lia swallowed, ensnared by the heat of his intoxicating gaze while her heart thudded uncontrollably in her chest. Although she knew she should keep her distance from this dangerous man, she was hopelessly drawn to him. Intrigued.

Captivated.

She could not speak as he continued, “One day you’re going to fall in love. Maybe not soon, but one day. Head over heels, helplessly in love. The kind where your thoughts are consumed by that person, and after a while you find yourself unable to remember what your life was like before he entered the picture. And one day, chère, like it or not, you’re going to be forced to make a difficult choice between the job you love and the man you love. I wonder what choice you will make?”

Lia was so mesmerized by his words, and the uncanny sense that he’d looked deep into her soul and discerned her innermost desires, that it took several moments before his question sank in. When it did, she felt a fresh wave of indignation.

Her chin shot up, her eyes narrowing. “Who says I’d have to choose?” she challenged hotly. “Who says I can’t have both? The man and the career?”

Magliore gave her a look that told her she should know better. “It doesn’t really work that way.”

Lia scowled. “You’re only saying that because I’m a woman. I know you wouldn’t have asked me that question if I were a man.”

“If you were a man,” he drawled blandly, “I wouldn’t be remotely interested in your response.”

Ignoring this remark, Lia pinned him with a direct look. “Just what do you have against women in the Secret Service?” she demanded bluntly.

Magliore frowned. “Didn’t I tell you earlier that I couldn’t see you confined to a safe, boring desk job?”

“Yes,” she said impatiently. “But ever since we met, you’ve made it perfectly clear that you don’t think women belong in the Secret Service, working as agents.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but Lia wasn’t finished. “Look, I realize that we come from two different cultures. I’ve heard that Biassou is a notorious misogynist, and while I’m not putting you in that category, I understand that you, too, may have grown up with certain views and expectations of women. But things are different here in America. Women balance families and demanding careers all the time. We’re decorated soldiers who leave behind our husbands and children for months at a time to fight overseas. We’re doctors, lawyers, scientists, politicians, police officers and firefighters. We hold top-level positions in academia, business and government.”

“I noticed,” Magliore murmured, his mouth twitching.

“Good. So it should come as no surprise to you that when, and if, I find a man deserving of my love, I fully expect him to respect and support my decision to continue working as a Secret Service agent.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Magliore asked in a low voice.

Lia met his gaze unflinchingly. “Then he’s not the one for me.”

Even as the uncompromising words left her mouth, the names of over a dozen other agents who were either divorced or going through a divorce ran across her mind. Her own boss was a casualty of a failed marriage.

There was no denying the fact that the divorce rate was particularly high among those in law enforcement. Lia had no illusions about the amount of compromise and sacrifice that would be required of her and her partner to make any relationship work. She’d learned that firsthand by watching her parents. Because the family had moved around so much, her mother had never worked outside the home. She’d sacrificed her own career in finance in order to support her husband’s, and although it couldn’t have been easy for her, she’d never once complained—not to Lia’s knowledge, anyway. Her parents had, and continued to have, the happiest, healthiest marriage she had ever known. Their relationship was based on the abundance of love, admiration and respect they’d always had for each other. Lia knew that the demands and pressures of her job would make any future relationship challenging, but she also believed that if she found the right man, together they could make it work.

Not that finding Mr. Right would be on her radar anytime soon, she reminded herself.

Watching as Magliore took a sip of his wine, she shook her head ruefully. “I guess I should have warned you that, in addition to being a supercompetitive fisherman, I hate losing arguments,” she joked, trying to inject some levity into the conversation.

The remark wrung a grim laugh from Magliore. “I would’ve never guessed.”

Her lips twisted into a wry, self-deprecating smile. “One of the things you learn as a Secret Service agent is how to be diplomatic when diplomacy is called for, and how to be a good negotiator when diplomacy doesn’t work. That said, there are certain issues I feel very strongly about, and in the process of defending my position, I’ve been known to come across as a bit, ah, combative.”

Magliore’s mouth curved in a lazy smile. “Never apologize for being passionate about your beliefs, Miss Charles. God knows I never have.” He raised his glass to her in a toast. “Truce?”

Lia grinned. “Truce.” They clinked glasses lightly.

Gazing across the table at him, she admired the smooth perfection of his mahogany skin in the soft candlelight, watched as the flickering flames danced across the hard angles and planes of his face. Her eyes traced the line of his thick, black brows and lingered on the sensual contours of his lips. As desire stirred within her, she looked away, her gaze settling on his strong hands clasped lightly on the table. She remembered their calloused warmth against her skin, leading her from the cabin in Muwaiti, passing her a cold bottle of beer on the boat, giving her a high-five when she caught the eight-pound trout.

She’d thoroughly enjoyed his company that afternoon, arguments or not. A part of her didn’t want the day to end.

A very big part of her.

It was now dusk, the sky muted and purplish against the darkening landscape of trees. A pair of citronella torch lamps, along with the candle, cast a warm, inviting glow over the table and kept the mosquitoes at bay while fireflies flickered on and off around them. Lia felt the tranquility and beauty of her surroundings seep into her, lulling her into a state of relaxed contentment.

As she and Magliore finished their meals, they laughed and talked, picking up where they’d left off earlier at the lake. Lia listened in rapt fascination as he regaled her with stories about growing up in Muwaiti, tales that included spontaneous forays to sugarcane fields, exploring caves and chasing iguanas with his twin siblings, and going hunting and fishing with his father. Although Lia knew from his dossier that Jacques Magliore had been killed when his oldest son was only fourteen, Magliore chose not to mention this, dwelling instead on happier childhood memories. He reminisced about lying on the floor of his fourth-grade classroom and reading from his favorite book while he listened to the ocean waves crash against the rocks outside the window. That was his reward for completing his assignment early, along with the sweet treats his teacher used to sneak to him. Lia’s mouth watered when he talked about how he and his friends would lie in the sun after hours of swimming and gorge themselves on luscious mangos, guavas, pineapples, pomegranates and carambolas.

She was so enthralled by the colorful sights and sounds he was describing that she didn’t think to protest when he suddenly rounded the table, took her hand and pulled her gently out of her chair.

“Dance with me,” he said as a reggae song with an upbeat tempo began playing on the stereo.

Lia’s response was part laugh, part groan. “Do I really have—”

“Just one dance.” Magliore smiled as he led her out to the middle of the deck, the calloused warmth of his big hand sending shivers up and down her spine. “Ahh, this is one of my favorite songs,” he said as he began swaying his hips to the music.

When Lia stood still before him, he chuckled and reached for her, pulling her lightly into his arms. She resisted, her body stiffening beneath his hands on her waist.

“Relax,” Magliore murmured, subtly guiding her movements. “I won’t bite, I promise.”

“It’s not that.” Although it should have been. “It’s just that…I’m afraid I’m not much of a dancer. I missed most of the high-school parties and dances, including my prom, which, as you probably know, is the single most important social event in any American teenager’s—”

“Wait.” Amber eyes searched her face. “You missed your high-school prom?”

Lia nodded ruefully. “My father was rushed to the hospital an hour before I was supposed to leave. He was having severe chest pains. We thought he was having a heart attack. Thankfully it turned out to be nothing more serious than angina—scary, but treatable.”

Magliore shook his head at her. “So you spent your prom night in a hospital emergency room?”

The compassion in his deep voice nearly brought tears to Lia’s eyes. Which made her feel like a complete fool. “I didn’t tell you that to make you feel sorry for me,” she said almost defensively. “I just wanted you to understand why your dance partner may have two left feet.”

“You’re doing just fine to me.”

“I—” With a start, Lia realized that they had been swaying rhythmically to the music the entire time they were talking. The moment she became cognizant of it, she stumbled.

“It’s okay,” Magliore said softly. “Just relax and absorb the music. Your body will do the rest.”

He was right. Before long Lia felt her limbs loosening as she emptied her mind of everything but this moment. As one song segued into another, she felt herself surrendering to the music, keeping her upper body relaxed and steady while her hips undulated to the edgy, pulsing rhythms. Magliore held her gaze as they danced, and there was something so powerfully intimate about the connection between them that Lia felt naked, her soul stripped bare before him. It was like nothing she’d ever experienced in her life.

Watching her through heavy-lidded eyes, Magliore said huskily, “I knew you had it in you, chère. I knew the moment we met, when we crossed swords at the cabin back home, that you had this fire in you.”

Lia felt herself flush, immeasurably pleased by his words. She smiled demurely at him. “You’re not too bad yourself, Mr. Magliore.”

Which was an understatement. Lia had watched enough movies and music videos to know that Caribbean men, generally speaking, were supposed to be amazing dancers. Armand Magliore was no exception. The languid sensuality of his movements hypnotized her. Just the way he danced left no doubt in her mind that he would be a superb lover—intensely passionate, skilled, unselfish.

Imaginative.

When her body grew hot and flushed, she knew it had nothing to do with her exertions on the dance floor.

Just then the uptempo reggae music faded into a slow love song. As Magliore drew her into his arms, bringing her flush against his body, her pulse hammered and her blood heated.

“It’s getting late,” she whispered shakily. “We should probably clean up and—”

“Shh. Just close your eyes and dance,” he murmured, the velvety timbre of his deep voice caressing her senses, seducing her.

Although she knew she shouldn’t, Lia did as he told her, curving her arms around his neck and resting her head on his shoulder. She could feel his heartbeat, strong and steady. She was breathtakingly aware of every inch of his body against hers: the strength of his arms around her, the hardness of his chest and abdomen rubbing her tingling breasts, the firm, muscular glide of his thighs against hers as they swayed to the slow, sensuous music. His heat penetrated her flesh, scorching her nerve endings. He smelled like smoke and fire from the grill, but beneath that was his own clean, uniquely male scent. Suddenly she wanted to press herself more fully against him, crawl inside his skin, touch everything, taste everything.

As if sensing a shift in her, Magliore drew back his head and looked down at her.

Their gazes locked, and for one intense moment the world swirled around them in a rush of smoky sound and dancing shadow. The smoldering heat in his eyes made her breath lodge sharply in her throat. In that instant Lia knew he was going to kiss her.

And she wasn’t going to stop him.

In the far recesses of her mind, an alarm sounded, but her body was beyond heeding the warning.

As his dark head slanted over hers, her pulse quickened with anticipation. The first touch of their mouths was like an explosion in her brain, in her body. All her senses roared to life. Her breasts throbbed, heat pooled between her legs, her thighs trembled.

His soft, warm lips moved slowly and sensually over hers, drawing a helpless moan of pleasure from her. Dizzy with need, she ran her hands along his muscled upper arms, then over his broad shoulders to pull him even closer. With a low, husky groan of approval, he deepened the kiss, parting her lips so that the tips of their tongues met, making her shiver.

His tongue slid inside, exploring her mouth in silky, tantalizing strokes that sent currents of sensation whipping through her. He ate at her mouth, tasted and licked inside her as if she were made of his favorite confection and he couldn’t get enough. She fell headlong into his fierce, marauding kiss, intoxicated by the taste and feel of him. The experience of him holding her, crushing her against the solid warmth of his chest, was unbearably arousing. A liquid warmth coiled inside her, drawing tighter and tighter until she thought she’d come apart in his arms. She wanted him with a desperation that terrified her—or would have, if she’d been thinking at all clearly.

But Magliore made her forget everything in those forbidden moments—she lost awareness of time, of where they were and even who she was. All she knew was that she needed him closer, deeper, tighter…his touch, his taste, his mouth devouring hers.

She nibbled and suckled his lush bottom lip, and he made a harsh sound deep in his throat, his arms tightening around her with steely strength. She trembled as his lips moved against the corner of her mouth, jaw and chin before sliding along the arch of her throat, trailing a fiery pathway of nerves.

His hands slid to her bottom, kneading her, grinding her into his pelvis so she could feel the thick, rigid length of his erection.

That was when Lia realized she’d let things go too far.

As if she’d been doused with a bucket of cold water, her body stiffened with shock. Her eyes flew open.

Magliore groaned, tightening his hold on her as she tried to pull away. “Don’t go,” he entreated her raggedly, his lips rasping against her throat. “Please don’t go.”

Lia shivered in response even as she forced herself to step out of his arms. “No,” she whispered breathlessly, shaking her head. “I-I’m sorry. This is wrong. We shouldn’t have done that.”

Magliore was breathing as hard as she was, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He reached for her, his eyes glittering with need and frustration. “No one has to know.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lia said, struggling against the pleasure of his touch. “I know. And that’s more than enough for me.”

“Damn it, Lia—”

She held up a hand, cutting off the rest of his argument. She was so shaken by the explosive kiss they’d just shared that she didn’t bother correcting his use of her first name. What would be the point? After what had just transpired between them, they could never return to any semblance of formality, anyway.

“Maybe you should go inside,” she said, marveling at her ability to keep her voice steady when her legs were quivering uncontrollably. “I can stay out here and clean up.”

A muscle worked in Magliore’s jaw. He held her gaze for a long, charged moment, then abruptly turned away. “No. You go inside. I’ll clean up.”

“We can both—”

“You don’t want to be anywhere near me right now,” he said, low and dangerously controlled. “Take my word for it.”

Lia swallowed, her heart thundering. Not trusting her voice, she turned without another word and beat a hasty retreat, wishing she could run all the way back to Washington, D.C., and as far away as possible from Armand Magliore.

Chapter 8

After Lia disappeared inside the cabin, Armand unleashed the brunt of his anger and frustration upon the grill. He cleaned and scrubbed the damn thing until it gleamed like new, fighting to control his raging libido as he worked.

He had kissed Lia.

After eight long, torturous years of dreaming about her and waking up in a cold sweat only to realize he might never see her again, he’d finally gotten his wish. He’d held her in his arms and he’d kissed her.

And she’d run from him, denying both of them what could have been the most spectacular night of their lives.

With a savage curse, Armand next attacked the dishes on the table. He’d been obsessed with Lia for so long, he’d almost convinced himself that the reality of holding and kissing her could never compare to his fantasies.

He couldn’t have been more wrong.

Remembering how it had felt to kiss her, to taste her lush, sweet lips and caress her warm, silky skin, Armand felt desire threatening to boil up inside him once again.

Although he’d spent the past year living in celibacy, Armand was no monk. He’d enjoyed his fair share of island beauties—women who were as appealing and diverse as the many different shades of his people.

Once upon a time, he’d even given serious thought to marrying the daughter of former president Francois Seligny. Nathalie was strong, beautiful and compassionate, and she’d loved Armand wholeheartedly. But as much as he cared for her and admired her father, Armand knew he could never belong to her as long as his dreams were haunted by visions of a beautiful young American with Gypsy eyes and a bewitching smile. Nathalie had known, too. Although he’d never told her or anyone else about Lia, Nathalie had sensed his unavailability. She’d often accused him of saving his heart for another woman, a creature of such mythic proportions mere mortals could never measure up to her, she’d said laughingly. But beneath her teasing remarks, Armand had always sensed her pain and disappointment, which made him feel guilty. He’d wanted to fall in love with her, wanted to forget his secret dreams about a woman he never expected to see again. But he couldn’t. When Nathalie and her family had left Muwaiti after burying President Seligny, Armand had known it was for the best. He’d hoped, in time, that Nathalie would find someone to spend the rest of her life with, someone who would love and cherish her the way she deserved.

As for him, he’d all but resigned himself to a future of obsessing over a beautiful mystery woman he could never hope to have.

And then one day, against all odds, she had come back into his life.

The more time Armand spent with Lia, the more convinced he became that she held the key to his destiny. And now that he’d finally had a taste of her, he had to have more.

When he’d finished clearing the dishes and straightening the deck, he went to take a shower—a freezing one—to cool the fire still raging in his blood. He wanted Lia so badly he ached, wanted her more than anything he’d wanted in years.

But as he stood beneath the cold spray of water, he began to realize that all was not lost. The passion he’d experienced that night with Lia had not been one-sided. Far from it. She’d responded to his kiss with an explosive hunger that rocked him back on his heels and took his breath away. No matter what she said or did from this point on, she could no longer pretend to be immune to him. He’d tasted her need, seen the passion in her eyes, felt her surrender in his arms.

He now knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she wanted him as much as he wanted her.

Which meant there was hope.

One way or another, Armand was going to have her.

How could she have been so stupid?

Several hours later as she lay in bed, Lia was still berating herself for succumbing to temptation and kissing Magliore. She couldn’t believe she’d been so irresponsible, so downright reckless. Armand Magliore was her protectee, the man whose life had been entrusted to her. Locking lips with him did not fall under her scope of duties.

Cursing viciously under her breath, Lia punched her pillow in frustration and flipped over, onto her back. Clasping her hands behind her head, she glared up at the darkened ceiling in angry disgust.

She had always prided herself on being a consummate professional. But there was nothing remotely professional about the way she’d behaved that evening. As if dancing with Magliore hadn’t been inappropriate enough, she’d had to go and kiss him!

What the hell had she been thinking?

That’s easy, her conscience mocked bitterly. You were thinking about his soulful bedroom eyes, his sexy mouth, his deep, mesmerizing voice. You were thinking about the way his big, powerful hands would feel caressing your body, and the way his soft, sensuous lips would feel against yours. You were thinking about everything but doing your damn job.

Lia groaned as a fresh wave of shame engulfed her.

For all her lecturing and pontificating about the importance of maintaining boundaries, she’d gone and done something crazy like this. Cosgrove and the other agents hadn’t even been gone an entire day. The moment she and Magliore were completely alone, her resolve to keep him at arm’s length had flown right out the window, along with her common sense.

Lia wished she could blame her lack of self-control on too much alcohol, but she knew better. She’d only had half a bottle of beer and one glass of wine, hardly enough to impair her judgment. When all was said and done, she had no one but herself to blame for what had happened that evening. Magliore hadn’t forced himself upon her. She could have refused to dance with him, and she definitely could have stopped him from kissing her. But she hadn’t. She’d allowed him to kiss her because she was incredibly attracted to him, and had been from the moment they’d met. If she was completely honest with herself, she would admit that she’d wanted this, wanted him, ever since she had pulled off his mask back at the cabin in Muwaiti. One look at his mouth and she’d known that kissing him would be an unforgettable experience.

At the memory of his hot, plundering kiss, a wanton pleasure settled between Lia’s thighs and brought another low groan to her lips. She squeezed her eyes shut tightly in a desperate attempt to block out the forbidden images, but it was no use. She couldn’t get that mind-blowing kiss out of her mind. She’d never experienced anything like it before, although, admittedly, her experience with men was woefully limited.

Her ability to read minds had always made the dating scene something of a challenge—even more so than for other women. What could be worse, Lia had often thought, than knowing the guy she was kissing was either thinking about the basketball game he was missing, or calculating how quickly he could get her clothes off?

Lia had often been so turned off by her dates’ thoughts that they hadn’t progressed beyond kissing. And no man had ever come close to making her feel the way Armand Magliore did.

She snatched her pillow off the bed and buried her face in it to muffle the loud, agonized groan that erupted from her mouth.

For the first time in her career—hell, in her life—Lia considered the possibility that she was in over her head. With ruthless mercenaries on the prowl, she couldn’t afford the distraction of becoming romantically involved with Magliore. She needed her wits about her, needed to be alert and ready to respond to any threat. But how was she supposed to put aside her powerful attraction to Magliore and carry out her responsibilities when she couldn’t stop aching for his touch, his next kiss?

She thought about calling Janikowski and asking to be reassigned. But what would Lia tell her? That the man she’d been assigned to protect was too damn sexy for his own good? For her own good? That Magliore wasn’t the one who needed protection—she was?

Lia could only imagine how her supervisor would respond to such an explanation, and it wouldn’t be good. Even if Janikowski granted her request to be reassigned—which was highly unlikely at this critical juncture—the damage to Lia’s reputation and career would be devastating. She’d be permanently branded as the agent who had allowed her raging hormones to interfere with her ability to do her job. Everything she’d ever worked for and fought to establish for herself would be tarnished. And those who believed that women had no business working as agents in the Secret Service would feel vindicated.

And if, God forbid, something were to happen to Magliore because Lia failed to protect him, she would never forgive herself. Ever.

No, she told herself resolutely. She could not let that happen. She wouldn’t abandon her post. She had to see this through. Too much was at stake. Not only her career, but a man’s life—and the future of an entire country. If she continually reminded herself of just how much was riding on her shoulders, surely that would give her the strength to withstand any temptation that came her way.

Because when it came to resisting Armand Magliore and the seductive power he had over her, Lia knew she would need all the strength she could get.

Monday, September 8, 2008
0700 hours
Thurmont, Maryland
Day 4

“Rough night?” Armand murmured the next morning as he and Lia sat across the table from each other in the main lodge, where breakfast was being served. Although it was barely seven o’clock, nearly every table in the large dining room was occupied. The air hummed with clinking glasses and silverware and the low murmur of conversations.

Lia glanced up from her plate to meet his speculative gaze. “Not at all,” she said quickly—too quickly. “You?”

Armand gave her a slow, lazy grin. “I slept like a baby.”

“That’s good.” Her eyes dropped with a sweep of her long, black lashes. “I’m glad to hear it. I slept well, too.”

Liar, Armand thought, his grin deepening. Even if Lia hadn’t been sporting small bags under her eyes, he knew for a fact that she was lying through her pretty teeth about getting a good night’s rest. He’d heard her through the wall that connected their rooms, tossing and turning restlessly in bed before getting up to work out with her free weights. Sometime in the middle of the night, he’d been awakened by the sound of her prowling around the cabin, presumably under the guise of checking locks on the doors and windows. He’d drifted back to sleep with a satisfied smile on his face, basking in the knowledge that she was as rattled by the kiss they’d shared as he was.

Reaching for his cup of coffee, Armand continued conversationally, “It’s hard not to sleep like a baby at this place. All this clean mountain air, the peaceful sounds of nature. And those beds are amazing. Of course,” he added wryly, “anything beats sleeping on a cold, hard floor with nineteen other men—at least half of whom snored like pigs.”

“Mmm, hmm,” Lia murmured noncommittally, not glancing up from her plate. It was obvious she hadn’t heard a word he’d said.

Deciding to have a little fun with her, Armand said huskily, “The only thing that would make the nights more perfect is having a soft, warm body to cuddle up with. Don’t you agree?”

“Definitely.”

Armand waited a beat, watching as comprehension belatedly dawned on her face, causing a deep flush to crawl across her cheeks.

Mortified, her eyes flew to his face. Seeing his mischievous grin, she scowled. “Very funny.”

Armand chuckled. “I thought so. You’ve been silent and brooding all morning. I thought you could use a laugh.”

Frowning, she stirred cream and sugar into her previously untouched coffee. “I haven’t been brooding,” she grumbled.

“No? What do you call it then?”

She said nothing, carefully setting aside her spoon before lifting the cup of coffee to her mouth. She drank slowly, staring over his shoulder as she monitored traffic at the entrance to the dining room.

When they’d arrived for breakfast half an hour ago, she’d walked straight to a table in the rear corner and slid into the chair with its back to the wall, giving her a view of the whole room, just as she’d done yesterday morning. Force of habit, she’d admitted when Armand had commented on it. As a man who’d spent the last four years of his life looking over his shoulder for enemies, Armand had cultivated the same habit, the same need to keep a close eye on everything in his environment. But rather than claiming the chair beside Lia—which he hadn’t thought she would appreciate—he’d sat down across the table from her. Which meant he had nothing to stare at but the wall—and her.

Not that he was complaining.

Finishing his breakfast, Armand leaned back in his chair, stretched out one leg and contented himself with imagining Lia in something other than the blue-and-white pinstripe blouse and pleated gray slacks she wore. Something light and gauzy, he mused. Or tight and clingy, like those snug-fitting jeans she’d changed into yesterday when they went fishing. He imagined her hair loose and tousled, as if she had just risen from bed—his bed. He imagined her lips soft and wet from his kisses, her eyes half-closed and smoky with desire.

At that moment Lia met his gaze, then glanced away quickly when she saw the naked hunger in his eyes.

Needing an excuse to relieve the sudden straining at his zipper, Armand got up, stretched his arms above his head for a moment, then rounded the table and dropped into the chair beside hers.

Her entire body grew as taut as a wire. “What are you doing?” she demanded, staring at him as if he’d lost his mind.

He gave her an unfazed look. “Changing seats.”

“Yes, I can see that,” she snapped. “Why?”

He lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug. “I felt like it. Is that a problem?”

“There are only two of us at this table,” she ground out. “There’s no reason for both of us to sit on the same side.”

“Then why don’t you move?” Armand suggested.

“Because I was sitting here first!” When he grinned at her, she must have realized how juvenile she sounded. She made a strangled noise in her throat, then clamped her mouth shut and turned away.

After fuming for several moments, she said tersely, “You’re supposed to be keeping a low profile. Sitting with your back facing the room is the best way for you to do that.”

“The best way for me to keep a low profile,” Armand countered mildly, “is for us to eat all of our meals at the cabin. Alone.” He paused, searching her taut face. “But I don’t think you want that, do you, Miss Charles?”

Her eyes flickered before she jerked her gaze away. “Just try not to draw too much attention to yourself,” she muttered.

He grinned, leaning back in his chair and stretching out his long legs once again. “Just call me the Invisible Man.”

Lia snorted. “As if.”

“Meaning?”

“As if you could ever be invisible. I think every female head at that table whipped around when you walked into the room this morning.”

Armand smiled at her surly tone. “I didn’t notice,” he said honestly.

“Yeah, right. You expect me to believe that?”

He shrugged. “Believe whatever you want.”

“I intend to.”

As they lapsed into taut silence, Armand sipped his black coffee and idly surveyed his surroundings. The floor was thickly carpeted. Moose, elk and bear trophies were mounted on the pine walls alongside rustic wood-framed paintings that captured vintage scenes of the American West. In one corner of the room, a sedate fire crackled in the stone fireplace, warding off the morning chill in the mountain air. Several tables had been pushed together to accommodate a large group of army generals, their uniforms crisply pressed and their shoes polished to a high shine. Seated at several nearby tables were smaller, quieter groups comprised mostly of women—the secretaries and assistants, Armand assumed.

At that moment his gaze collided with a pair of dark, alluring eyes that belonged to an attractive caramel-toned woman in her early thirties. She had shoulder-length dark hair, and she wore a navy-blue pantsuit with a scooped neckline that hinted enticingly at ample cleavage. Her lips were painted a deep shade of red, curving in a bold, feline smile as she stared across the room at Armand.

He inclined his head, winking at the woman before returning his attention to Lia. He watched for a few minutes as she absently picked at her omelet, which had to be cold by now.

“Is something wrong with your food?” he finally asked.

“No,” she murmured. “I’m just not that hungry.”

“Eat anyway.” When she arched a brow at his commanding tone, he added, “You need your strength in order to protect me, don’t you?”

It was the wrong thing to say.

Lia bristled, her nostrils flaring slightly. “I don’t recall asking you to remind me what I need in order to do my job, Magliore.”

Realizing that he’d inadvertently struck a raw nerve, Armand pushed out a long, deep breath. “Look, if this is about last night—”

Lia flinched. “It’s not,” she said stiffly. “And if it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not talk about last night.”

Armand frowned. “You’d rather pretend it didn’t happen?”

She inhaled a sharp breath and glared at him. “I’m not pretending anything. I’d just prefer not to rehash it. It happened, it was a mistake, now let’s move on.”

Anger stirred in his chest at her dismissive words. “What if I don’t want to move on?” he challenged in a deceptively soft voice. “What if I can’t?”

“That’s too bad!” Belatedly remembering that they were not alone, Lia lowered her voice to a conciliatory murmur. “Look, what we did yesterday was a big mistake. I shouldn’t have crossed the line with you like that. I’m sorry for giving you mixed signals. Believe me, if I could undo what happened—”

“You wouldn’t.”

She blinked. “Wouldn’t what?”

“You wouldn’t undo what happened. And do you know why?” As Armand leaned toward her, he felt a perverse twinge of satisfaction when he saw her eyes widen, heard her breath quicken. Bringing his lips close to her ear, so that anyone watching them would think he was merely sharing a joke, he said silkily, “You wouldn’t change a damn thing about that kiss, because you enjoyed it as much as I did. I know it, and you know it. So please don’t insult my intelligence by suggesting otherwise.”

Lia swallowed hard, her pulse beating erratically at the hollow of her throat. He could feel the tension emanating from her body, matching his own. “This is neither the time nor the place to have this discussion,” she said shakily.

Armand gave a harsh, mirthless laugh as he drew away from her. “Something tells me you’d say that even if we were completely alone at the cabin.”

She looked at him, her eyes dark and stormy. “You don’t under—”

“Excuse me, sir.”

Armand and Lia glanced up sharply in unison. A member of the dining staff stood at their table balancing a drink on a silver serving tray.

He offered a sheepish smile to Armand. “I don’t mean to interrupt, sir, but I was asked to give this to you.”

“What is it?” Armand asked.

“A mimosa, sir. And a note. From the young lady at table nine.” He lifted the tall champagne flute from the tray and set it down on the table with an elaborate flourish.

Armand chuckled softly as the steward passed him the note. “For your eyes only, she wanted me to tell you.”

“Thanks,” Armand said as the man bowed gracefully before departing.

Deliberately ignoring Lia, who’d remained coolly silent throughout the brief conversation, Armand unfolded the piece of paper and read the note: A group of us are going horseback riding after lunch. I hope you can join us. My name is Tiffany, by the way.

Lifting his head, Armand looked across the room and found the pretty woman in the navy blue pantsuit staring at him with a soft, inviting smile. He winked at her, his lips curving in a lazy half smile.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Lia frown as she watched the two-way exchange. “You shouldn’t drink that,” she said tightly.

“Why not?”

“You don’t know where it came from.”

Armand chuckled dryly. “It came from the kitchen.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

Breaking eye contact with Tiffany, Armand arched a brow at Lia. “Are you suggesting that someone is trying to poison me?” he drawled.

She met his dubious gaze unflinchingly. “It’s highly possible.”

“Hmm. Well, then, I guess I’ll take my chances.”

Before he could reach for the champagne flute, Lia snatched it away from him.

He watched in amused disbelief as she sniffed delicately at the glass, then dipped her pinky inside and sampled the cocktail.

After a long moment, she passed him the glass without a word.

“I’m touched,” Armand said, half-seriously.

“By what?” she grumbled.

“By your continued willingness to risk your life for me. This mimosa could have been poisoned, as you said. You were willing to be the first to find out. I’m touched. Deeply.”

Lia scowled, rolling her eyes at him. “You don’t have to be a smart-ass, Magliore. I’m just doing my job.”

“Right,” he murmured. “Your job. How could I forget?”

She reached for her cup of coffee and took a long sip. As she did, Armand saw her trying very hard not to peek at the note in his hand.

His mouth twitched. “You’re dying to know what it says, aren’t you?” he teased.

She shook her head, quickly averting her eyes. “Not at all. It’s none of my business.”

“You’re right about that.” Armand set the glass down on the table without taking a sip. And waited.

After a prolonged moment, Lia said very casually, “Unless, of course, you’re planning to do something I wouldn’t approve of. Like sneaking off to be alone with your new secret admirer.” When Armand said nothing, her eyes narrowed suspiciously on his expressionless face. “You do know that I can’t allow that.”

“Allow what?”

“Allow you to be alone with that woman.”

“Her name is Tiffany,” Armand supplied.

“Whatever. You can’t go off to be alone with her. You have to remain in my sight at all times.”

Instead of responding, Armand idly stroked his chin between his thumb and forefinger, feeling the rasp of bristly whiskers. Now that he’d returned to civilization, he needed to get back in the habit of shaving on a regular basis.

“Do you understand?” Lia prompted, staring at him. “At all times.”

“If that’s the way it has to be.”

“It is.”

“In that case,” he drawled, “we’ve been invited to go horseback riding this afternoon.”

Lia frowned. “I really don’t think it’s a good idea for you to become friendly with any of these people. What if Tiffany recognizes you from old news clips, or starts asking too many personal questions?”

“I think I can handle myself.”

“Of course,” Lia said sardonically. “Men have perfected the art of lying and evasion.”

Armand smiled. “Exactly.”

“Be that as it may—”

“Aren’t you the one who told me yesterday I could go anywhere and do anything I want while we’re here?”

Lia hesitated, then nodded curtly.

“Well, what I want,” Armand said, meeting Tiffany’s gaze across the room once again, “is to enjoy the company of a beautiful woman with no strings attached. No guilt, no recriminations. No muss, no fuss.”

“In other words,” Lia said bitingly, “you want to have a fling.”

He turned his head to look at her. “What can I say?” he murmured, deliberately baiting her. “It’s been a long time.”

Her mouth tightened, but she said nothing more.

Hiding a smile, Armand reached for the champagne glass and raised it in a toast to Tiffany, who beamed with pleasure before shooting a triumphant look at Lia.

Lia scowled.

And Armand downed his drink, realizing he’d just been handed his ace in the hole.

Chapter 9

For the first time in six years, Lia hated her job.

No amount of training could have prepared her for what she would endure over the next several hours.

After kissing Magliore the day before, she’d told herself that things couldn’t possibly get worse.

She couldn’t have been more wrong.

In hindsight, Lia realized she should have expected the worst when Magliore told her that he’d been invited to go horseback riding. He might as well have asked her to go skinny-dipping in the lake.

Although Lia had always loved animals, they’d never particularly cared for her, sensing, perhaps, that something was different about her. Whenever she approached horses they became restless, whinnying nervously, stamping the ground and trying to back away from her. Their spooked reaction to her had always made her cry as a child, but as she grew older she learned to accept that animals, like people, sometimes rejected that which they couldn’t understand.

When she had first joined the protection detail, she had been required to take advanced riding lessons from the U.S. Park Police. The horse she had worked with every day for two months was an adaptable, highly trained animal that managed to put aside his own misgivings about Lia in order to help her become an adequate rider. Fortunately for her, she’d never been assigned a protectee who wanted to go horseback riding.

Until now.

The old gelding she was paired with that afternoon was especially difficult to control. Lia spent the entire three-hour jaunt through the scenic mountains gripping the reins tightly and praying that she wouldn’t get thrown off the horse. The tour guide, bringing up the rear beside her on the narrow trail, kept shaking his head in bewilderment and muttering apologetically, “I don’t know what’s gotten into him, miss. He’s old, but he ain’t never been this cantankerous before.”

Her predicament didn’t escape the notice of Magliore or Tiffany, who were riding alongside each other several paces ahead. Every time the sides of their legs brushed or a private smile passed between them, Lia’s stomach knotted. She told herself she didn’t care that Magliore and the other woman seemed to be hitting it off so well, but she knew better. She did care, and it bothered her to know that he could kiss her senseless one night, then cozy up to someone else the very next day.

Not that she could really blame him, Lia grudgingly admitted. He was a gorgeous, incredibly virile man who had been living in self-imposed exile for the last year. If he’d gone that long without having sex, as he’d implied over breakfast, who could blame him for seizing any opportunity to end his sexual drought? It was clear that Tiffany, with her provocative smiles and swinging hips, was only too willing to satisfy his every need.

Which was more than Lia could offer him.

At one point during the ride, Magliore glanced over his shoulder at her. Seeing her strained expression, and assuming her ornery horse was to blame, he asked, “Are you all right?”

Lia gave him a smile etched in steel. “Just peachy,” she said tightly.

Tiffany looked back at her with a sympathetic little smile that was about as genuine as a three-dollar bill. “You poor thing. Not having much fun, are you?” Turning back to Magliore, she whispered laughingly, “Let’s just hope she never has to whisk you away from danger while on horseback!”

As Lia glared at the other woman, she briefly fantasized about pulling out her pistol and firing a shot into the air, sending Tiffany and her horse plunging over the side of the mountain. But then she realized that the only bolting horse would probably be hers.

As if the afternoon excursion hadn’t been trying enough, she now found herself holding up a wall at an informal gathering at the Laurel Lodge, where many social functions and formal dinners were held on the property.

That evening, at least thirty men and women milled around the room, their attire ranging from casual to elegant—jeans and khaki shorts blending with dark sport coats and beaded tops. Soft, muted music flowed through the area, barely audible above the din of laughter and conversation. Members of the dining staff bustled about with professional efficiency refilling drinks and offering scrumptious hors d’oeuvres from silver trays. A fire roared in the enormous brick fireplace and the chandeliers were dimmed, creating a cozy, relaxed atmosphere.

Nursing a club soda, Lia took in the entire scene from her inconspicuous position in a corner of the room. She’d spent most of the evening watching as Magliore, seated at a blackjack table with five others, quietly and methodically outmaneuvered the dealer. Tiffany stood just behind him with one manicured hand resting possessively on his shoulder. Her hair was swept into an elegant twist and she’d changed into a black summer sheath that clung to every voluptuous curve and displayed her long, shapely legs to advantage. Every time Magliore won a hand she leaned down, deliberately treating him to an eyeful of cleavage as she whispered something in his ear. Whatever she said to him usually elicited one of his slow, lazy smiles—a smile of such potent sensuality that any woman watching would envy Tiffany. It didn’t help that Magliore looked devastatingly handsome in a black knit shirt that defined his broad, powerful chest and charcoal trousers that rode his long legs as if they it had been tailor-made for him. Even if it hadn’t been Lia’s job to watch him, she couldn’t have taken her eyes off him.

And now, the sight of his dark head bent close to Tiffany’s made her grip her glass so hard it was a wonder it didn’t break. She wished she had something stronger than club soda, but she knew better than to drink in public when she was supposed to be on duty.

Not that anyone would notice. After four years of working on protection details, Lia had perfected the art of invisibility. She’d learned how and when to blend into the background without ever losing sight of the protectee, or any potential threats to him.

So when two well-dressed women wandered over to the refreshment table, two feet from where Lia stood, she shamelessly eavesdropped on their conversation without fear of detection.

“I just called home to wish my son good night,” the bleached blonde was saying, “and I got into the biggest argument with my husband, Lucas.”

“About what?”

“Every time I have to travel he finds a reason to pick a fight with me. This time it was the fact that I missed Connor’s back-to-school night, for the first time in six years, mind you. I miss it once and suddenly my perfect track record is nullified.” She huffed out a sigh of disgust.

Her companion, a tall black woman, shook her head sympathetically. “Men and their double standards. Look around this room. Do you think the wives of these army generals are sitting at home thinking of ways to punish their husbands for missing back-to-school nights, birthday parties and Little League games?”

“Of course not. They know the deal.” Another deep sigh. “I know what Lucas’s problem is. He’s paranoid. He thinks that the only reason we’re brought on these trips is to serve as sex toys for our lecherous bosses.”

“Well…”

“Rhonda!” came the scandalized admonishment.

Rhonda chuckled unabashedly. “Oh, come on, Meredith. You have to admit that a lot of hooking up does go on during these trips. We both know of at least three women here who are sleeping with their bosses.”

“We suspect,” Meredith corrected. “We don’t know for sure.”

“Humph. Well, I suspect that we will know for sure before the night is over. All you have to do is look around the room to see who’s pairing up with whom, and it’s pretty obvious who’s going to be sneaking out of whose cabin early tomorrow morning.”

“Speaking of that, did you see the way Tiffany’s been hanging all over that man at the blackjack table?”

Rhonda laughed. “It’s kind of hard not to notice. She’s so obvious about it. But can you really blame her? Look at him—he’s hot!”

Meredith chuckled. “You definitely won’t get any argument out of me. Who is he?”

“A visiting dignitary, Tiffany told me. From some teensy-weensy country in Africa.”

“Which one?”

“Oh, shoot, I can’t remember.” Rhonda snorted. “If I could, you’d better believe I’d be packing up and moving there tomorrow!”

Meredith cackled. “I think Tiffany might beat you to it. She’s been a permanent fixture at his side all day.”

“I know. She’s hoping they can get rid of his Secret Service bodyguard so they can go back to Tiffany’s room and get down to business, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I’ve got a pretty good idea,” Meredith said with a lascivious grin that made Lia feel decidedly violent.

As the two women moved away, she didn’t know whether to be relieved that Magliore’s cover story seemed to be holding up, or annoyed that he and Tiffany were planning to give her the slip sometime that evening. Realistically, Lia knew she couldn’t prevent him from taking a lover. As she’d told him yesterday, he was her protectee, not her prisoner. Hell, he could have an orgy with ten different women if he wanted, as long as Lia secured the premises beforehand.

God, she hated her job today.

A loud chorus of groans from the blackjack table reclaimed her attention. A small crowd had gathered to watch in amused disbelief as Magliore won another hand. As he raked in his chips, the distinguished-looking gentleman seated to his right clapped him affably on the shoulder and leaned over to whisper something that made Magliore roar with laughter.

Lia frowned, shaking her head. This wasn’t exactly what she’d had in mind when she had told Magliore not to draw too much attention to himself. But she supposed she couldn’t really complain. Truth be told, she’d rather have him engaged in a friendly game of blackjack with a bunch of other men than hudled in a dark, cozy corner with his little girlfriend.

No sooner had she completed the thought than she saw him rise from the table and take Tiffany’s hand. Lia tensed, watching as the other players sent the smiling couple on their way with hearty calls of encouragement and wolf whistles.

Lia straightened from the wall, her narrowed gaze tracking Magliore and Tiffany as they started across the room. Toward the doorway.

Before she could take two steps to follow them, her path was blocked by a tall, barrel-chested man with clear blue eyes and steel-gray hair cropped military short in a crew cut. He wore an expensive dark blazer and neatly pressed trousers. Lia recognized him as one of the army generals who had arrived yesterday to attend the intelligence summit.

He smiled flirtatiously at Lia. “What’s a beautiful young lady like yourself doing hiding in the corner?”

Lia could tell by his slightly slurred speech and flushed face that the general had had one too many drinks that evening.

She gave him a polite smile. “Good evening, sir. Having a good time?”

“Absolutely. After being holed up in meetings and strategy sessions all day, this little mixer is a welcome change of pace, know what I mean?”

“Of course,” Lia said smoothly. Over the general’s shoulder, she had a clear view of Magliore and Tiffany, who had paused near the doorway to converse with another couple.

“I must say,” the general continued, running an appreciative gaze over Lia, “I’ve met plenty of Secret Service agents over the years, but I don’t think I’ve ever come across one as fetching as you are. How long have you worked for the service, young lady?”

“Six years and counting,” Lia murmured.

“Is that right?” He shifted closer, so close that his whiskey-scented breath now fanned her face. “It’s good to know that the agency is not only open to hiring women as agents, but beautiful women to boot.”

Lia gave him a wintry smile. “I’d like to believe that my qualifications had something to do with their hiring decision.”

The general laughed loudly. “Of course, of course! I wouldn’t dare suggest otherwise. I’m simply saying how refreshing it is to find a combination of beauty and brains in a Secret Service agent. Like I told you, the ones I’ve met had absolutely nothing going for them in the looks department.”

Lia smothered an impatient sigh at the absurdity of the conversation. So this was how her evening would end, she thought. Fending off the sexual advances of a half-drunk letch, who also happened to be a four-star general. Great. What a fitting end to a day that had already been disastrous.

And it was about to get worse.

“Listen, darling,” the general said, glancing around furtively as if to check for eavesdroppers, “I don’t know what time your shift ends, but I’d be honored if you’d join me for a drink after this. I’ve got a real nice cabin all to myself. We’d have privacy to talk, get to know each other a little better—”

“No, thank you,” Lia said coolly.

He blinked at her for a moment, then continued as if she hadn’t spoken. “Mind you, I’m a happily married man. Been married to the same woman for thirty years, and damn proud of it. But there’s nothing wrong with a man getting lonely and seeking a little companionship when he’s on the road.”

Lia gave him a level look. “With all due respect, sir, I’m not interested in providing companionship to you, or anyone else. Now if you will excuse me—”

As she tried to sidestep him his hand shot out, latching on to her wrist. His thoughts rushed to the surface of her brain, a volatile mix of lust and aggression.

Lia groaned inwardly, praying she wouldn’t have to dropkick the general in front of his peers and subordinates.

She met his leering stare, then glanced down pointedly at his hand. “Sir, I would advise you to—”

“Take your hand off her,” a low, icy voice spoke from behind the general.

Lia’s heart thudded as the general quickly dropped her hand and wheeled around to face Magliore, who had materialized out of thin air, it seemed. His expression was dark and menacing as he regarded the older man.

“Now see here—” the general blustered indignantly.

“General Bradshaw, is it?” At the man’s tight nod, Magliore continued in chillingly soft tones, “Your secretary, Tiffany, has told me so much about you. What a wonderful boss you’ve been to her, so noble and upstanding, revered by all. She bragged about what a devoted family man you are, a pillar of the community. I told her you sounded too good to be true.” He smiled, coldly mocking. “It appears that I was right.”

The general’s face turned an even brighter shade of red. Drawing himself up to his full height, he glared reproachfully at Lia. “Maybe it’s not such a good idea for women to be Secret Service agents. No matter how many guns you may carry, you still need rescuing.”

Lia bit the inside of her cheek to keep from saying something she might later regret. But as soon as the general had moved away, she turned angrily on Magliore. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she hissed, acutely aware that they were being watched by several guests.

Magliore stared at her, incredulous. “Me? I’m not the one who was just trying to manhandle you.”

“I didn’t need you to intervene on my behalf. I can take care of myself!”

His jaw hardened, his eyes flashing with suppressed anger. “Pardon me for giving a damn what happens to you.”

Lia opened her mouth to respond, then snapped it shut. They glared at each other across two feet of charged space.

“I’m ready to go.” Magliore bit off his words.

“Are you sure?” Lia taunted, unable to resist. “I see your little girlfriend standing across the room with her arms crossed and her bottom lip poked out, looking like someone rained on her parade. Are you really sure you wanna leave her hanging like that? It may be hard to get back into her good graces later on when you sneak out in the middle of the night to go screw her.”

Magliore’s eyes narrowed on Lia’s face, sharp and discerning.

Too late, Lia realized she’d said too much, revealed too much. She turned away abruptly. “You wanna go? Fine. Let’s go.”

They didn’t exchange another word until they’d reached the cabin ten minutes later. Lia, still incensed by the general’s parting words to her, stalked around the living room, snapping on lights while Magliore poured himself a shot of whiskey from the butler’s pantry.

“For future reference,” she said through gritted teeth, “the next time you get that classic male urge to charge in on your white horse and rescue the helpless damsel in distress, do me a favor. Just say no.”

Magliore gulped down his drink, then gave a short, brittle laugh. “Please don’t stand there and pretend this is about what happened with General Bradshaw.”

“Of course it is!” Lia burst out, her temper flaring. “In case you still don’t understand, Magliore, I am a Secret Service agent, a trained professional paid to protect others from danger. I am fully capable of getting myself out of uncomfortable situations. Especially situations in which the only real threat to me is a horny old man who’s had too much to drink. The way you interfered tonight completely undermined my authority and made me look like a fool.”

“I’m sorry!” Magliore exploded, his eyes blazing with fury. “Is that what you want me to say? I’m sorry, damn it. I’m sorry for offending or humiliating you. Believe me, that wasn’t my intention. I watched him make his way over to you, and it put me on edge. And then I saw him grab you, and I just lost my head. Before I knew it I was marching across the room, ready to rip his damn head off. As far as I’m concerned,” he snarled, “that bastard got off easy.”

Lia stared at him, stunned into silence by what he’d just told her. The fact that he’d been watching her at any time during the evening, especially with Tiffany draped all over him, filled her with an incredible sense of satisfaction. And relief. She’d spent most of the day tortured by the sight of him and the other woman flirting with each other, tortured by mental images of them in bed together. Not once during the party had he glanced in her direction or given her any indication that he was even cognizant of her presence.

But he had been. And somehow that made up for everything she’d endured that day.

Giving her a sardonic look, Magliore splashed more whiskey into his glass and drank it in one swallow.

“Careful,” Lia warned, half-seriously. “You don’t want to end up an inebriated letch like General Bradshaw.”

Magliore didn’t so much as crack a smile.

Lia pushed out a long, deep breath. “All right. It’s possible I overreacted a little.”

He stared into his empty shot glass. “I know what you were upset about,” he said softly, “and it had very little to do with the general, or what I said to him.”

Lia swallowed with difficulty. No denial sprang to her lips.

Lifting his head, Magliore gave her a long, probing look that sent heat licking through her. When he spoke again, his voice was low and measured. “I’ve been trying to figure you out all day.”

“Oh?” It was an effort to squeeze out the word, her lungs were so constricted.

He nodded, setting aside the glass. “You claim to regret kissing me,” he murmured thoughtfully, “yet seeing me with another woman makes you so jealous you can hardly think straight. How do you explain that?”

Lia wanted to turn tail and run, get away from him as fast as possible. Instead she forced herself to remain standing in the middle of the living room, her chin angled in stubborn defiance. “I think you’re putting words in my mouth.”

“Am I?”

“I think so.”

He came forward, a slow and predatory advance. “You think so, or you know so?” he said silkily.

Her heart beat wildly in her chest as he drew nearer. The air between them was charged with tension, almost suffocating in its intensity.

When he’d stopped in front of her, she stared up at him helplessly. “What do you want from me?” she whispered.

He shook his head slowly. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend you don’t know what this is about.”

“If you’re still talking about what happened yesterday—”

A flicker of annoyance darkened his features. “Damn it, Lia,” he growled. “You still can’t even say it, can you? We kissed. We shared the most amazing kiss I’ve ever had in my life. Referring to it in abstract terms won’t change what we did, or the fact that I want you so bad my body aches every time I just think about you.”

Lia’s breath snagged sharply in her throat, her belly quivered with arousal and her knees threatened to buckle. As she gazed into the searing intensity of Magliore’s eyes, she had to fight the sensation of drowning.

She needed to escape. Now. Before it was too late.

She took a step backward. “I—I think we should call it a night. It’s getting late.”

“That’s right, Lia. Run,” Magliore taunted softly. “That’s what you do best. Run.”

Just like that, something snapped inside her. The agony of watching him with another woman, compounded by days of pent-up sexual frustration, finally pushed her over the edge, and she lashed out.

“Damn you!” she cried, placing her hand against the solid wall of his chest and shoving as hard as she could. “Do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I enjoy running from you? I’m a fighter. I’ve never run from anyone or anything in my life! Until now—until you!”

His eyes glittered in warning. “Lia—”

“No! This is what you’ve been waiting to hear, isn’t it? That I want you just as much as you want me. That ever since we met, I’ve lain awake every night thinking about you, fantasizing about you, wishing we were two different people so I could make love to you. That every time I see you I just…I just—Oh, hell!”

Before Lia could stop herself, she cupped his face between her hands, leaned up and crushed her mouth to his, swallowing his sharp intake of breath. As his arms lifted and banded tightly around her waist, she traced the outline of his sensuous lips with the tip of her tongue, wondering how a man’s mouth could be so soft, so temptingly lush. He tasted of whiskey and his own uniquely intoxicating flavor. She ran her tongue along the smooth edges of his teeth before boldly pushing her way inside. She plundered the silky heat of his mouth in slow, erotic sweeps that made him shudder. He wasn’t alone in his arousal. Her flesh burned all over, her breasts throbbed, her loins ached. She wanted desperately to be naked with him, to feel his slick, powerful body mounted above hers. With a hoarse moan, she deepened the kiss, sucking greedily on his tongue until he made a sound deep in his throat, pure masculine hunger. Showing him no mercy, Lia poured all of her need, anger and stifled frustration into what became the most savage, bruising kiss she’d ever experienced.

By the time she wrenched herself free, she and Magliore were both gasping for air.

They stared at each other for several electrified moments.

As the fog of desire slowly cleared from her brain and sanity returned, Lia realized the enormity of what she’d just done. Without a word, she spun on her heel and bolted for the safety of her bedroom.

She didn’t get very far.

Quick as a snake striking, Magliore reached out and captured her around the waist. Although she resisted, he was too strong for her, hauling her roughly into his arms. But instead of resuming the kiss, as she’d feared, he buried his face in her hair, holding her against him as he fought to control his ragged breathing.

“You’re killing me, chère,” he whispered hoarsely, his voice filled with raw torment. “I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

Lia squeezed her eyes shut tightly, her face pressed against the solid warmth of his chest. She could feel his heart thudding beneath her cheek while her own slammed painfully against her rib cage. Her emotions were in turmoil. Every fiber of her being throbbed for him, ached for him. She wanted nothing more than to wrap her arms around his neck and pull his head down to hers for another earth-shattering kiss that would leave them both breathless and shaken. And she didn’t want to stop there. She wanted to throw caution to the wind, forget the rest of the world and surrender to him—mind, body and soul.

She silently railed against the cruel hand of fate that had brought them together at this moment in time. Why couldn’t they have met under different circumstances? Why couldn’t they have met eight years ago during her previous trip to Muwaiti? She’d been younger, happier and carefree in a way she’d never been since then. Magliore would have been a young soldier in Seligny’s army, unburdened by the demands of leading a revolution. They could have enjoyed a passionate island fling, and when it was time for her to leave, she would have taken her wonderful memories with her.

Assuming I would have wanted to leave.

Shaken by the unsettling thought, Lia drew a deep, shuddering breath and forced herself to step away, out of his arms. She didn’t know whether to feel relieved or devastated when he made no attempt to detain her.

“Good night,” she murmured.

He said nothing, and she didn’t look at him, afraid to let him see the fear, the doubt, the yearning reflected in her eyes.

She had taken three steps toward her bedroom when he said in a low, husky voice, “I’m sorry.”

Lia stopped, but did not turn around. “For what?”

“For putting you in this impossible position. For asking you to choose between duty and your own desires.” He paused. “You’re a good agent, Lia. A damn good one. I know how much your job means to you. I didn’t fully understand before, but I do now.”

Hearing the note of resignation in his voice, Lia slowly turned to face him. Her pulse was thudding. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, unaccountably nervous. “Does this mean…Does this mean you’re going to stop trying to seduce me?”

He held her gaze for a long, heated moment. “Is that what you really want?”

Yes. She heard the word in her mind, as clear as a bell, but for some inexplicable reason she couldn’t bring herself to voice it aloud. She felt paralyzed, lungs locked, unable to inhale or exhale.

Watching her intently, Magliore’s mouth curved in the barest hint of a smile. “That’s what I thought,” he murmured.

Lia swallowed. She felt like a small, cornered animal that had foolishly squandered an opportunity for escape and now found itself facing the bared fangs of its enemy.

She took a step backward. “Well, um, good night,” she mumbled.

This time there was no mistaking the wolfish gleam in Magliore’s eyes. “Good night, Lia,” he said softly. “Sweet dreams.”

Chapter 10

Monday, September 8, 2008
1400 hours
Muwaiti
Presidential Palace
Day 4

When Alexandre Biassou was ten years old, his mother was brutally murdered before his very eyes.

Her crime was adultery.

Her judge and executioner was her own husband.

He shot her three times in the face so that no one attending the funeral would remember the exquisitely beautiful woman she had been in life. Instead, she would be forever mourned as the hideously disfigured creature who had provoked the wrath of a monster.

Christophe Biassou never spent a day in prison for killing his wife. Back then, the Muwaitian authorities did not look favorably upon adulterous women. Christophe was seen as the victim, the poor, trusting fool who’d been betrayed and humiliated by his whore of a wife. It was agreed that depriving him of his freedom, after the grievous injustice he’d already suffered, would be nothing short of a travesty.

And that was when his ten-year-old son learned that a man could commit any crime under the sun—even murder—and get away with it.

So when he grew up to become a politician, he thought nothing of engaging in bribery, extortion and embezzlement schemes—whatever it took to advance his political career and increase his personal wealth.

And when he set his sights on the Muwaitian presidency, and realized that Francois Seligny was the only obstacle standing in his way, Alexandre had no qualms about arranging his rival’s assassination. As far as he was concerned, the ends justified the means.

Following in the footsteps of his father, Alexandre got away with murder.

That was the first time, but it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

When his wife brazenly threatened to expose all his dirty secrets to a prominent British journalist who had contacted her, Alexandre saw to it that she “accidentally” fell overboard and drowned in the ocean while they were out sailing on their private yacht. No one dared question his story that he had been sleeping below decks when his wife, a notorious drunk, lost her footing and plunged to her death.

That was the only way Alexandre knew how to deal with people who posed a threat to him. He removed them from the equation—permanently.

It had been four days since Magliore’s infuriating escape from Muwaiti, and Alexandre was still waiting to receive news of his whereabouts from his American co-conspirator. With each passing hour and day he grew more impatient, and anxious. Time was running out. Magliore must be found and killed soon if Alexandre were to have any chance at retaining his power—and his freedom.

The dire nature of his situation weighed heavily upon him, robbing him of sleep and making him lash out at anyone who had the misfortune of crossing his path, be it household servants or members of his administration.

Now, as Alexandre sat at a table in the palace courtyard playing chess with his ninety-year-old father, he found himself unable to concentrate. When Christophe Biassou captured his king and won the game, Alexandre scowled.

Christophe glared reproachfully at him, his obsidian-colored eyes as shrewd and piercing as they had ever been. He scolded his son for not paying attention. Glaring at him, Christophe tapped a gnarled finger against his temple. “Chess is a game of strategy. You cannot win if you do not have a strategy.”

Alexandre’s temper flared. “Merde! You think I do not know that? How many times have I sat in this same chair and beat you soundly at this game?”

There was a time he would have severed his own tongue before daring to speak to his father with such blatant disrespect. But that time had long ago passed. Christophe Biassou was no longer the larger-than-life figure of Alexandre’s youth, the man with the thunderous voice, brutal fists and volatile temper, whose very footstep had struck fear and awe in the heart of his only child. The years had turned Christophe into a feeble, embittered old man who needed his son far more than Alexandre had ever needed him.

And Christophe knew it, too, whether or not he was too proud to admit it.

“I know what has been eating at you,” Christophe observed as Alexandre began setting up the chessboard for a new match. This time he would not lose.

“You’re worried that you will not find the rebel leader in time,” his father continued. “You’re worried that you will go to prison.”

Alexandre did not reply. He had never consulted his father about his political affairs. After all, Christophe was a coarse, uneducated man who had spent most of his life toiling in the sugarcane fields. He knew nothing about politics, guerrilla warfare, military strategy or what it took to run a country. It hadn’t taken any brains or ingenuity on his part to get away with murdering his wife; he’d simply been the benefactor of a legal system that did not value women. His counsel on most matters could be of little use or interest to Alexandre.

But that never stopped him from offering his opinion, anyway.

He wagged his bony finger at Alexandre. “You should have gotten rid of that boy when you had the chance. Instead you allowed him to hang around for years and make a fool of you. You cannot be a strong, respected leader if you cannot silence your enemies.”

Alexandre clenched his jaw so tightly it hurt. “Are you going to play or talk, old man?”

Christophe made a sound of disgust. “I do not want to play again. There is no challenge in it for me if you are not focused on the game.”

“Fine.” With an impatient snap of his fingers, Alexandre summoned his father’s nurse, who had been seated on a bench nearby reading a romance novel.

“Escort my father to his room,” Alexandre ordered the burly woman. “It’s time for his nap.”

“I’m not tired,” Christophe grumbled to no avail as he was assisted from his chair and led away.

No sooner had Alexandre gotten rid of his irascible father than a servant appeared at his side. “Pardonnez-moi, your excellency,” the youth said, bowing deferentially. “This just arrived for you.”

“Merci,” Alexandre murmured, calmly accepting the large envelope. But as soon as the servant departed, he ripped it open with trembling hands, his heart pounding with anticipation.

Inside the envelope was a small black-and-white photograph attached to a one-page dossier on Special Agent Lia Charles, the woman who had led the Special Forces team responsible for Magliore’s extraction. Alexandre lingered over the photo for a moment, reluctantly admiring the beautiful young American who’d thwarted his mercenaries that night in the jungle. If only she’d been captured and brought to the palace. He would have thoroughly enjoyed ravishing her, hearing her screams of pain and terror, before he sliced her throat.

Chuckling darkly at the thought, Alexandre scanned the document, skimming over the agent’s impressive credentials, until he came upon what he was looking for.

There, in fine print at the bottom of the paper, was the name and address of the mountain retreat where Magliore and the woman were hiding out, along with detailed instructions on how Alexandre’s assassin would gain access to the secure government facility.

As Alexandre calmly returned the document to the envelope, a slow, cunning smile spread across his face.

I’m coming for you, traitor. Ready or not.

Armand jolted upright in bed, heart slamming against his ribs, a fine sheen of sweat clinging to his bare chest.

As he blinked in the gloomy darkness of his room, trying to make sense of what had awakened him, a clap of thunder sounded outside, followed seconds later by the steady patter of rain against the rooftop.

Slowly he eased back against his pillows, scrubbing his face with his hands.

He’d fallen asleep dreaming about Lia—edgy, tantalizing images full of smoke and heat and pulsing steel drums, sultry dark eyes, glistening brown skin and moist lips parted in sensual invitation. The whisper of soft, husky laughter teased his senses, and the seductive exploration of her mouth and hands made him writhe with longing. And then suddenly the images changed, became darker, menacing. He was running. Out of breath. Someone was shouting at him, telling him that he was in danger and must save himself. Lia, he realized. But when he stopped and turned around, he saw his mother and two siblings, Henri and Felicite. They were all staring at him with such sorrow in their eyes that he took a step toward them, seeking to comfort them. But they shook their heads frantically and pointed toward the ground, and when Armand looked down, he saw that there was a wide chasm separating them. Felicite and his mother began to cry—terrible, keening wails that tore him apart. When he started toward them again, the earth opened wider and swallowed him, plunging him into a dark underworld of blood, violence and mayhem. He heard machine-gun fire, mortar blasts, tortured screams. And he heard Lia again, yelling at him to run, to leave her behind. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t.

This time when he turned around to reach for her, he found himself staring into the cruelly smiling face of Alexandre Biassou.

That’s when Armand woke with a violent start.

“Merde,” he swore hoarsely under his breath.

Tossing aside the covers, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, then stood and padded barefoot to the adjoining bathroom, where he splashed cold water over his face. A shudder ran through him at the memory of the disturbing dream, which had seemed all too real.

Especially the sinister smile on Biassou’s face.

Nightmares were nothing new to Armand. He’d had more than his fair share of them over the last two years, harrowing dreams in which he saw the lifeless faces of comrades he’d lost along the way and men he’d killed in battle.

But this dream had been different. More intense. Ominous. Even now, as he stood over the bathroom sink, staring at his shadowy reflection in the mirror, Armand couldn’t shake a horrible sense of foreboding.

Trouble was on the way. He felt it down to the marrow of his bones.

Over the last four days he’d been so preoccupied with Lia, so obsessed with seducing her, that he’d allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security. A state of relaxed contentment. Every time he was with her, he found it startlingly easy to keep reality at bay. To push unsettling thoughts of home, corruption and danger to the far recesses of his mind. After two years of fighting and living in self-imposed exile, Armand knew he’d earned the right to relax a little. But it was a luxury he couldn’t afford to indulge for very much longer.

If there was one thing being a soldier had taught him, it was to be on guard at all times.

And if there was one thing he’d learned from Alexandre Biassou, it was to never underestimate your enemy.

Biassou’s failure to prevent Armand from leaving Muwaiti alive did not mean he had given up on stopping him from testifying at the hearing. Biassou had too much to lose to surrender now. He would pursue Armand to the ends of the earth to keep him from ruining his future. There was no doubt in Armand’s mind that if Biassou discovered where he was hiding, he would do everything in his power to find a way to breach the tight security and get to Armand.

The dream had been a warning, he realized. His intuition was telling him to be on the lookout, to be vigilant, because Biassou was coming after him. Hunting him like an animal.

Armand frowned, his gut tightening at another possibility. Maybe Biassou was going after his family, not him. After all, Biassou knew how much Armand’s mother and sister and brother meant to him. He’d successfully managed to sneak them out of the country without Biassou’s knowledge. Maybe Biassou had learned of their new whereabouts and decided that the only way to get to Armand was to kidnap his family and use them as bait to lure him out of hiding. Once he had Armand in his clutches, he would kill all of them.

Armand shuddered, closing his eyes and bracing his palms on the smooth, cool surface of the bathroom counter. Suddenly he was struck by a fierce urge to see his mother and siblings again—an urge so strong he was tempted to march next door, drag Lia from her bed and demand that she take him to his family. He needed to make sure that they were safe and sound. He needed to hug them, and tell them how much he loved them.

And if something was going to happen to him, he needed one last chance to say goodbye.

But he knew that Lia would never go for it. She wouldn’t even give him the exact location of the federal safe house where his family was being kept. For security reasons, she’d explained. Which was also why taking him to see his family or arranging a clandestine meeting at a neutral location, was out of the question. It was too risky, too dangerous.

Armand understood the rationale. God knows he had no desire to put his mother and siblings in any more danger than he already had. But as disturbing images from the dream replayed in his mind, he knew he had to find a way to get in touch with his family somehow. One way or another he had to convince Lia to help him.

With his mind made up, Armand left the bathroom and crawled back into bed.

Lying on his back with his hands clasped behind his head, he watched out his window as a bolt of lightning cut an electrified path across the sky.

He knew that sleep would elude him for a few more hours, if not for the rest of the night.

Chapter 11

Tuesday, September 9, 2008
0700 hours
Thurmont, Maryland
Day 5

When Lia emerged from her bedroom at seven o’clock the next morning, she found Magliore standing at the living-room window, one hand thrust into the pocket of his jeans as he stared out at the heavily falling rain. He appeared to be deep in thought, not even glancing over at her as she made her way to the kitchen.

“Good morning,” she said, already thinking ahead to what the day would bring. With Armand Magliore, nothing was ever predictable. Which—under vastly different circumstances—was just what she’d always liked in a man. Unpredictability. Spontaneity. A daring sense of adventure. Magliore had those qualities in spades.

“That was quite a storm last night, wasn’t it?” she remarked. “Woke me out of a deep sleep. What about you?”

Magliore barely spared her a glance. “Yeah,” he murmured.

As Lia headed into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, she wondered if his moodiness had anything to do with the way they’d parted last night. She’d kissed him as if her very life depended on it, then retreated like a coward—for the second night in a row. Yet when he’d asked her point-blank whether she wanted him to stop pursuing her, she hadn’t been able to give him an answer.

Lia cringed at the memory. She wouldn’t blame him one bit for thinking she was a total flake or, worse, a tease.

Stop it, she ordered herself with a stern shake of her head. Just because the man seems unusually distant this morning doesn’t mean it has anything to do with you. Get over yourself!

While she waited for the coffee to percolate, she rummaged around in the well-stocked cabinets, finding unopened boxes of buttermilk pancake mix and instant grits. From the refrigerator she pulled out eggs, milk, bacon and butter.

When she poked her head around the kitchen doorway, she saw that Magliore had not moved from his position at the window.

“I thought we could have breakfast here,” she told him. “You know, since it’s raining so hard outside. I thought we could save ourselves a trip to the main lodge in this downpour.”

And avoid having to see your girlfriend, Tiffany, she added silently.

Magliore glanced over his shoulder at her. “I don’t mind walking in the rain.”

“I do,” Lia said, straight-faced. “All that humidity is hell on my hair.”

He just stared at her, as if trying to decide whether or not to take her seriously.

Lia ruined the moment by grinning. “Just kidding. Honestly, Magliore, how shallow do you think I am?”

This, finally, brought a faint smile to his face. “I don’t think you’re shallow at all. But I know how you sisters are about your hair.”

Her grin widened. “Well, with a job like mine, this sister can’t be worrying too much about her hair.”

Magliore’s lazy gaze roamed across her ponytail. “Do you ever wear it down?”

“Sometimes. Depends on the occasion.”

He was silent for a moment. “Would you wear it down if I asked you to?”

“Why would you ask me to?”

“Maybe I’d like to see what you look like with your hair down, loose around your shoulders.”

There was nothing overtly sexual about his words, or the way he was looking at her, but Lia shivered just the same. It was that deep, smoky voice of his. Even the most innocent conversation could sound indecent with that voice.

She shrugged, glancing away from him for a moment. “I’ll think about it. So are you okay with staying here for breakfast? You said yourself it was the best way for you to keep a low profile.”

He arched a brow. “And now you agree with me?”

“I never disagreed.”

“No,” he murmured, watching her with a vaguely amused expression, “I guess you didn’t. So if we stay here, who’s making breakfast?”

“I am.”

“But I thought you told me you don’t cook?”

“I don’t. But I found everything I need to make pancakes and instant grits. How hard can it be to whip up some eggs and read some instructions on the back of a box?”

An hour later, Lia had her answer.

Seated across the breakfast table from Magliore, she surveyed the unappetizing array of food on her plate. The scrambled eggs were brown, the grits were runny, the bacon was overcooked and the pancakes looked nothing like the fluffy, perfectly round flapjacks displayed on the box.

As she watched, Magliore lifted one from his plate and studied it, turning it this way and that as if it were a foreign organism beneath a microscope. “Most unusual thing I’ve ever seen,” he murmured, his mouth twitching. “And yet somehow familiar…”

“Familiar?”

He nodded. Suddenly his face broke into a wide grin. “I know why. This one is shaped like Muwaiti!”

Lia stared at the pancake for a moment, then burst out laughing. He was right. It did bear an uncanny resemblance to the small Caribbean island!

“I’m touched,” Magliore said, chuckling as he reached for the bottle of syrup. “You knew I was feeling homesick this morning, so you decided to make me a pancake in honor of my homeland.”

“Right. That’s exactly what I had in mind,” Lia confirmed, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. “I’m so glad you appreciate the gesture.”

“Oh, most definitely. Just as I appreciate the time and effort you put into making, ah, breakfast this morning.”

Lia grinned ruefully. “You might want to hold off on thanking me until after you’ve actually tasted the meal in question,” she advised.

Magliore grinned, forking up some eggs. “Oh, I’m sure it can’t be all that—” He froze, midchew. The look on his face could only be described as one of horrified disbelief.

Lia howled with laughter. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you!”

Magliore shook his head at her, his eyes dancing with mirth. Instead of grabbing the closest napkin and spitting out the eggs, he bravely swallowed the mouthful of food, then chased it down with several gulps of strong black coffee.

“You continue to amaze me, Lia Charles,” he said with another shake of his head.

Lia chuckled. “I would say thank you, but somehow I don’t think that was meant as a compliment.”

He laughed. “An astute observation.”

“I don’t know where I went wrong,” Lia complained, watching her soupy grits run like water through the tines of her fork. “I followed all the directions to the letter. And I had no way of knowing the eggs would stick to the bottom of the pan if I didn’t spray it or use butter.”

Magliore chuckled, pouring syrup over his lopsided stack of pancakes. “Don’t beat yourself up. It was your first time. It always gets easier after that.”

“Ha! You think I’m actually going to try this cooking experiment again? No way. I’ve learned my lesson.”

“I’m really sorry to hear that.”

“Why?” Lia said drolly. “You enjoy being forced to eat unpalatable food?”

He laughed. “How do you know it’s unpalatable? You haven’t even tasted anything yet.”

She grinned wryly. “I don’t need to. The look on your face after tasting the eggs said it all.” She heaved a deep sigh. “I guess we should have gone to the main lodge for breakfast, after all. I was crazy to think my food could compete with those melt-in-your-mouth country biscuits and incredible omelets.”

“Maybe not,” Magliore agreed, winking at her, “but I couldn’t ask for better company.”

Lia warmed with pleasure at his words—which, she supposed, had been his intent. She gave him a grateful smile. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better about my disastrous attempt at cooking.”

“Did it work?”

“Not nearly as much as watching you eat those pancakes, God bless you.”

“Actually, they’re not that bad.”

She brightened. “Really?”

“Really. Of course,” he drawled, his mouth twitching with suppressed humor, “after existing on a steady diet of MREs for the last year, anything tastes good to me.”

Lia poked her tongue out at him, and he began laughing.

The entire situation was so comical that she soon joined him. When she picked up one of her own oddly-shaped pancakes and waved it at him, he threw back his head and roared with laughter, which only made her laugh harder.

When their laughter finally subsided, Lia reached for her glass of orange juice and took a long sip. She studied Magliore quietly for several moments.

“Is that why you were so subdued this morning?” she asked gently. “Because you were feeling homesick?”

He nodded, meeting her gaze. “I miss my family.”

Her heart swelled with compassion. “I know this must be very hard for you, being apart from them like this.”

Again he nodded. “I wish I could see them.”

“You know that’s not possible,” Lia murmured. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I know. I know.”

Hearing the frustration in his voice, Lia sought to reassure him. “Your mother and your siblings are safe.”

“How do you know for sure?” Magliore impatiently demanded.

“Because the agents assigned to protect them are the best,” Lia said firmly. “They check in every day with my supervisor, Nancy Janikowski, to give a status report. If something had happened, she would have called me immediately.”

“Maybe not,” Magliore said darkly. “Maybe she wouldn’t want me to worry and get sidetracked. Your government wants me to testify at this hearing, no matter what. I wouldn’t put it past your supervisor, or anyone else, to withhold information from me that could possibly hinder my cooperation.”

Lia frowned. “That makes no sense whatsoever. First of all, if something happened to your mother and siblings, no one would be heartless enough to keep that from you just to avoid rocking the boat. It doesn’t work that way. Secondly, if Biassou’s mercenaries somehow got to your family, that would mean our position may have been compromised, as well, which means we would need to be moved to another location right away. From a logistical standpoint alone, Janikowski would have to fill us in on everything.”

Magliore looked at her, a hint of mockery in the curve of his mouth. “Such faith you have in your government, ma petite.”

Her chin angled in defense. “If I’m not mistaken,” she said evenly, “you were the same way four years ago.”

His expression darkened. “And so I was. For all the good it did me.”

Before Lia could respond, he shoved back from the table and stood, pacing to the window. She watched as he stood with his arms folded across his chest, gazing out at the torrential downpour in brooding silence.

In helpless frustration she turned back to her meal. But even if there had been anything remotely appetizing on her plate, she’d already lost her appetite.

Taking a deep breath, she rose from the table and made her way over to Magliore. His back stiffened as she approached, tension radiating from every muscle in his body.

She stopped beside him. She wanted to reach out and touch him, offer him comfort, but she was afraid he’d pull away from her, and for some reason she didn’t think she could handle that.

“I won’t pretend to comprehend just how difficult this has been for you,” she began softly. “I don’t have any siblings, and I’ve never had to look after my parents. They’ve always had each other for that. You’ve been taking care of your family ever since you were fourteen, and suddenly you’re expected to relinquish that responsibility to virtual strangers? That can’t be easy for you. I understand that, believe me, I do. All I’m asking is for you to be patient. After the hearing you and your family will be together again, even if I have to take you to them myself. I promise you that.”

An eternity seemed to pass before Magliore turned, fixing his penetrating eyes on her. “I just need to know that they’re okay,” he said quietly. “I know I agreed to these terms when I brokered the deal, and the last thing I want is to put their lives in any more danger than I already have. But if there’s any way you can let me talk to them for a minute, or get a message to them somehow—”

Lia started shaking her head even before he finished speaking. “It’s too risky.”

“Please,” he implored huskily. “S’il vous plaît.”

Lia stared up at him, seeing the desperation, the urgency, the naked vulnerability in his eyes. As the seconds ticked past, she felt something crumble inside her. She recognized it as the last of her resistance.

She blew out a deep, resigned breath. “Actually, there is a way you can safely communicate with your family.”

“How?”

“A videoconference.” Lia glanced out the window at the driving sheets of rain spilling from the gray sky. “And the best part is, we don’t even have to leave the cabin.”

When Nanette Magliore sat down in front of a video monitor and saw her oldest son for the first time in weeks, tears of joy welled in her dark brown eyes. She was a petite, dark-skinned woman with salt-and-pepper hair worn in a soft natural that accentuated the smooth roundness of her face. She was flanked by her two children, Felicite and Henri, twenty-four-year-old fraternal twins who bore little resemblance to each other. While Henri appeared to be as tall and darkly handsome as his older brother, Felicite was petite like her mother and astonishingly curvaceous, with a coffee-and-cream complexion and an exotic blend of features. The only feature the twins shared was Armand’s amber-colored eyes, but even in that they were different. While Henri’s eyes were serious and intense, his sister’s glowed with an irrepressible spirit that was infectious.

At the moment, all three members of the Magliore clan were staring at the video monitor with identical expressions of happiness and relief.

The moment they saw Armand, they all started speaking at once. But it was Nanette’s thickly accented island lilt that broke through first. “Is that you, mwen fis?” she asked tearfully.

Magliore laughed, a sound of pure, unadulterated joy that touched Lia’s heart. “Of course it’s me, Maman. Who else were you expecting?”

His lighthearted quip was met with a rumble of appreciative laughter. “We could not believe it when they told us we would be seeing you today,” Nanette said, beaming at her oldest son. “I told the agent in charge it would be cruel to tease us and get our hopes up for nothing.”

“You should have seen Maman,” Felicite interjected with a playful grin. “She threatened to knock that poor man upside his head with her bous if he was lying to us. And you know how heavy Maman’s bous is!”

Everyone laughed. Even Lia, who stood to the far right of Magliore, out of the camera frame, chuckled at the thought of the petite woman assaulting a federal agent with her purse.

“They were not teasing you, Maman,” Magliore said, smiling warmly as his deep voice took on the lazy, lilting cadence of Muwaitian patois. “I will be forever indebted to Special Agent Charles for arranging this special meeting.”

“Is it safe?” Henri asked. “They told us it was too dangerous to see or speak to you at all.”

Magliore nodded. “They are right, mwen frè. It is very dangerous. But the government has sophisticated technology to make this videoconference one-hundred-percent safe.”

“How?” Henri inquired, his eyes alight with avid curiosity.

“Well, basically, the transmitting signal between our two locations is scrambled to keep any unauthorized individuals from tracing—” Seeing the glazed look that came over his mother’s and sister’s eyes, Magliore laughed. “Ah, never mind the technicalities. The point is, this is the safest way for us to communicate with one another. Now, how is everyone doing? Tout bagay anfom? Are you being treated well?”

All three nodded vigorously. “They told us not to describe too much where we are staying,” Nanette said, “but I can tell you that it is very nice. Very comfortable.”

“Très bon,” Magliore said approvingly.

Felicite groaned. “I think I’ve gained too much weight from all this good food they’re feeding us.”

Magliore smiled affectionately at his sister. “You look just fine to me, ’tite chatte.”

Felicite grinned, blowing him a kiss. “And that is why you are my favorite brother,” she cooed.

Henri laughed, reaching behind his mother to tug on one of Felicite’s long, beautiful braids. “She’s just mad at me because I told her to stop flirting with Agent Rollins. You would tell her the same thing if you could see the way she’s been carrying on.”

“Bah! You tell stories. Besides, it’s not my fault he’s so handsome,” Felicite said, smiling coquettishly at someone off-camera, presumably Agent Rollins.

Lia hid a knowing chuckle behind her hand.

“Your sister, she likes America,” Nanette informed Armand. “She’s even thinking about staying here permanently.”

Magliore raised a dubious brow. “Because of Agent Rollins?”

Felicite laughed. “Non! Of course not! Not that you couldn’t tempt me into running away with you, cher,” she hastened to soothe the agent’s wounded ego, flashing another demure smile at him. “I just want my brother to understand that I have other reasons for liking your country so much.”

“She likes the president being a woman,” Henri elaborated. “She thinks all countries should be run by women. I told her she will feel differently when you become the next president of Muwaiti.”

Magliore laughed, shaking his head. “Still campaigning for me, eh, little brother?”

Henri grinned unabashedly. “If I tell you often enough, maybe you will start taking the idea more seriously.”

“Petèt,” Magliore said softly. “Maybe.”

Felicite’s eyes widened with shock. “Bigre! Tu es sérieux?”

“I’m serious.” He smiled at her, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “I will say anything to keep you from leaving home, ’tite chatte.”

“No one is leaving home,” Nanette said with the decisive resolve of a true matriarch. “America has been good to us, yes, but Muwaiti is where we belong. Where we all belong,” she added with a pointed look at her daughter.

“Sekonsa,” Magliore said in agreement.

Inexplicably, Lia felt a knot tighten in her stomach. She refused to examine the cause.

“I miss all of you,” Magliore said quietly to his family.

“We miss you, too,” they chorused in heartfelt unison.

“I will be so glad when this is all over and we can be together again,” Nanette added.

“Me, too, Maman.” Magliore hesitated, then said humbly, “I’m sorry.”

His mother and siblings exchanged confused glances. “Why are you sorry?” Felicite demanded indignantly.

“For putting all of you through this ordeal,” Magliore said, his voice thick with suppressed emotion. “If I hadn’t started this war with—”

He was interrupted by a barrage of vehement protests.

“Nonsans!” his mother cried. Leaning forward in her chair, she fixed her son with an intent, piercing gaze. “Listen to me, mwen fis, and listen good. You have nothing to be sorry for. Anyen—nothing! Before we left home, do you know what our people were saying about you? They called you strong and brave. They said any man willing to sacrifice his own life for the good of his people deserves to be called a hero. That is what you are, cher. A hero. If your father was alive today, he would be as proud of you as we are.” Her voice broke on the last word, and tears misted her eyes. “This is your legacy, Armand Jacques Magliore. To return to your countrymen the future that has been wrongfully stolen from them. Don’t ever, ever apologize for fulfilling the destiny God has chosen for you.”

By the time she’d finished speaking, Lia felt tears clogging the back of her throat. She was not the only one who’d been moved by Nanette Magliore’s eloquent, powerful speech. Both Felicite and Henri had tears shimmering in their eyes as they stared at their older brother.

With his head slightly bowed and his hands clasped between his legs, Magliore sat without speaking for a few minutes, absorbing his mother’s impassioned words. He seemed to be overcome with emotion, as well as an overwhelming sense of gratitude that rendered him temporarily speechless.

As Lia gazed upon him, she felt her heart expand in her chest, leaving her suddenly breathless and…frightened.

What on earth was happening to her?

Before she could answer her own panicked question, she heard Magliore draw a deep, ragged breath and slowly exhale. Lifting his head at last, he gazed at his family. “I love all of you,” he said in an achingly husky voice. “De tout mon coeur. With all my heart. Whatever happens, don’t ever forget that.”

Hearing an eerie note of farewell in his voice, Felicite burst into tears.

Magliore looked anguished. “No, no, don’t cry, ’tite chatte,” he entreated his sister. “You know what your crying has always done to me.”

Felicite turned and sobbed into her mother’s shoulder. Tears rolled silently and mournfully down Nanette’s face as she comforted her weeping daughter. Henri looked as helpless as his brother, who glanced over beseechingly at Lia.

She stepped forward, clearing her own constricted throat. “We should, uh, wrap this up soon.”

Magliore nodded. He stood, walked over to the monitor and knelt down. With searing, focused intensity he stared into the sorrowful faces of each of his family members. “I have to go, but I want all of you to listen to me. Are you listening?”

They nodded dutifully, staring intently at him.

“When this is over,” Magliore said with fierce conviction, “we’re going to organize the biggest, most festive parade our town has ever seen. We’re going to march through the streets with our fellow countrymen, rejoicing and proclaiming our freedom to the rest of the world. And then, when the celebration is over, we’re going to roll up our sleeves and get to work rebuilding our homeland. We’re going to make Muwaiti greater than it has ever been. Do you believe me?”

His mother and siblings nodded, their eyes bright with renewed hope and determination.

“We’re going to get through this,” Magliore continued with feeling. “But you have to remain strong and courageous. Not just for yourselves, but for me, as well. I need your strength, your courage, your love. That’s what keeps me going. That’s what has always kept me going.” Slowly he lifted his hand to touch the screen. When Nanette, Henri and Felicite moved forward to press their hands against his in a touching show of solidarity, he smiled softly. “I will see you very soon.”

When the call ended a few minutes later, Lia, still moved by the heartrending family reunion, began putting away the videoconferencing equipment.

Without warning Magliore reached for her arm, gently turning her toward him.

She stared up at him as he cradled her face between his hands. When she saw the sheen of tears glistening in his eyes, her heart swelled with an emotion so intense it took her breath away.

She closed her eyes as he leaned down and brushed his lips across hers in a brief, achingly tender kiss.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Lia nodded wordlessly, not trusting her voice.

She watched as he walked quietly to his room and closed the door behind him.

And then she just stood there, immobile, realizing that the greatest threat she faced was not losing her reputation or her job—or even her life.

It was losing her heart to Armand Jacques Magliore.

Chapter 12

Two hours later Armand stood in his bedroom doorway with his arms folded across his chest, a smile tugging at his mouth as he gazed across the living room at Lia. She was seated on the sofa with her legs crossed yoga-style, her notebook computer propped on her lap as she worked on what appeared to be a report. Just how much progress she was actually making remained to be seen, since she couldn’t seem to keep her eyes open. As Armand watched, she would tap away furiously for a few minutes, but then, as her eyelids grew heavy, her fingers would still over the keyboard and she’d nod off.

This went on for about ten minutes before Armand, feeling mischievous, decided to have some fun with her. Ducking back into his room, he toed off his boots and socks, then crept soundlessly across the living room. When he reached the sofa where Lia was dozing quietly, he leaned down and whispered in her ear, “Wake up, sleeping beauty.”

She jumped nearly five feet into the air.

Armand stepped back from the sofa with a shout of laughter. Lia whipped her head around and glared at him.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped, clutching his stomach. “I couldn’t resist.”

Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “You are so lucky I realized it was you before I went for my gun.”

This only made him laugh harder.

Shaking her head in disgust, Lia turned back to her laptop. “Your poor sister,” she muttered. “I can only imagine the horrible pranks you must have played on her when you were growing up.”

“Actually,” Armand countered, wiping tears of mirth from the corners of his eyes, “Felicite was the prankster, and a damn good one, at that. She was so devious she hardly ever got caught. Just ask my brother. He was her favorite victim.”

Lia grunted noncommittally.

Armand rounded the sofa to plunk down beside her. “What are you working on?” he asked, glancing over at her computer.

She hit a button and the screen went blank. “Just trying to catch up on some work.”

Armand chuckled. “So secretive.”

“Nature of the beast,” she quipped, closing her laptop with a snap and leaning forward to set it down on the ottoman. She rolled her head in a counter-clockwise motion, then lifted her hand and rubbed the muscles at the back of her neck.

Without thinking Armand reached up, replacing her hand with his own. She tensed immediately.

“Relax,” he murmured. “Let me help you out a little.”

She hesitated, then gave a slight nod.

As his fingers began kneading the skin at her nape, he felt the tension slowly ebbing from her body. Her eyes drifted closed and her head fell forward limply, giving him greater access to her neck and shoulders. God, she felt incredible.

“Why didn’t you lie down and take a nap?” Armand asked before his imagination began to wander. “You kept falling asleep out here.”

“I know,” Lia mumbled drowsily. “Rain always makes me sleepy.”

Even as she spoke, thunder rumbled outside, right above the cabin. A strong gust of wind sent billowing curtains of rain lashing against the windows. The lights flickered.

“It hasn’t let up all morning,” Armand observed, gently working the knots out of her shoulders.

“It’s not going to,” Lia murmured. “It’s supposed to be like this all day.”

“Think the electricity will go out?”

She shook her head. “They’ve got backup generators. Why? Are you afraid of the dark?” she teased.

“Not exactly,” Armand said with a low chuckle. He could think of far worse fates than being trapped alone in a dark cabin with the sexy, beautiful woman of his dreams. “Are you afraid of the dark?”

Lia smiled, her eyes still closed. “That’s what candles are for. And I—Ohh, that feels so good,” she said on a soft, husky moan of pleasure.

Blood rushed straight to Armand’s groin. Damn, he thought grimly. Maybe giving Lia a massage wasn’t exactly the best way to avoid temptation, as he’d recently vowed to do.

After last night’s harrowing dream, followed by the emotional meeting with his family that morning, Armand had decided it was time to revert to what he called “soldier mode.” He’d spent the last two years in this state of mind, so focused on surviving and anticipating his enemy’s next move that he learned to ignore the demands of his body for food, sleep, even sex. Especially sex. Of course, it was easier not to think about your neglected libido when you were stuck out in the middle of the jungle with a bunch of unwashed roughnecks, as he’d affectionately called his men.

Armand was so preoccupied by his thoughts that he didn’t even realize his fingers had stilled on Lia’s neck—except for his thumb, which idly stroked her silken skin—until she glanced back curiously at him.

He reluctantly dropped his hand, flashing a small smile. “There. That should do the trick.”

“Mmm, thanks. That was wonderful.” As she unfolded her long legs and rose from the sofa, his gaze was drawn to the way her gray jogging pants molded to the lush roundness of her bottom. As she arched her back, stretching her muscles with a contented purr, he felt another sharp jab of lust to his groin.

“I didn’t realize how much tension I was carrying around in my body,” Lia murmured.

I know the feeling, Armand mused, painfully aware of the straining at his zipper. He thought about Tiffany, who’d repeatedly pressed her voluptuous body against his and whispered things in his ear that would make a porn director blush. Armand had been nowhere near as turned on by her as he was now, watching Lia engage in something as innocent as stretching.

Maybe soldier mode could wait another day or two.

When she bent down to retrieve her laptop, her cotton pants stretched snug across her bottom. It took every ounce of will-power Armand possessed not to get up, grab her around the waist and grind his aching erection against her tight buttocks. He imagined her moaning softly and rolling her hips, slow and sensual, urging him closer—

“Since it appears that we’re going to be trapped indoors all day,” Lia said, interrupting his erotic fantasy as she knelt in front of the sofa, “I thought we could play cards or a few board games to help pass the time.”

Or how about I carry you into my bedroom and make love to you long and hard into tomorrow morning?

Lia, who’d brushed against his arm as she removed the sofa cushion beside him, glanced up sharply, as if she’d read his mind. Thank God that was impossible.

“Did you say something?” she asked suspiciously.

Armand schooled his features into a blank mask. “No. I was going to say your suggestion sounds good—the games.” He paused. “What are you looking for?”

“My thumb drive,” she muttered irritably. “It came unplugged from my laptop when you scared me earlier, and now I can’t find it. Could you get up for a second so I can check under your cushion?”

Armand complied, then stood watching as she searched the sofa, then checked the floor underneath.

“Aha! Found it.” When she popped up triumphantly, her face was eye-level with his crotch—where, as it turned out, he was still nursing a monster of an erection.

Armand saw the exact moment Lia noticed his predicament. Her eyes widened a fraction, her lips parted soundlessly and a deep flush spread across her cheekbones.

As he stood there, air stalled in his lungs, holding himself so rigid his muscles ached, she lifted her gaze slowly to his face. He was prepared to see embarrassment, censure, even disgust reflected in her expression.

He didn’t expect to see desire. Raw, naked desire.

His heart began to bang hard against his rib cage, the rhythm echoing in a hot, heavy pulse between his legs.

“Lia—” His voice was rough, hoarse with arousal.

He should have kept his damn mouth shut.

Her sooty lashes fluttered, and she blinked as if she were emerging from a deep trance. Jerking her eyes away, she got to her feet and quickly stepped away from him.

An all too familiar wave of frustration swept through him.

She cleared her throat briskly. “I, uh, need to go put away my computer. W-we can pick a game to play when I get back.”

As Armand watched her hurry from the room with her computer tucked beneath one arm, he thought, I’ve got a suggestion for you, Lia. How about we play hide and seek? You hide, and I’ll seek. And when I find you, I get to do whatever I want with you.

When Lia returned to the living room several minutes later, Armand had built a fire, dimmed the lights on the high ceiling beams and draped a thick, knitted afghan across the back of the sofa, where he sat waiting for her. The scene was so cozy and inviting that Lia faltered for a moment, debating whether to proceed or run back to her room to hide out there for the rest of the day. Deciding that she’d done enough running over the past five days to last her a lifetime, she drew a deep, steadying breath and forced herself to continue moving forward.

“It’s going to be a little hard to see the board game with the lights turned so low,” she said, striving to make her voice sound as normal as possible. The last thing she wanted him to know was that the idea of being alone in a dimly lit room with him struck terror in her heart.

As he watched her walk toward him with a look of lazy masculine appreciation, Lia wondered what he saw when he looked at her. Surely he couldn’t find her remotely appealing in her plain white T-shirt and gray sweatpants, with her hair scraped back into its usual ponytail and her face scrubbed clean of makeup. Yet something had definitely turned him on earlier. She’d seen the unmistakable proof of his arousal—seen it, and felt an answering hunger deep in the pit of her stomach. In a moment of sheer insanity she’d been tempted, so damn tempted, to reach up and unzip his jeans and take his thick, throbbing erection in her hand. Her mouth had literally watered at the tantalizing image.

“I thought we could watch a movie first,” Magliore said as Lia reached the sofa. “If that’s all right with you?”

“A movie? Um, yeah, sure.” She supposed that was safe enough. They could sit next to each other like two strangers in a dark theater; for at least two hours, they wouldn’t even have to talk or interact with each other.

“Let me see what kind of selection we have.” She walked over to the pine entertainment center that was built into the brick wall. Beneath the big-screen television set were several rows of shelves containing a wide range of DVD movies, from old classics to current blockbusters in just about every genre—action, animation, drama, suspense, horror, romance, westerns, comedy. There were even a few blaxploitation films, she noted with a soft chuckle.

“What are you in the mood for?” she asked.

Believe me, you don’t want to know.

Lia froze, then snapped her head around to stare at Magliore. But instead of looking at her, he was gazing out the window at the falling rain, and he seemed not to have heard her question. Yet Lia could have sworn she’d heard his voice in her head, as clear as if he’d spoken the words aloud. The same thing had happened earlier, when she’d suggested playing cards or board games to pass the time. She was almost certain she’d intercepted his thoughts about making love instead. Long and hard into tomorrow morning. But that was impossible, Lia decided, giving herself a mental shake to dismiss the notion that she’d heard Magliore’s voice in her head. She’d already determined that she couldn’t read his mind. Especially not from across the room.

The more plausible explanation was that the thoughts she was hearing were a manifestation of her own feelings and desires. She wanted to make love to Magliore long and hard into tomorrow morning, and she was the one having a hard time choosing a movie, because what she was in the mood for couldn’t be found on any of those shelves.

“Is there anything in particular you’d like to watch?” she tried again.

His gaze returned to her face. “It doesn’t really matter to me. I can’t remember the last time I even watched a movie—it’s been so long. I’m sure whatever you pick will be fine.”

Nodding, Lia turned back to the shelves and scanned the titles again. She automatically rejected movies about war, tyranny, corruption, political strife or civil unrest, not wanting to give him any painful reminders of what was happening in Muwaiti. For that same reason, she also bypassed movies with excessive violence, gore and killing, which pretty much eliminated most of the horror films. She wouldn’t have minded watching a classic blaxploitation flick for old time’s sake, but she didn’t know whether Magliore would appreciate the humor or cultural references. Being black in America was different from being black in a Caribbean province largely governed and inhabited by blacks.

Damn it. Why was she making this so hard?

From across the room, Magliore chuckled softly. “Why are you making this so hard, chère?” he drawled, echoing her thoughts. “I’m not a film critic. I won’t criticize whatever choice you make.”

“I know that,” Lia muttered.

“If I had known how difficult this would be for you,” he said dryly, “I would have chosen the movie myself while you were in your room. But I know how strongly you American women feel about being able to make your own choices.”

Lia scowled. “Very funny, Magliore. You know, I’ve had just about enough of you and your sexist remarks and—”

He laughed. “Just pick a damn movie, woman!”

Lia quickly selected a psychological thriller she’d wanted to see last year, then popped it into the DVD player and grabbed the remote control.

As she made her way back to the sofa, Magliore watched her, his eyes dancing.

“You didn’t have to yell at me,” she said with as much icy hauteur as she could muster, considering she wanted to laugh, too. She had been taking ridiculously long to make a selection.

“I’m sorry,” Magliore said, looking anything but apologetic with that irreverent grin tugging at his lips.

“Yeah, right.” As Lia sank down on the sofa beside him, she realized it hadn’t even occurred to her to sit elsewhere. There was a perfectly comfortable love seat or a leather armchair she could have curled up on, but she hadn’t.

So much for wanting to keep your distance.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” Magliore said, trying very hard to sound remorseful. “How can I make it up to you?”

Lia gave him a sidelong look. “Well…since you asked, I always like to eat popcorn when I’m watching a movie.”

“You want me to get you some popcorn?”

“Yes. There should be a box of microwave popcorn in one of those cabinets in the kitchen.”

“All right. Consider it done. Anything else?”

“Hmm…How about a nice cold beer? In a glass.”

Magliore nodded, rising from the sofa. “Popcorn and beer, coming right up.”

Lia waited until he’d almost reached the kitchen before adding, “Oh, and could you bring me some marshmallows? For some reason I always crave something sweet after eating popcorn. Must be all that salt.”

Magliore turned and stood in the doorway, staring at her with a look of mild exasperation. “Popcorn, beer and marshmallows,” he said slowly, with exaggerated patience. “Will there be anything else, mademoiselle?”

“No, that should do it,” Lia said cheerfully, smothering an impish grin.

“Are you absolutely sure?”

“Yep.” When he’d disappeared inside the kitchen, Lia waited a beat, then called out, “I’ll need a few napkins to wipe the butter off my fingers. And don’t forget to pour the beer into a glass!”

She heard him mutter something in French that made her throw back her head with a shriek of laughter.

He emerged several minutes later, balancing a bowl of popcorn, two bottles of beer, an empty glass and a bag of miniature marshmallows on a wooden tray.

As Lia watched, still grinning, he set the tray on the ottoman, then with a smooth, gallant flourish proceeded to fill her glass.

“Here you go, mademoiselle,” he murmured.

“Thank you,” Lia said, accepting the cold glass from his hand. “Has anyone ever told you that you’d make an excellent waiter?”

“Yes,” he said wryly as he sat down. “When I was fifteen, I had a summer job as a bartender and waiter at one of the popular tourist restaurants in downtown Port le Duc.”

Lia grinned, watching his grim expression. “Something tells me you didn’t like it very much.”

“Other than the long hours and having to deal with drunk, obnoxious tourists—the Americans were the worst—it wasn’t all that bad. The owner liked me, so to compensate for the embarrassingly meager wages he paid, he used to let me sneak food home to my brother and sister. They loved the conch, salt-fish and chictai.”

Lia groaned loudly. “Mmm, don’t you dare talk about Muwaitian food. Not unless you can produce a plate filled with those foods right this very second.”

Magliore smiled. “Believe me,” he said, “if I could, I would.”

Glaring balefully at him, Lia stuffed a handful of popcorn into her mouth and chewed, feeling sorely cheated.

He laughed and took a swig of his beer.

“So how long did you work at that restaurant?” Lia asked curiously, reaching for more popcorn. “Just one summer?”

He shook his head. “Two. That was about all I could handle of tourists.”

Lia cast him a knowing grin. “I bet you got hit on all the time.”

He smiled. “What makes you say that?”

She laughed, rolling her eyes. “Well, gee, let me think. Hmm. Could it be because you’re ridiculously good-looking? I mean, I can just see you at fifteen, not yet a man, but still irresistible in cutoff shorts and T-shirts that showed off the muscle tone you’d developed from all that swimming. I bet those horny women used to flock to that restaurant just to ogle the hot, young island stud with the dreamy eyes and melting smile. Come on,” she teasingly cajoled. “Tell me they didn’t slip you their hotel-room numbers and pinch your butt every time you turned around.”

Magliore let out a choked laugh. “I was just a kid!”

When Lia twisted her lips and gave him a don’t-insult-my-intelligence look, he chuckled. “A gentleman never kisses and tells.”

Lia grinned. “Uh-huh. Just as I thought. You probably flirted right back and got those women all hot and bothered, thinking they were going to have a steamy island fling, like the heroine in How Stella Got Her Groove Back.”

He flashed a wolfish grin. “What can I say? They tipped very generously.”

“Oh, I bet they did.” Chuckling, Lia reached for her glass and took a sip of beer, watching him over the rim. She could definitely see him working his magic on those poor tourists, even at the tender age of fifteen. The kind of raw animal magnetism Armand Magliore possessed was innate, instinctive, as natural to him as breathing. He’d been born to seduce women.

If she wasn’t careful, she could easily become his next victim.

Shoving aside the unsettling thought, Lia asked, “Where’d you work after quitting your job at the restaurant?”

“I continued working in the tobacco fields,” he answered, settling back against the sofa.

“Continued? You mean, you worked in the tobacco fields at the same time you were a waiter at the restaurant?”

“Not quite at the same time,” he said with a small, teasing smile. “I couldn’t be in two places at once.”

Lia made a face at him. “You know what I meant.”

He chuckled. “Yes, I know what you meant. And yes, I worked in the tobacco fields during the same time that I waited tables. On the days I wasn’t scheduled to work at the restaurant, I reported to the fields.”

“You were only a teenager,” Lia said softly.

He nodded. “I was fourteen years old when I first started working. It was shortly after my father died. My mother worked tirelessly as a seamstress, but it was difficult for her to support herself and three young children on her modest income. We needed more money, so I got a job.”

“You got two jobs,” Lia said softly, her throat constricting around a knot of emotion. She knew his background, knew he’d been looking after his mother and siblings since his father’s death eighteen years ago. But she hadn’t realized the full extent to which he’d assumed responsibility for his family’s survival. He’d basically sacrificed his childhood in order to take care of them and provide for them. Was it any wonder his mother and siblings looked at him with such adoration, loyalty and unconditional trust in their eyes? He was their rock, the glue that held them together. They would be lost without him.

Magliore shook his head in response to her previous statement. “I didn’t start working at the restaurant until the following summer.”

“Well, what was your schedule like during the school year?” she prodded, hoping he wouldn’t tire of her questions. She’d always been naturally inquisitive, but with Magliore, her curiosity took on a whole new level of intensity. She found herself wanting to know everything about him, wanting to understand every facet of who he was.

“I worked a few hours after school every day and on the weekends. But my education was always the first priority. My mother would have it no other way. If I wanted to miss a day of school in order to earn some extra money, she adamantly refused. She always told me that education was a powerful weapon against poverty, ignorance and hopelessness, and as long as she had breath in her body, her children would not squander their educational opportunities. Although she was a seamstress and my father was a tobacco farmer, Maman always believed God had greater things in store for me and my siblings.”

“And she was right,” Lia said quietly. “Here you are—a leader of men, a revolutionary. Poised to change the lives of over five million people because you were courageous enough to take a stand against a brutal dictator.”

He said nothing for a moment, turning his head slightly to watch the flames leaping and dancing on the hearth. When he spoke again, his voice was remote and reflective. “When I joined the Muwaitian army at the age of seventeen, my only concerns were providing a better life for my family and being able to afford college. President Seligny’s generous commissions made it possible for me to achieve those goals, but it was his vision for the country that enabled me to become the best soldier I could be.” He paused, a muscle clenching in his jaw. “I never thought I would one day find myself in a position of trying to overthrow the government.”

With a gentle smile, Lia said, “As a wise man once told me, ‘Life can be that way sometimes. Unpredictable.’”

Recognizing his own words to her from a few days earlier, Magliore chuckled quietly as he turned to look at her. “A wise man, huh? I honestly don’t know what pleases me more. The fact that you think I’m wise, or the fact that you called me ridiculously good-looking a few minutes ago.”

Lia laughed. “Don’t let it go to your head, Magliore. I was just stating the obvious. Try not to read too much into it.”

He smiled, absently rolling the neck of his beer bottle between his fingers as he fell silent for a few minutes.

Lia considered starting the movie, but the truth was that she was enjoying their conversation. Tucked within the cozy confines of the mountain cabin, with a fire roaring in the hearth, thunder rumbling overhead and rain lashing the windows, she and Magliore could have been the only two people in the world. At that moment, she felt closer to him than any other man she’d ever known. It was a scary yet wonderful feeling.

Laying her head against the back of the sofa, Lia slanted a soft smile toward Magliore and said, “I like your family. I can tell how close the four of you are, how much you mean to one another.”

He nodded slowly. “The death of my father brought us together in a way nothing else could have. We had to learn to depend on one another, or we never would have made it through the bad times. And there were plenty of those.”

Her heart stirred with compassion. “I’m sorry about your father,” she said quietly. “I know he was killed by an armed robber, who was then apprehended and shot by the police. I can only imagine how devastating that must have been for you and your family.”

Magliore nodded. “It was. It was probably the most devastating day of our lives. He was a good man, and he meant everything to us. But we had to learn to go on without him, and as difficult as it was, we eventually had to learn to forgive the man who took his life.”

Lia gazed at him, her heart swelling with pride and admiration. “Over the course of my career, I’ve spoken to many family members of murder victims. I’ve always been humbled and amazed by those who somehow found the strength to forgive the criminals who took away their loved ones. I honestly don’t know if I could be that strong or magnanimous.”

“It becomes a matter of self-preservation,” Magliore said somberly. “You can either spend the rest of your life consumed by anger and hatred, or you can learn to forgive and seek closure. Thankfully, my family chose the latter.”

“They’re amazing people,” Lia said warmly.

His mouth curved in a poignant smile. “I’ve always thought so.”

Smiling companionably, Lia tucked her legs beneath her on the sofa. “Felicite is beautiful, and Henri looks just like you.”

Magliore chuckled. “Everyone always says that about both of them. And once you get to know them, you realize that while they might be twins, they’re as opposite as night and day.”

Lia grinned. “I could already tell.”

“Henri is analytical and reserved, while Felicite is free-spirited, emotional and impulsive. They’re both headstrong, but while Henri likes to present clear, rational arguments to make his point, Felicite tends to become feisty and combative. If that fails, her backup strategy is to win you over by the sheer force of her charming personality, and she’s not above using her feminine wiles to get what she wants.”

“Poor Agent Rollins.” Lia sighed heavily. She definitely knew what it was like to find herself at the mercy of a Magliore sibling. It was like swimming against a very powerful, dangerous current.

Magliore chuckled dryly. “Agent Rollins will be fine. If anyone can keep Felicite in line, Henri can. He’s been doing it his entire life, though it hasn’t been the easiest job in the world.”

Lia smiled. “Is that why you call your sister ’tite chatte— little cat? Because she’s so feisty?”

Magliore grinned. “That, and because she used to bring home every stray cat she could find and beg my parents to let her keep them. They refused each time, but that didn’t stop her from sneaking home a new stray every week. My father finally gave her an ultimatum—he could either feed and shelter her, or feed and shelter the damn cat that would replace her in the family. You can guess which choice she made.”

Lia laughed. “Smart girl.”

“Yep.”

After another moment, Lia mused, “I always wanted a pet.”

“Yeah?”

She nodded. “I used to beg my parents for a dog.”

Magliore eyed her curiously. “Why didn’t they let you have one? I always thought most American families had dogs.”

“Well, since we moved around so much, my parents thought it would be too stressful to own a pet.” She didn’t add the part about animals having a particular aversion to her.

She didn’t have to. Magliore brought it up. “I don’t really see you owning a dog, anyway. Even now that you’re an adult.”

“Why?” Lia asked warily. “Because of my job?”

“That’s one reason.”

“What’s another reason?”

He studied her thoughtfully for a moment. “Truth be told, you don’t seem like much of an animal lover. You were extremely uncomfortable on that horse yesterday, and I think he picked up on that, which is why he was so difficult to manage. Horses are very sensitive animals.”

“I know that,” Lia snarled, incensed by the reminder of yesterday’s humiliating horseback ride. It was bad enough that he and Tiffany had been all over each other the entire time. Now he had the nerve to disparage her riding skills? To lecture her about her failure to put the horse at ease? Talk about adding insult to injury!

Watching her eyes turn to angry slits, Magliore laughed. “Hey, I’m not saying you did anything wrong! I’m just making an observation.”

“Oh, really? An observation based on what? The five seconds your eyes weren’t plastered all over Tiffany’s—”

He groaned in exasperation, throwing his hands up in the air. “Merde! Are we back to that again? Are you still jealous because I was paying more attention to that woman than you?”

Lia’s nostrils flared. “I was not—”

His raucous bark of laughter cut her off. “And you’re still denying it. God, woman, you are so stubborn!”

Lia ground her teeth, glaring mutinously at him. “All right, fine. Maybe I was a little annoyed by all the PDA that was going on—”

“PDA?”

“Public display of affection.”

“Oh, right.” His mouth twitched with suppressed humor. “Please continue.”

Thrown off balance by the interruption, Lia opened and closed her mouth, struggling vainly to remember what had seemed so important a moment ago.

Magliore watched her, his eyes glimmering with amusement. “Let me help you out. You were in the middle of denying, for the second time, that you were seethingly jealous of Tiffany yesterday.”

“What? Seethingly jealous of—Oh, forget it. Just forget it!” Lia jabbed a finger at him, her eyes narrowed in challenge. “You know what, Magliore? If you want to sleep with Tiffany, be my guest!”

“Really?” he drawled, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Now all of a sudden I have your permission?”

“Absolutely. If you want, I’ll even walk you over to her cabin right now. I’m sure she misses you and is wondering at this very minute where you are and why you haven’t made an attempt to see her today. So here’s your chance. Far be it from me to keep young lovers apart!”

Magliore stared at her in amused disbelief. “Let me get this straight. Just to prove that you aren’t jealous of Tiffany, you’re willing to get up right now and escort me to her cabin so that I can have sex with her?”

“That’s right,” Lia shot back without flinching. “I’m ready to go whenever you are.”

“Are you?” He held her gaze, his voice deepening to a low, husky caress as he said, “So while I’m in there, holding Tiffany in my arms, stroking every inch of her body, kissing her mouth, her breasts, between her thighs…While I’m in there making love to her, where will you be?”

Lia swallowed. “R-right outside the room. In the living room.”

“Are you sure?” he said silkily. “We’d probably be making a lot of noise. All that moaning and groaning and heavy breathing. You might want to wait out on the porch instead. But then again, Tiffany might be a screamer, so—”

Averting her gaze, Lia snatched the remote control from the ottoman and viciously stabbed the Play button. “Let’s just watch the damn movie,” she snapped.

Magliore chuckled deep in his throat. “That’s what I thought,” he said softly.

This time, Lia didn’t argue.

Chapter 13

Twenty minutes into the movie, Lia realized she’d made a very bad choice.

It wasn’t the mediocre acting, the slow pace or even the convoluted plot that led her to this conclusion.

It was the first love scene.

The film had been billed as a “taut cat-and-mouse thriller” between an ambitious federal agent and the sultry femme fatale art thief he’d been sent overseas to pursue and capture. The couple’s first sexual encounter took place inside a locked vault at a Roman bank. The love scene was so blatantly sensual, so graphic, that Lia was tempted to get up and check the DVD case to see whether the movie was rated X instead of R.

As if it weren’t torturous enough that she’d just been forced to visualize Magliore and Tiffany having sex while she waited outside the bedroom, now she had to sit here, less than a foot away from him, and watch a fictional couple thrust and gyrate their way through an explicit sexual encounter. She assiduously avoided looking at Magliore, keeping her eyes trained on the television screen.

As the actress’s convincing cries and moans filled the silence of the living room, a slow, burning flush crept up Lia’s neck and spread across her face. To conceal her embarrassment, she relaxed her features into a blank mask, as if she were watching nothing more stimulating than a documentary on the mating habits of insects.

Still, no documentary had ever made her so painfully aware of how long it had been since she’d had sex. Long enough that when the male lead rammed the woman against the wall and savagely took her from behind, Lia’s nipples tightened and heat bloomed between her legs. Whatever she thought of the rest of the movie, she could not doubt the authenticity of the actors’ passionate performance in this scene.

When Magliore leaned over, reaching inside the bowl of popcorn cradled in her lap, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Here, just take it,” she snapped, shoving the bowl into his hands without meeting his gaze.

“Thank you.”

She heard a trace of wicked amusement in his voice, even though she still refused to look at him. Her face had grown hotter and her hips suddenly felt restless; she actually had to control the urge to squirm on the sofa.

After what seemed an eternity, the steamy love scene finally ended. Only then did Lia hazard a surreptitious glance at Magliore. His hooded, speculative gaze held hers for a long, heated moment before she looked away, feeling breathless and undeniably aroused.

She didn’t turn her head again until the movie was over and the credits were rolling.

When she looked over at Magliore, she was surprised, and a little relieved, to discover that he’d fallen asleep. His breathing was deep and even, one hand rested on his flat abdomen, and one long, jean-clad leg was propped on the ottoman. Lia found herself staring at him, her eyes tracing the sculpted line of his thick black brows, the strong bridge of his nose, the new growth that darkened his rugged jaw, the sensuous curve of those full, masculine lips. His dense black lashes fanned out in perfect formation from his closed eyelids, tempting Lia to touch them to see if they felt as silky as they looked. She felt a pang of guilt when her gaze landed on the small scar above his right eye where she’d kicked him the night of his extraction. But it was his fault for attacking her in the first place, she told herself. And somehow the scar only managed to heighten his dark, dangerous appeal.

While sleep did not soften his features, she noted, he looked peaceful. Unguarded in a way he would never allow when he was awake.

She toyed with the idea of playing a prank on him—stuffing popcorn up his nose or pouring beer over his head—to repay him for the way he’d startled her awake earlier, but she couldn’t bring herself to move. And she didn’t want him to wake up. Not until she’d drank her fill of him, committed every last feature to memory. Because when this assignment was over, and he and his family returned to Muwaiti to begin their new lives, Lia knew she would never see him again. And that knowledge filled her with indescribable sorrow.

That’s when she knew she was in love with him.

Against her better judgment, against her will, she had fallen in love with a protectee. She had fallen in love with Armand Magliore.

Lia knew there was no use denying it. She’d been courting this outcome for days. Every time she looked at him, touched him, saw him smile or heard him laugh, she felt herself falling harder. Listening to his stories about Muwaiti, and then watching his poignant interactions with his family that morning, had left her utterly captivated. Afterward, when he’d kissed her so tenderly and thanked her with tears shimmering in his eyes, Lia knew she was a goner.

She loved that he was strong and fearless, yet tender and vulnerable to his sister’s tears. She loved that he could be brooding and intense one minute, lighthearted and playful the very next. She loved that he could bring her to her knees with one smoldering look, yet infuriate her enough to want to strangle him.

She loved him with a fierce protectiveness that made her want to shelter him from all hurt, harm and danger. She loved him with a blind desperation that left her feeling exposed and helpless and completely at his mercy. There was no precedence for these alien, terrifyingly wonderful feelings she was having. Nothing like this—nothing like him—had ever happened to her before.

Lia was so absorbed in her thoughts that she didn’t notice Magliore stirring awake, his amber-colored eyes opening and focusing on her face.

By the time she realized he was staring at her, watching the revealing play of emotions across her face, it was too late.

Their gazes locked for an arrested moment.

Lia’s heart pounded painfully in her chest. Afraid that he’d seen the truth reflected in her eyes, she jumped up from the sofa, prepared to do what she always did—run like hell.

Already anticipating her reaction, Magliore leaped to his feet and grabbed her, forestalling her retreat. Lia shivered as his arms banded tightly around her waist, imprisoning her against his body as he leaned down to whisper in her ear, “No more running.”

All she could manage was a pathetic whimper.

Roughly he cupped her face, angled it upward and crushed his mouth to hers. He kissed her greedily, brutally, his tongue thrusting deep. She responded with a hungry desperation fueled by her recent discovery. She loved him. And right or wrong, she would have him. Right here, right now.

Breaking the kiss, he shoved his hands into the sides of her hair, loosening her ponytail and forcing her head back to expose her neck. She shivered, her insides clenching as his lips and tongue trailed a simmering path of nerves along her throat and collarbone, scraping his teeth along her sensitized flesh. He was pulling at her hair, hurting her, but somehow the pain only intensified the sweet, throbbing ache in her loins.

She reached down with trembling hands, grasping his T-shirt and tugging it over his shoulders and head. As she tossed it to the floor, her gaze was already devouring the sight of his bare chest. He had the body of a warrior who had seen his share of battles. Lean and powerful, hard and ridged with muscle. His deep-mahogany skin bore more than a few scars, which only enhanced his brutally male beauty.

No sooner had she removed his T-shirt than he reached for hers, his warm, calloused knuckles rasping her flesh as he impatiently stripped her of her shirt, then her black lace bra. Her legs quivered as she stood before him, her full, aching breasts bared to the smoldering intensity of his gaze.

“You’re even more beautiful than I imagined,” he whispered huskily.

Lia sucked in a sharp breath as he cupped her breasts in his hands. Lowering his head, he drew one erect nipple into the moist heat of his mouth. Her back arched, a ragged moan escaping her throat. He sucked first on one nipple, then the other, until she felt the exquisite pull of his mouth everywhere—in the pit of her stomach, between her trembling thighs. As if that weren’t tormenting enough, he ground his hips provocatively against hers, stroking her against his rigid erection until her panties were soaked, and she felt dangerously close to climaxing.

Dropping to his haunches, he finished undressing her, peeling off her sweatpants and underwear with an economy of motion. For several moments he just stared, as if hypnotized, at the nest of black curls at the juncture of her thighs, which only made her wetter. Her breath stalled in her lungs. And then finally, with a low, guttural oath, he bent his head and pressed a hot, carnal kiss to her pulsing center. Lia sobbed in mindless ecstasy, her knees buckling beneath her. He caught her in his arms, surging to his feet.

Through the fog bank of desire clouding her brain, she realized that he was still wearing his jeans. She reached out, fumbling blindly with his zipper. Her hands shook as she yanked his jeans and dark briefs over his taut, powerful thighs and endless legs. His erection jutted toward her, long, thick and impossibly hard. Her loins ached, her whole body ached with the primal need to have him buried deep inside her. Their gazes locked as she curled her fingers around his throbbing penis and stroked him, making him swear hoarsely.

Too ravenous to wait any longer, he grasped her buttocks and lifted her into his arms. They both shuddered violently the moment their bodies collided. Lia closed her eyes and clung to him, her arms clasped around his neck, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist.

Lost to everything but the anticipation of finally having him inside her, she didn’t realize he’d carried her halfway across the room until her back hit the smooth warmth of the pine wall.

With one savage thrust he entered her, burying himself to the hilt. Lia cried out wildly, clawing at the corded muscles of his back, her thighs quaking uncontrollably. She was already on the verge of an orgasm when suddenly he froze, stiffening against her.

She whimpered in protest, opening her eyes to stare up at him in panicked confusion. Why had he stopped? What was he waiting for?

His eyes were tightly closed, as if he was in agony. As if he, too, was already on the brink of losing control. “You feel so damn good,” he uttered raggedly. “I don’t…I can’t…”

Lia rocked her hips desperately against him. “Please don’t stop,” she begged. “Please. Please. Please.”

She nearly sobbed with relief when he began moving inside her, plunging deep and retreating in a slow, blatantly erotic rhythm that threatened to send her over the edge. “You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this, chère,” he groaned thickly. “A lifetime.”

Lia would have made some sort of response, but she was beyond forming coherent speech. How was it possible she’d lived this long without experiencing this kind of pleasure? How had she survived?

Armand—for he was no longer Magliore—slanted his mouth over hers, seizing her lips in a kiss of such searing passion her head swam. As his mouth opened and closed over hers in hungry demand, their tongues mated feverishly. Heat encapsulated her entire body. A bead of perspiration pooled in the hollow at the base of her throat and trickled down. He chased it with his lips, making her shiver.

The rhythm of their lovemaking changed, from slow and sensual to fast and frenetic. Every nerve ending, every cell in her body clamored for release. As he drove into her, staring into her eyes, she didn’t need to read his mind to understand what he was communicating to her. The message was clear—he didn’t want her to ever forget that it was he at her center, moving through her core, possessing her body. There would be no room for doubt or confusion.

Lia knew she would never, ever forget. This moment, this man, would be permanently branded upon her memory, her very soul, long after he was out of her life.

Her nails raked his back as he pounded ruthlessly into her. She arched backward, pressing her sweaty body closer to his as she felt pressure building inside her, as intense as the storm raging outside.

Watching her face with a look of feral possession, he whispered huskily, “You belong to me now.” She whimpered as he eased out of her with excruciating slowness, almost to the tip. “Do you know why?”

Lia thought she shook her head frantically, but she couldn’t be sure.

“Let me show you.”

He surged back inside her and she came. Violently.

As wave after wave of ecstasy crashed through her, she screamed his name loud enough to drown out the clap of thunder that suddenly shook the cabin.

With a powerful thrust and a triumphant shout, Armand joined her moments later, shuddering so deeply she nearly came again. She clung to him tightly, her body still reeling from the aftershocks of the most mind-blowing orgasm she’d ever had.

She didn’t know how long they remained like that, their bodies locked together as they panted and trembled against each other.

It was only when the lights flickered, then went out completely, that she raised her head weakly from his shoulder and glanced around the dark cabin in dazed confusion.

Chuckling softly, Armand nibbled her bottom lip. “We must have knocked out the power, chère. Even the backup generators.”

Lia blushed, even as a shaky laugh escaped. “I actually think you might be right.”

“Don’t sound so surprised,” he said huskily, gazing into her eyes. “I always knew it would be this way between us. Explosive.”

“Earth-shattering,” she agreed, and they shared a lazy, intimate smile.

Realizing that his arms might be getting tired from holding her up against the wall, she reluctantly began disentangling herself. But Armand stopped her.

“Stay,” he whispered against her mouth.

He didn’t have to ask twice. She tightened her slippery thighs around his hips, hugging him closer, keeping their bodies joined.

They kissed, a long, deep, provocative kiss.

Drawing back, Lia rested her damp forehead against his with a breathless little sigh. She couldn’t remember the last time, if ever, she’d felt so deliciously sated after sex. “It’s been hours since we ate, er, breakfast. Are you hungry?”

“Yeah,” Armand murmured, his penis hardening inside her once again, “but not for food.”

Instantly aroused, Lia tightened her arms around his neck and clung to him as he strode purposefully toward his bedroom. They fell across the rumpled king-size bed, coming together in the center and wrapping around each other with the mindless craving of new lovers.

Four hours later, lying on his side with his head propped in his hand, Armand gazed down at Lia’s sleeping face in the candlelit darkness of his bedroom. She lay snuggled against him with the covers pulled up to her chin, as trusting and peaceful as a child. Light and shadow played across her features, serenely beautiful in slumber. Her soft, lush lips were parted slightly, and every so often she made these adorable little sighing noises that brought a smile to his face. After hours of intense lovemaking, her thick, black hair was loose and disheveled, spread across the pillow the way he’d always envisioned in his fantasies.

But this was no fantasy, Armand reminded himself with a renewed sense of wonder. After eight long, torturous years of dreaming and fantasizing about her, Lia Charles was finally in his bed. He wasn’t going to tempt fate by questioning his good fortune. All he knew was that he’d awakened from a nap earlier to find her watching him with an expression of such tender yearning it took his breath away. Even now, hours later, he was afraid to hope his eyes hadn’t been deceiving him. He was afraid to believe he’d seen love—love—shining in her eyes as she stared at him.

It was too much to hope for. Her sudden reappearance in his life, when he thought he’d never see her again, had been miraculous enough. To have her love would make him the happiest, most grateful man on earth.

After carrying her into the bedroom hours earlier, he’d made love to her over and over again, unleashing years of pent-up need and desire, until she literally begged for mercy. Blowing hair out of her eyes, her body still trembling from an orgasm, she’d laughingly threatened to lock herself in her bedroom unless Armand promised to let her rest for at least an hour. He’d agreed, albeit reluctantly. He couldn’t get enough of her, and it had nothing to do with his yearlong sexual drought. Lia would have made him insatiable even if he’d been bedding a different woman every night for the past ten years. Making love to her was like nothing he had ever experienced before. Just the sheer pleasure of hearing her scream his name as she climaxed surpassed his fantasies.

But it wasn’t just about the explosive chemistry between them, the sheer intensity of their lovemaking. It was about the powerful connection they shared, both in and out of bed. Sometimes when he and Lia looked at each other, he had the uncanny sensation that they could see into each other’s souls.

Armand chuckled quietly to himself. If his soldiers could see him now, they would hardly recognize the lovesick fool he had become. They knew him as a fearless fighter, a hardened renegade, a leader of men. Hardly the type to lay awake for hours romanticizing about soul mates. If they could see the silly grin on his face as he watched Lia sleeping in his arms, they would swear she had cast some sort of spell over him. And, in a way, they would be right. He had been in love with her ever since he saw her standing outside the town clinic that fateful afternoon. Only a sorceress could steal a man’s heart without ever having to say a word.

Even now, when he should have been as exhausted as she was, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. The sight of her curvaceous form outlined beneath the covers tempted him to strip away the blanket, bury his face between her thighs and feast on her luscious sweetness until she shuddered and came violently in his mouth. But a promise was a promise, so he kept his hands, and his tongue, to himself. He’d even let her sleep an extra thirty minutes. Why not? He was feeling generous.

Besides, if he could somehow convince her to return to Muwaiti with him and marry him, he’d have the rest of their lives to ravish her. Because there was no doubt in his mind that he wanted Lia to become his wife. Together they could help rebuild the land they both loved so much. He would never forget what she’d told him four days ago. I felt like something was compelling me to stay, almost like I’d be leaving a part of myself behind if I left the island.

Those words had sent chills up and down his spine, confirming his growing belief that he and Lia were destined for each other. She wouldn’t have felt such a powerful connection to the island, his home, if they weren’t meant to be together.

But Armand knew it would take more than prophetic words—even her own—to persuade Lia to return to Muwaiti with him. Her whole life was here, in America. Her parents, her friends, her job. Even if she were willing to leave her parents behind—which would be difficult, given how close they were—Armand knew she’d never agree to walk away from the Secret Service. She loved her job, and she’d made it abundantly clear to him that any man who forced her to choose between a relationship and her career would come out on the losing end.

Armand didn’t like losing, especially when it came to losing the woman he wanted to spend the rest of eternity with.

He was so desperate to keep Lia in his life that he’d even fantasized about getting her pregnant. Surely she wouldn’t walk away from him if she was carrying his child, he reasoned. And the idea of her having his baby, bringing their son or daughter into the world, filled him with unspeakable joy.

But it was a short-lived fantasy. When he apologized to her for not having any condoms, since he’d spent the past year living in the jungle, she’d laughed and assured him that she was on the pill, so they were at least protected from an unplanned pregnancy.

So much for that idea.

No, Armand thought as he gazed upon the sleeping woman in his arms, he wouldn’t have enjoyed trapping her into marriage, anyway. He wanted her, badly, but not at the expense of her happiness. Somehow he had to convince her that she couldn’t live without him any more than he could live without her.

The way she’d looked at him earlier gave him hope. If Lia loved him, truly loved him, then she would see that they could have a beautiful future together in Muwaiti.

What about America? a voice pricked his conscience. Why does she have to be the only one making all the sacrifices? Do I love her enough to sacrifice returning to my beloved homeland? If our love is real, does it really matter where we live, as long as we’re together?

As if Lia had channeled those thoughts into his mind, she suddenly stirred awake, stretching languorously beneath the covers. Her soft, purring moan sent a jolt of hunger speeding to his groin.

Those long, sooty lashes lifted and she peered up at him. “How long have I been asleep?”

Armand smiled. “About an hour and a half.”

Her lips curved in a drowsy smile. “Thanks for giving me a little more time.”

He chuckled softly. “I figured you would need it. I plan to keep you up very late tonight.”

She groaned, but he could tell she was pleased. She enjoyed their lovemaking as much as he did. That was very promising.

As he stared at her she parted her lips, drawing his thumb into the silken heat of her mouth. Need ripped through him.

She watched through smoky, heavy-lidded eyes as he pulled the covers from her body. He slipped his hands between her knees and parted them. His fingers slid downward, massaging the smooth, sensitive skin of her inner thighs until her breathing quickened.

With a slow, sensual smile he moved down and pressed the tip of his tongue to her warm, moist opening. She let out a broken moan, her hips flying off the bed. His groin ached, hot need stabbing through him as the scent of her arousal filled his nostrils. She closed her eyes and threw back her head as he flicked his tongue against her throbbing sex, going a little deeper each time, swirling, teasing, torturing. When his teeth scraped the slick nub of her clitoris, her stomach muscles clenched and her thighs began to quiver uncontrollably. Cupping her bottom, he lifted her hips higher, sliding into her with his tongue, stroking deeper with a wild and increasing hunger. She writhed against him, her breathless gasps and moans filling the room.

Knowing that she was about to come, he pulled away abruptly and covered her trembling body with his own. She locked her long legs around his hips as he drove into her with a sharp, powerful thrust. She cried out, opening herself wider, inviting him even deeper. He began moving inside her, hard, fast strokes that made her pant and arch against him, matching his rhythm. He whispered erotic promises in French and she responded in kind, fueling his savage hunger. Their coupling was fierce, elemental, marked with the blind desperation of two lovers who knew the future was uncertain.

Armand rolled Lia on top of him so that she straddled him, knees planted wide on either side of his body. She sat back, sinking deeper onto his erection. She braced her hands on his shoulders, her hair falling in a wild curtain across her face. He groaned as she rocked her hips frantically, her breasts bouncing as he bucked under her, forcing himself deeper into her wet heat, so deep that she soon exploded with a loud, mewling cry, her inner muscles contracting violently around him.

She was still sobbing as he shifted positions, turning her over so that he could take her from behind. He held her close, his fingertips digging into her hips as he thrust high and deep inside her. Moaning with pleasure, she reached back and grabbed his butt so tightly he thought she’d leave permanent handprints. He drove into her repeatedly before finding his own release with a powerful shudder that shook his whole body and tore a hoarse shout from his throat. He didn’t pull out of her until he’d emptied every last drop of his seed into her pulsing womb.

As the tremors gradually tapered off, he gathered her into his arms and drew the covers over their bodies. Closing his eyes, he tenderly brushed his lips across her temple and stroked her damp hair, as her breathing slowed to a steady deepness. This time he, too, fell asleep, lulled by the precious feel of her breath against his chest, comforted by the warmth of her body curled against his. Right where she belonged.

Chapter 14

Wednesday, September 10, 2008
0900 hours
Thurmont, Maryland
Day 6

The next morning, Lia didn’t have much time to dwell on feelings of shame or regret for sleeping with Armand.

Shortly after they returned from having breakfast at the main lodge—she’d learned her lesson about trying to cook—she received a phone call from Nancy Janikowski’s secretary, who informed Lia that an electrician was en route to the cabin to investigate the faulty wiring.

Lia asked curiously, “Where’s Janikowski?”

“She’s on a special this week,” the secretary answered vaguely, using agency jargon for a special assignment.

Lia frowned. “She didn’t tell me she’d be out of pocket for a few days.”

“Well, she is. She’ll be in touch with you when she gets back, Agent Charles.”

As Lia thanked the woman and hung up the phone, she thought, Something’s not right.

She couldn’t put a finger on the reason for her sudden unease. The unpredictable nature of the job affected everyone in protective services, even those in management. It wasn’t unusual for Janikowski, or any other supervisor, to have to drop everything in order to accompany an advance team to a hot location, which was any location where heightened security was needed—especially on the eve of the September 11 anniversary. In all likelihood, Janikowski was traveling with the president’s protection detail, lending additional support during the chaotic election season. She probably hadn’t had an opportunity to contact Lia before she had left to let her know she’d be out of the office for a few days.

That was the most logical explanation, Lia decided. Yet she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly amiss….

She was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t realize Armand had spoken to her until he reached out and gently touched her shoulder, startling her.

“Sorry,” she murmured, flashing him an apologetic smile. “I got sidetracked. What did you say?”

His gaze roamed across her face. “I asked you if something was wrong. You’ve been frowning ever since you got off the phone. Is everything all right?”

Seeing the unasked question in his eyes, Lia hastened to reassure him. “Your family is fine, don’t worry. That was my supervisor’s secretary, letting me know that an electrician is coming out today to check the wiring.”

Armand nodded, sitting forward on the sofa. “There’s really no point though, is there? Aren’t we leaving here on Friday to fly to New York for the UN hearing?”

“Yes, but it’s better to be safe than sorry.” She paused. “Which is why I want you to stay out of sight when the electrician gets here.”

He frowned. “Stay out of sight?”

“Yes. Stay in your bedroom, and keep your door locked.”

His frown deepened as he stared at her. “Are you anticipating trouble?” he asked quietly.

Lia let out a short, grim laugh. “I always anticipate trouble. It’s my job to anticipate trouble.”

Armand didn’t smile. “And where will you be while I’m hiding in my room?”

“You’re not hiding! You’re staying out of sight until the electrician leaves. It’s just a precaution.”

“And where will you be?” Armand pressed.

“Out here with him, of course. To make sure he does whatever he’s supposed to do before I sign off on the service ticket. Once he’s gone, you can come back out, I promise.” When Armand said nothing, she let out an exasperated laugh. “You act as if I’m sending you to your room as punishment!”

A small muscle pulsed at the base of his jaw. “I’d rather remain out here with you,” he said in a low, steely voice.

“And I’d rather you didn’t,” Lia retorted. “So since I’m the one calling the shots around here—”

Armand rose abruptly from the sofa and paced over to the window, where he stood staring out at the clear, bright morning.

Lia watched him for several long moments, realizing that although she loved him deeply, there were many things she still didn’t understand about him.

“Why can’t you just let me do my job?” she asked, frustration edging her voice. “Why do I have to meet with opposition every time I ask you to do something?”

He glanced over his shoulder and met her accusing stare. His mouth curved in a crooked half smile. “You didn’t really think that was going to change after yesterday, did you?”

Lia stared at him, then couldn’t help but chuckle. “I don’t know. Maybe I did. I should have known better. You are as stubborn as—”

“A mule. I know. I’ve heard.” He smiled again, his eyes softening on her face. “If you really want me to stay out of sight while the electrician is here, I will. You obviously have your reasons.”

“I do. I always do.” She gave him a gentle, teasing smile. “But thank you for cooperating. It makes my job a whole lot easier when you do.”

“Don’t thank me just yet,” he said, turning away from the window. “My cooperation is conditional.”

Lia eyed him warily. “What are the conditions?”

He came toward her slowly, his hands tucked into the pockets of a pair of loose khaki trousers he wore better than a male runway model.

Her pulse quickened as he stopped in front of her. He reached out, tenderly brushing his knuckle across her cheek before taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger.

“I will agree to your request,” he said huskily, “if you agree to mine.”

Lia swallowed, ensnared by the intoxicating heat of his gaze. “That depends on what your request is.”

He smiled, slow and sensual. “After the electrician leaves, I want you to slip into something more comfortable. We’re going to pack a basket and have a picnic at the lake. I already know the spot—it’s shaded by trees, so we can have all the privacy we want. After our picnic, we’re going to come back here and soak in the hot tub for a while. By the time I carry you out, you’re going to be so relaxed and ready for me to make love to you that your insides will be trembling. I’m going to build a cozy fire, lay you down on a thick blanket, then take my time caressing you, pleasuring you, tasting and exploring every beautiful inch of your body. I’m going to make love to you, Lia, until you don’t know whether you’re coming or going, until you can’t even remember your own name. We’ll stop long enough to enjoy a romantic candlelight dinner, and then we will return to the bedroom—or the kitchen, the living room, the deck or anywhere else you desire—to have each other for dessert. All…night…long.” He brushed his thumb across her parted lips, gazing at her beneath his lashes. “How does that sound?”

Lia was speechless, lungs locked, unable to inhale or exhale. Her nipples had hardened, her clitoris was throbbing and her loins felt deliciously full.

“Lia?” His voice was a deep, velvety caress that snaked between her legs. “Do we have a deal?”

All she could manage was a trancelike nod, and he chuckled softly. “Good. I’m looking forward to it.”

Not half as much as she was.

When the electrician arrived an hour later, Armand kept his word and retreated to his bedroom. Before letting the private contractor inside the cabin, Lia made him unzip his blue jumpsuit so she could pat him down for weapons. She checked his photo ID, called his employer to verify his credentials, then dialed another number to run his driver’s license and the tags on his company-issue van. While she waited for the all clear, she studied the uniformed man, mentally cataloging every detail of his appearance. She’d already learned from his license that he was a thirty-four-year-old, Caucasian male, five-eleven and one hundred eighty pounds. Beneath his baggy jumpsuit he was trim and athletic, no stranger to a regular fitness regime. His blue eyes were flat and lacked warmth, though he smiled easily enough. He had no facial hair, no tattoos, the only identifying mark being a small raised scar just below his left ear. The scar intrigued her, so she asked him about it.

He reached up, touching his skin as if he’d forgotten the scar was there. He laughed grimly. “A souvenir from an old girlfriend. I made the mistake of letting her shave me—while she was mad at me. ’Course, I didn’t know that until afterward.”

Lia, who’d been trained to read eyes, to decipher the subtle nuances and vocal inflections that betrayed human emotion, couldn’t doubt the veracity of his story. If he was lying, he was very good.

She grinned sympathetically. “Ouch. Live and learn, I guess.”

He snorted. “You can say that again.”

She listened into her cell phone another moment, then nodded and disconnected the call. “All clear, Mr. Westfield. Thanks for your patience.”

“No problem. I understand. Call me Zach.”

She gave him her most charming smile. “And you can call me Lia.”

The flicker of interest she saw in his eyes gave her the opening she needed. As she stepped aside to let him enter the cabin, she asked, “Would you care for something to drink?”

“No, thanks.” He swept a cursory glance around the cabin. “If you could just show me where the circuit-breaker box is located, I can get right to work.”

Lia had no intention of turning her back on him, so she just smiled and said, “Keep going. You’re heading in the right direction.”

As he continued toward the rear of the cabin, he casually remarked, “I’ve never taken a service call out here before. This is a nice piece of property. The feds really know how to live it up.”

Lia gave a low, indulgent laugh. “But of course. The only problem is that we’re so far removed from civilization that things can get pretty dull. I’m always looking for ways to liven things up a little. Know what I mean?”

He glanced over his shoulder at her, and she could tell by his expression that he was trying to figure out whether she was too good to be true.

Lia smiled flirtatiously. “Turn right at the corner. The circuit-breaker box is located next to the laundry room.”

As he opened the box and began his inspection, Lia made her move. Leaning close to him, she murmured, “So this is your first time out here, huh?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He winked at her. “But I will definitely have to make sure it’s not my last.”

Lia chuckled throatily. “You do that,” she purred, boldly and deliberately sliding her hand beneath his jumpsuit collar to touch the back of his neck. He tensed a little, but did not move away.

They didn’t tell me the agent was so hot…Damn…Never been with a black woman before, but I’d definitely make an exception for her…Beautiful…Maybe when I take care of him I can get a piece of this action…No one said I couldn’t do her before I kill her…I need to run out to the van and pretend to get my tools….

Keeping her sultry smile in place, Lia slowly withdrew her hand from his neck, chilled by the thoughts she had intercepted. Just as she’d suspected. This man wasn’t an electrician. He was one of Alexandre Biassou’s hired assassins.

Their location had been compromised.

Zach, or whatever his real name was, smiled easily at her. “I need to run out to the van and get my tools.”

“All right,” Lia said, her voice betraying nothing.

Before he had taken two steps, she pulled her 9mm and pointed the gun between his shoulder blades. “Don’t move,” she said, low and controlled.

He froze in his tracks.

“Put your hands in the air where I can see them. Slowly.”

As he moved to comply, her finger tightened reflexively on the trigger. She took a cautious step toward him. “Who are y—”

He spun quickly, knocking her gun hand to the side and up. The Glock spat a round into the ceiling, and wood and plaster dust rained down on them as they struggled for control of the weapon. From somewhere inside the cabin, Lia heard footsteps pounding on the floor, rushing in their direction. A heavy male fist slammed into her right cheek. As pain erupted inside her head she released the gun, and it clattered across the floor. Her assailant seized her viciously by the hair, one arm locking across her shoulders like a crowbar. Lia spun around in his arms, ramming her elbow into his solar plexus. He reared backward, clutching his throat. Before he could recover from the blow, she swung her right leg in a roundhouse kick that connected with his chest and sent him crashing into the wall. As he slumped to the floor, she went for her backup piece strapped to her ankle. Still gasping for air, he scrambled on his hands and knees, diving for the fallen Glock at the same time she drew a bead on his forehead.

“Freeze!” she shouted hoarsely.

In defiance, he raised the gun and took deadly aim. Lia fired, hitting him in the shoulder before he could squeeze the trigger. Half a second later, another shot blasted a hole through his chest. He let out a gurgled scream, then crumpled to the floor.

Stunned, Lia wheeled around in time to see Armand lowering his weapon, lethal fury burning in his eyes as he stared down at the fallen mercenary, then at her.

Swearing hoarsely, he tucked his gun into the waistband of his trousers, then cupped her face between his hands, his frantic gaze sweeping across her disheveled hair and bruised cheek. “Are you all right?” he demanded.

She nodded quickly, shaking off his hands as she turned and hurried over to the motionless body on the floor. Blood was oozing from the deep wounds in the man’s shoulder and chest, and one leg was jerking spasmodically.

Lia holstered her weapon, then quickly knelt beside the body and pressed her finger to the carotid artery. She could barely detect a pulse.

“Damn it!” Acutely aware of Armand watching her, she bent close to the man’s slack mouth, keeping her finger on his fading pulse.

“Who sent you?” she demanded urgently. “Who are you working for?”

Failed…Quick…silver…Don’t…wanna die…

“Who are you working for?” Lia repeated, knowing she was running out of time. “How did you find us?”

Quick…silver…Don’t…Quick…silver…

“What does that mean?” Lia shouted as blood bubbled from his mouth.

“What are you doing?” Armand asked. “He’s not saying anything—he’s dying.”

“Yes, I can see that!”

No sooner had the words left her mouth than the mercenary’s eyes rolled upward, his leg stopped moving and his head lolled limply to the side.

He was gone.

Lia pounded his chest in outraged frustration. “Damn it!”

Armand stepped forward, seizing her arm and pulling her roughly to her feet. “That’s enough, Lia. He’s dead.”

“I know!” she exploded, whirling on him. “Why did you shoot him?”

Armand looked incredulous. “What the hell do you mean? He was going to kill you!”

“I needed him alive so that I could interrogate him! That’s why I only shot him in the shoulder. You weren’t supposed to kill him!”

Armand stared at her, then hauled her into his arms and held fast. “I almost lost you, damn it,” he whispered fiercely into her hair. “I don’t care about anything else. I almost lost you!”

Lia closed her eyes for a moment, allowing herself to absorb his strength, his comforting warmth, as the adrenaline slowly ebbed from her body. He was right. She’d nearly been killed. But that was the nature of her job, and she’d survived much worse. The sooner Armand got that through his thick head, the better off they’d both be.

Drawing a deep, steadying breath, she pulled out of his arms. When he reached out and gently touched her bruised cheek, she winced. He swore, his eyes simmering with leashed violence.

“I’m fine,” Lia reassured him. Mustering a wan smile, she added, “Besides, there’s nothing more you can do to him. You’ve already killed him.”

Armand glanced down at the dead man, looking as if he wanted to unload a few more rounds into him. “I shouldn’t have left you alone with him,” he growled.

“Yes, you should have. He came here to kill you, and he might have succeeded if you had been too busy trying to rescue me. Which, by the way, is becoming a rather bad habit of yours.” Lia started down the corridor, pulling her cell phone out of her back pocket and dialing Janikowski’s cell number. Her call went straight to voice mail.

“Nancy, this is Lia. I know you’re out of pocket for a few days, but I really need—” She stopped abruptly, struck by a sudden, awful suspicion that made her go cold all over. “I need to talk to you,” she continued in carefully measured tones. “Please call me as soon as you can.”

When she turned around, Armand was standing there, watching her with an unreadable expression. “You didn’t tell her.” It wasn’t a question.

Lia shook her head. She crossed quickly to the living-room window and peered outside. Finding the road leading to the cabin empty, she signaled to Armand to step out onto the porch with her. She didn’t speak until she’d checked the outdoor light fixtures, pine floorboards, a pair of Adirondack chairs, and the undersides of the wooden balustrade that ran the length of the wraparound porch.

Satisfied that there were no listening devices—at least out here—she turned to Armand and uttered the words she never thought she would hear in her lifetime. “I think there’s a mole in the Secret Service.”

Armand said nothing, his jaw tightening as he stared at her, waiting for her to continue.

Lia wished she didn’t have to. “There are only a handful of people who know about your arrival in the United States to testify at the hearing. At least one of those individuals is working with Alexandre Biassou. That man inside the cabin was sent here to kill you. He couldn’t have known where you are, or gained access to this property, without the assistance of whoever hired him.”

“So the question is,” Armand said grimly, “who hired him?”

“I don’t know,” Lia muttered, her mind racing a mile a minute as she paced the length of the porch. “I wish to God I knew. I haven’t been able to reach my supervisor. I was told she’d be out of the office this week.”

“How convenient.”

Lia didn’t respond. The same thought had already occurred to her. “We have to get out of here,” she said suddenly, stopping in front of Armand. “Whoever sent that man here probably planted listening devices inside the cabin. Which means he, or she, heard everything that just happened.”

Including what happened between us yesterday, she thought with a sick feeling of shame and betrayal. The idea of one of her colleagues—someone she trusted—eavesdropping on her and Armand making love made her feel more violated than anything she could or would ever experience in her life.

But Lia had more pressing matters to worry about. Like getting Armand out of there safely and finding out who the damn traitor was.

“We have to get out of here,” she repeated, more urgently this time. “We don’t have time to sweep the cabin for bugs. I know we’d find them, so there’s no point in even looking. When we go back inside, I want you to pack your things and be ready to leave in five minutes. Do you understand?”

“What about my family?” Armand demanded. “If Biassou found me, he may have found my family, as well!”

“Listen to me,” Lia said, cupping his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her intent gaze. “I know you’re worried about your mother and siblings. Truth be told, I am, too. But my first and foremost priority is to get you out of here alive. As soon as we reach a safe location, I will call Agent Rollins to make sure your family is okay, and I will warn him and the other agents to be even more vigilant than before.”

Armand clenched his jaw, his nostrils flaring. “That’s not good enough,” he ground out. “I want to know for sure that they will be safe. I want them with me!”

“That’s not possible. Not yet. Look, we have to get ourselves to safety before we can be of any use to your family. There are six agents assigned to their protection detail. Believe me when I tell you that your mother and siblings are better off staying where they are than going on the run with us. Now please,” she said imploringly, gazing into his tormented eyes, “if ever there was a time I needed your cooperation, that would be now. Please trust my judgment, Armand. Please.”

He closed his eyes for a moment, leaning his forehead against hers. She could feel the tension radiating from his body, sensed his internal struggle. She held her breath, hoping he would make the right decision, praying he wouldn’t make this situation more dangerous than it already was.

After a lengthy silence he raised his head and looked at her, his eyes glittering with steely resolve. He had reached a momentous decision.

“You’re the boss,” he said roughly. “Now let’s go.”

Chapter 15

A search of the mercenary’s utility van revealed a large cache of weapons hidden beneath various tools and supplies that belonged to a legitimate electrician. The arsenal included rifles, handguns, submachine guns, live grenades, land mines and several rounds of ammunition.

“All this to assassinate one man,” Armand muttered grimly as he surveyed the stockpile. “I don’t know whether to be alarmed or flattered.”

Lia gave him a bemused look as she grabbed two rifles and as many rounds of ammo as she could. “Be alarmed. That’ll serve you better in this situation.”

In addition to the weapons, they also found a spare jumpsuit, which Armand quickly put on over his clothing, with the bulletproof vest Lia had given him. The jumpsuit’s sleeves and pant legs were a little too short, but no one would notice while he was seated behind the wheel. They had decided to make their getaway in the van instead of Lia’s Secret Service vehicle, which could be tracked. They also agreed that Armand, disguised as the electrician, would drive the van since Lia would be recognized by the marine guard patrols as they left the property. Although she didn’t suspect the military’s involvement in the plot against Armand, she wasn’t taking any chances.

She’d searched the interior of the van, hoping to find some clue into the mole’s identity, but all she turned up was the phony work order attached to a clipboard. Although she knew that finding his cell phone would have been too good to be true, the mercenary had also been smart enough not to leave behind any notes with names, phone numbers or addresses scrawled on them.

They left the rural property without incident and headed onto a deserted stretch of highway that would eventually lead them to the interstate. When they were a safe distance from the retreat, Lia climbed from the back of the van to sit up front with Armand. It was noon. Warm, bright sunlight slanted through the windshield, baking the interior of the vehicle.

The steep, narrow road wound through the mountains in a seemingly endless series of hairpin turns that could prove deadly in a high-speed chase. Secret Service agents assigned to protection details received extensive training in defensive driving, therefore Lia was prepared to react if she and Armand suddenly found themselves being pursued by assassins. But first she had to get behind the wheel.

“First chance you get,” she told Armand, “pull over on the shoulder so that I can drive.”

He shook his head. “I’ll drive.”

She gave him an exasperated look. “Aren’t you the same man who told me twenty minutes ago that I’m the boss?”

His mouth quirked. “You are.”

“Then why are you arguing with me about driving?”

“Because you’re a better marksman than me.” When she gaped at him, he gave her an amused sidelong glance. “Don’t look so shocked. I’m not too proud to admit that a woman can shoot slightly better than me.”

Lia let out a choked laugh. “Gee, what a concession! Slightly better?”

He chuckled. “That night in the jungle, when the men in the jeep were pursuing us, my shot took out the front passenger. Yours took out the driver.”

“So?”

Armand gave her a pointed look. “I was aiming for the driver.”

“Oh.” Lia grinned ruefully, keeping a watchful eye on the side-view mirror. “Well, you certainly had no problem with your aim today when you put a bullet in that man’s heart.”

“Damn straight,” he growled. Lia got the impression he was more incensed with the mercenary for hitting her than for coming to the cabin to kill him.

“The point is,” said Armand, “if we find ourselves being chased again, your shooting skills will be more useful to us if you’re not the one driving.”

Lia supposed she couldn’t argue with his rationale. For once.

“How did you know he was lying back there?” Armand asked suddenly. “The mercenary. Did he say or do something that made you suspicious?”

“You could say that,” Lia hedged.

“What was it?” Armand prodded. “What made you suspicious?”

“He had a scar below his left ear,” she said, thinking fast. “He said an old girlfriend cut him while giving him a shave. He was lying.”

“How did you know?”

“The scar looked like it had been made from the blade of a hunting knife, not a razor blade. I’m guessing he didn’t expect me to know the difference. In his line of work, he probably gets into altercations all the time. That scar was a souvenir from someone else he once tangled with.”

“Well, he won’t be tangling with anyone anymore,” Armand said darkly.

“No, he won’t.” Lia exhaled a long, weary breath. “I really wish I could have questioned him, though. We need to know who and what we’re up against.”

Armand frowned. “We already know who and what we’re up against. Alexandre Biassou. A coldhearted, murdering bastard.”

“Yes, but who is he working with here in the States? Who is his accomplice? That’s what I was hoping to find out from the merc.”

Armand’s frown deepened. “Did you really think he would give up that kind of information? Those mercenaries are trained to withstand hours of interrogation. I’ve seen men like that endure the worst forms of torture without breaking a sweat. They know that whatever you put them through will pale in comparison to what their employer will do to them if they crack under pressure and talk. Biassou’s punishments are notoriously gruesome.”

“So I’ve heard,” Lia said grimly.

Armand looked at her. “We did that man a favor by ending his miserable life, Lia. When Biassou learns of his failure, there will be hell to pay.”

Suppressing a mild shudder, Lia closed her eyes for a moment. She could feel the onset of a migraine behind her eyelids, sharp pinpricks of pain that intensified with each blink. She didn’t know whether the headache was a result of stress or the vicious left hook she’d taken from the mercenary. Probably a combination of both.

Watching as she lifted her hand and gingerly touched her swollen cheek, Armand said gruffly, “You should have put some ice on that. I brought a couple of steaks that were in the freezer. As soon as they thaw, I want you to put one on your face.”

“I’ll be fine,” Lia grumbled, embarrassed by all the fuss he was making over her. “You know, this isn’t the first time I’ve been punched in the face, or worse, and it won’t be the last. Stop treating me like a girl.”

Armand scowled, not in the least bit amused. “You’re going to have one hell of a shiner in the morning.”

“I think that’s the least of my concerns right now,” she muttered.

Armand looked as if he wanted to say more, then reconsidered. He lapsed into stony silence, a muscle working in his jaw.

“Hey,” Lia said softly. When he glanced over at her, she gave him a small, conciliatory smile. “I don’t mean to sound like an ingrate. Thanks for bringing the steaks. I’ll put one on my cheek as soon as we get where we’re going.”

He nodded shortly. “Remind me again. Where are we going?”

“A place where we’ll be safe. A place no one but my parents would think to look for me.”

“How do you know the Secret Service won’t find us? They must be searching for us by now.”

Lia shook her head. “They have no way of tracking me. I left everything back at the cabin—the car, my cell phone, my radio. Everything traceable. And they have no reason to be searching for us just yet. Janikowski is the team leader and my liaison when I’m out in the field. Unless she hears from me that there’s an emergency, she has no reason to sound the alarm. As for the mole, my gut instinct tells me that he—or she—is going to lie low for at least twenty-four hours before trying to contact me.”

“Even though he knows what happened at the cabin?”

Lia nodded. “He would draw too much suspicion to himself if he suddenly rushed over there to investigate a shooting that hasn’t even been reported. He would have to explain how he knew there was trouble, which means he would have to own up to planting the listening devices, which he’s not going to do. No, he’s going to lay low for a day and hope to God that the hired guns take care of us. Which is another reason he won’t launch a search for us. He knows the mercs can’t get to us as easily if we’re in protective custody. He wants us to be out here, on our own. Vulnerable.”

Armand studied her taut profile. “Since you dumped your cell phone, how will you know if he tries to make contact?”

“I’m going to buy a prepaid phone and check my voice mail messages. And then in the morning I’m going to call Janikowski to let her know our location was compromised. If I still can’t reach her, I’ll call the assistant director.”

Armand frowned. “Either one of them could be the mole.”

“I know,” Lia murmured, turning her head to look out the side-view mirror. “I’m counting on it.”

She saw a dark, nondescript sedan speeding toward them at the same time that Armand said, “Looks like we’ve got company.”

As the dark sedan closed in on them, Armand could make out two men behind the tinted windows. The muzzle of an assault rifle was already emerging from the passenger window.

Armand stepped on the gas, and the van lurched forward just as gunfire erupted.

The first shot shattered the rear windshield, spraying glass everywhere. The second shot took out the driver’s-side mirror.

Lia cocked her M16 and quickly belly-crawled into the backseat.

“Be careful!” Armand urged.

With one eye on the road, he watched through the rearview mirror as she huddled at the back door, pointed her rifle through the open window and fired on the mercenaries. The sedan swerved sharply as the passenger returned fire, bullets thudding into the van’s metal doors.

“Be careful!” Armand shouted again.

“Keep your eyes on the road!” Lia yelled back.

Armand eased off the gas just enough to keep the van from going into a tailspin as he took a deadly curve. Behind them the sedan kept pace, relentless in pursuit.

More shots rang out. Armand lifted his eyes to the rearview mirror just in time to see Lia pick off the passenger, who’d leaned out the window to return fire. Atta girl!

“Damn it!” she screamed.

Armand whipped his head around, afraid she’d been shot. “What?” he demanded.

“It’s an armored car! Bulletproof windows and padded tires that won’t go flat!”

Even before Armand received that disturbing tidbit of information, he knew they were at a disadvantage. The armored vehicle was smaller and faster than their van. He wouldn’t be able to outrun or outmaneuver it on the narrow, twisting road. He would have to outmuscle it instead.

The lone pursuer suddenly veered around the van and sped up alongside them. As he and Armand locked gazes, the mercenary pointed his Glock out the passenger window.

Armand shouted to Lia, “Brace yourself!”

He wrenched the steering wheel left, ramming the side of the van into the sedan. The deafening crunch of metal filled the air. The other car skidded across the deserted two-lane road.

Taking advantage of the temporary reprieve, Armand floored the accelerator. The van sprang toward eighty. Not good enough.

From the back window, Lia fired at the sedan as it recovered its tracks and began racing toward them again. The driver returned fire. Pop, pop, pop!

Lia ducked for cover as bullets sprayed the van.

In no time at all the mercenary caught up to them, roaring up beside Armand.

Gritting his teeth, Armand hit the brakes and went into a controlled skid. As the other car shot past them, he quickly righted the wheel and gunned the accelerator.

He barreled toward the sedan, which had stopped in the middle of the road, straddling both lanes at a cocky angle. As Armand bore down on him, the driver suddenly swung into a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. But he’d misjudged the time it would take the van to cover the distance. Armand hit him at full speed, using the van as a battering ram.

This time the sedan went into a wild spin, fishtailing off the road before coming to a sudden stop right at the edge of a steep slope.

After a few seconds the driver’s door opened, but before the disoriented man could bail out of the doomed car, the front end pitched sharply forward. The sedan hung over the edge for a moment, then nosedived down the precipitous, rocky slope.

Armand was still gripping the steering wheel, trying to catch his breath, when Lia hopped back into the passenger seat.

She leaned over and gave him a quick, hard kiss on his mouth. “Nice driving. Now let’s get the hell outta here!”

Chapter 16

That night, Lia and Armand ate dinner by a large campfire in the middle of the woods. It wasn’t quite what Armand had in mind when he’d promised her a “romantic candlelight dinner,” but after the harrowing day they’d had, he figured she’d give him a pass.

“How was your steak?” he asked with a lazy smile, watching as she licked her fingers, tossed her clean bone into the fire, then set aside her paper plate.

“Delicious,” she pronounced with a deep sigh of satisfaction. “Best steak I’ve ever had. My compliments to the chef.”

Armand chuckled dryly. “As I mentioned before, I’ve had a lot of practice roasting meat over campfires. Nothing to it.”

She grinned at him. “You don’t give yourself enough credit. The meat was tender and seasoned just right. If left to me, those steaks would have been nothing more than a charred mess.”

Armand nodded. “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Hey!” Lia said indignantly, slapping him playfully on the shoulder.

Together they laughed, and it felt good. Really good. They’d had very little to laugh about over the past several hours.

After the close call on the highway, they’d ditched the bullet-riddled van in exchange for an old but serviceable sedan they bought at a used-car lot for two hundred dollars. By the time Lia had finished shamelessly flirting with the salesman, he’d been ready to hand over the keys for every vehicle on the lot. Armand empathized with the poor guy.

Back on the road, he and Lia had traveled for another two hours before reaching their new hideout, the site of an old underground bunker that had been used by Union soldiers during the Civil War. Located on a large tract of privately owned land in rural Virginia, the bunker did not belong to any historical society, Lia explained, but rather to an old friend of her father’s. The owner, a retired widower who actually lived on the West Coast, had no intention of selling the land, which had been in his family for generations. Whenever he came to Virginia, he always invited Lia and her parents to join him for camping and fishing on the property. Because Lia had always been fascinated with the underground bunker, he’d laughingly given her a key to it should she ever need a “place to hide.”

Little did he know that years later, finding herself on the run, she would seek refuge in the same bunker she’d once explored and played in.

Armand, who wasn’t too keen on spending the night in a dank, dusty underground hole haunted by the ghosts of dead soldiers, would much rather sleep under the stars, as he’d often done back home. But if Lia insisted that they take shelter in the bunker, he’d keep his promise to cooperate. As long as they were together, it didn’t really matter where he slept.

The summer night was thick and sultry, and a steady chorus of nocturnal creatures’ humming filled the air. Ribbons of moonlight streamed through the canopy of pine and fir trees surrounding their campsite.

Before arriving at their new destination, they’d stopped at a discount store and stocked up on food and camping supplies to get them through the next three days, if necessary. Lia had bought a prepaid phone and called to check up on Armand’s family. He hadn’t taken an easy breath until she had hung up and reported that his mother and siblings were doing just fine. When he had asked her why she was pouting, she had informed him that his mother was about to prepare chictai for Agent Rollins and the others. Even Armand had been jealous.

When Lia had checked her voice mail, there were no new messages. Just as she’d predicted.

Although she hadn’t come out and said it, Armand knew how traumatized she was by the recent turn of events. She had devoted her life to the Secret Service. She’d sacrificed friendships, a love life, stability—hell, her own safety—in order to be the best agent she could be. To discover that someone within the agency had betrayed her trust, violated her privacy and was now trying to kill her had to be the most devastating thing she’d ever experienced in her life. Armand wanted to comfort her, hold her. Reassure her that everything would be all right.

Even if he didn’t necessarily believe it.

“Do you want another beer?” Lia asked, interrupting his grim musings as she reached into the large cooler beside her.

He shook his head. “No, thanks. One is enough.”

Absently he watched as Lia opened a bottle of water and took a healthy swig. She was sublimely beautiful, even with the darkening purple bruise on her right cheek. She had braided her hair into a neat, thick plait that hung between her shoulder blades. At some point she had changed into tan cargo pants and a white tank top that drew his gaze to her sleekly toned arms and the enticing fullness of her firm, round breasts. He remembered sucking her dark nipples, stroking and caressing her breasts as he drove inside her exquisite heat. He remembered the feel of her long, slippery legs locked around his waist, the scrape of her nails against his back, the wild thrusting of her hips.

If the threat of dying had not diminished his hunger for this woman, he knew nothing ever would.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you,” he blurted, reining in his imagination before he tackled her to the ground and mounted her with all the finesse of a caveman.

Lia glanced at him, and he wondered if he’d only imagined the wary look that crossed her face before she smiled inquisitively. “What is it?”

“You told me a few days ago that when you visited Muwaiti, you met an old Creole woman who reminded you of your grandmother. Does that mean you have Creole blood in your family?”

She nodded. “On my mother’s side. She’s from Louisiana. The Delahousses of Baton Rouge.”

“Do you speak Creole?”

She shook her head regretfully. “My mother speaks very little herself. After she married my father, she moved away from home and sort of lost track of her family, her culture.”

“That’s too bad,” Armand murmured.

“It is. When I was growing up, on the few occasions we actually visited Baton Rouge, I used to feel like such an outcast among my aunts and uncles and cousins, who teased me mercilessly for not speaking or understanding Creole.” She grimaced at the memory. “For the longest time I blamed my mother, as well as my father, for alienating me from that part of my heritage. I swore, that if I ever got married, I would not do the same thing to my own children.”

Armand gazed at her, inwardly smiling at the stubborn defiance that glittered in her dark eyes. “I would teach you Muwaitian Creole,” he offered, “but I’m afraid it wouldn’t help you much with your Louisiana relatives.”

“And that’s the really weird thing,” Lia said, turning to him. “I actually understand more Muwaitian Creole than the Creole spoken by my mother’s people! I understood just about everything you and your family were saying to one another yesterday. Isn’t that amazing? I mean, considering that I was only in Muwaiti for two weeks—eight years ago, at that—I think it’s pretty remarkable that I still remember the language.”

Because you belong there, Armand thought. With me.

“That is pretty amazing,” he said aloud. “But then you already told me that you’ve always been very proficient with languages. You speak French beautifully,” he added, shivering at the memory of the erotic promises they’d whispered to each other as they made love. Damn, that was one of the hottest things he’d ever experienced.

Lia met his gaze, and the banked heat in her eyes told him she remembered, as well. Glancing away, she took another sip of her water. “Considering the large Creole population in Muwaiti, I always wondered why Creole isn’t one of the official languages.”

Armand scowled. “Because Alexandre Biassou believes in mass conformity, much like the French colonists who arrived on the island after the early African settlers. Biassou detests the Creole language. He’s been known to refer to it as an uncouth, bastardized version of French, a dialect spoken only by the uncivilized and illiterate. It drives him crazy that there are different variations of Creole spoken throughout the country. He believes that in order for Muwaiti to compete on a global scale, we must all speak French, the language of the so-called noblemen who colonized and enslaved our ancestors.”

Lia shook her head in disgust. “A dictator through and through,” she pronounced with withering scorn. “It’s rather hypocritical of Biassou to talk about competing globally when he has single-handedly destroyed the Muwaitian economy and damaged important free-trade agreements with so many countries. Furthermore, he has lowered workers’ wages and—”

Seeing the way Armand was staring at her, and mistaking the cause, she broke off abruptly with a sheepish grin. “Er, sorry. Didn’t mean to get carried away. I know I’m preaching to the choir.”

“No, I wanted you to continue,” Armand said huskily, his heart racing with excitement and something else, something he was afraid to identify. “Your passion was…inspiring.”

Lia chuckled self-consciously. “Like I warned you before, there are certain issues I feel very strongly about. Greedy, corrupt presidents who take from the people they’re supposed to be serving is one of my hot-button issues.”

Armand smiled, still gazing intently at her. “My countrymen would be very fortunate to have such a strong, passionate advocate on their side.”

“They already have one—you. And when you become president,” Lia said with a sly smile, “you can reverse everything that horrible man has done over the last four years. And hey, you can even make Creole one of the official languages.”

Armand shook his head. “I’m not running for president,” he said, but his voice lacked the usual vehemence he expressed whenever his brother Henri broached this topic, which had been often.

“Why not?” Lia demanded. “Why wouldn’t you consider running for president?”

He tossed a few chunks of wood onto the dying fire, watching as the flames leaped and danced to life. “I’m not a politician,” he said simply.

“Who says you have to be?” she challenged. “If I’m not mistaken, the current Muwaitian president is a politician, and look how that turned out.”

Armand’s mouth twisted sardonically. “Good point.”

Lia studied him thoughtfully for several moments. “I know I’ve only known you less than a week, but I think the people of Muwaiti would be very lucky to have you as their new president. Who better to lead the country into the future than the man who fought to get it back for them?”

Armand smiled a little. “That’s very good. Maybe I could use that as a campaign slogan. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in becoming my speechwriter?”

She chuckled. “I already have a job, but if you decide to use that as your slogan, I’ll let you take the credit. How does that sound?”

His smile softened. “You’ve got a deal.”

Inexplicably his throat felt tight, clogged with emotion. It had been a long day, he reminded himself. He was tired and edgy, and his nerves were frayed like hell. The raw emotion he suddenly felt was a delayed reaction to the harrowing events of the past eleven hours.

But deep down inside Armand knew it was much more than that. Time was running out. He had only a few more days to convince Lia to return to Muwaiti with him when this assignment was over. And even that depended on the outcome of the hearing. If Alexandre Biassou walked away a free man, Armand knew what he had to do, and nothing or no one—not even the woman he loved—would stop him. He knew that killing Biassou would put an end to his future, one way or another. But as far as Armand was concerned, a future under the continued dictatorship of Biassou was no future at all.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Lia said, watching him quietly.

He managed a half smile. “They’re worth more than that,” he quipped. But her words had triggered a memory from earlier, an image that had been nagging at his conscience all day.

He looked at her. “There’s something else I’ve been meaning to ask you about.”

“What’s that?”

“Back at the cabin, when you were leaning over the mercenary’s body—” This time there was no mistaking the wary gleam that filled her dark eyes. She bit her bottom lip and glanced away.

Intrigued, Armand continued, “You were asking him who had sent him there. At one point you screamed, ‘What does that mean?’ as if you’d heard something. But he hadn’t said anything. I know, because I was standing there the whole time. Why did you ask him that? It was almost like…” He trailed off for a moment, searching for the right words, knowing he would sound crazy no matter what.

Finally he just blurted, “It was like you were trying to read his mind.”

Lia was staring into the fire, not at him. So she didn’t see the look of utter astonishment on his face when she said quietly, “I was.”

Lia was as shocked as Armand to hear those two words leave her mouth. She hadn’t planned on sharing her secret with him—ever.

Now it was too late.

In a low, carefully measured voice, Armand said, “Did I hear you correctly? Did you just tell me that you were trying to read that mercenary’s mind?”

Lia hesitated, then nodded. “Yes.”

“How?”

She drew a long, deep breath and took the final plunge. “I can read minds.”

Armand said nothing for what seemed an eternity.

When Lia finally worked up the courage to look at him, she found him staring at her in stunned disbelief. And then suddenly a wide, knowing grin swept across his face. “That was good, chère. Very convincing. You almost had me going there.”

Lia stared at him wordlessly.

As the silence stretched between them, his eyes narrowed on hers. “Wait a minute,” he said slowly. “You weren’t teasing me, were you?”

“No.”

“You…you can read minds?”

Lia nodded. “That’s how I knew the mercenary wasn’t really an electrician. Yes, the lie he told about the scar made me suspicious of him, but I didn’t know for sure until I actually read his mind. I’d patted him down before letting him inside the cabin, so he had to leave his weapons in the van. When he claimed he needed to go get his tools, that’s when I stopped him.”

“My God,” Armand breathed, staring at her with a mixture of curiosity and fascination. “How long have you had this gift?”

“My whole life. I inherited it from my great-grandmother Genevieve, who was a voodoo priestess in Baton Rouge. She owned a storefront boutique back in the fifties, but because many whites weren’t entirely comfortable patronizing a black-owned business, she had to come up with additional ways to make a living. So she told fortunes, read palms and tarot cards, practiced voodoo. Her ability to read minds proved to be lucrative for her and her family. Until the day she read a white customer’s palm and realized that the woman was planning to harm her own child.”

“What did she do?” Armand asked. “Your great-grandmother, I mean?”

“She begged her not to do it, but the woman got angry and claimed she didn’t know what Grandma Genevieve was talking about. After she left the store, Grandma Genevieve didn’t know what to do. She was a black woman living in the segregated South. If she warned others or went to the authorities with what she knew, they would call her crazy or throw her in jail for slandering a white woman. So she kept quiet, hoping she was mistaken, or hoping that the lady would change her mind about hurting her child. Two days later, the drowned body of a little white boy was found in the river. When the townspeople learned that the woman had gone to see my great-grandmother just days before she killed her son, and that Grandma Genevieve had done nothing to prevent it, they became enraged. They set her store on fire while she was trapped inside. She died in the blaze.”

“Mon Dieu,” Armand muttered grimly. “That’s terrible.”

Lia nodded in agreement. “My mother wasn’t very proud of that part of her family history. Which is why she and my father never told me about my great-grandmother. When they found out I had inherited Grandma Genevieve’s mind-reading ability, they were shocked and devastated. I remember my mother crying and rocking me in her arms, saying it wasn’t my fault, that it was a family curse that had skipped two generations. That’s when I learned all about Grandma Genevieve, the voodoo priestess.”

“How old were you when you found out you could read minds?” Armand asked, clearly riveted by her tale.

“I was five years old when I could actually articulate what was happening to me. Before that I didn’t understand why I could hear other people’s thoughts when I touched them.”

“Wait. You have to be touching someone to read their mind?”

“Yes. That’s how it works for me. I can’t read minds without skin-to-skin physical contact.” A sad little smile touched her mouth. “One day when I was five, my father picked me up and was carrying me to the car to take me to school. I looked into his eyes and asked him, ‘Daddy, how did Mommy catch ovarian cancer?’ He was so shocked he nearly dropped me!”

Armand said quietly, “Your mother had ovarian cancer?”

Lia nodded. “They had just found out the day before. They were waiting for the right opportunity to tell me. My father thought I must have overheard them discussing it in their bedroom. When he asked me if I’d been eavesdropping, I pointed to his head and told him, ‘I heard it in here.’ I think that was the first time I ever saw my daddy cry.”

Armand reached over and gently touched her cheek. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.

Lia captured his hand and held it between hers. “It’s all right. Thankfully they caught the cancer in time. My mother has been cancer-free and healthy for over twenty years.”

“That’s wonderful,” Armand said warmly.

Lia nodded, smiling. “Her only regret was that she couldn’t have any more children. But after a while, she realized that having one psychic child was more than enough for her to handle.”

Armand chuckled softly. “I’m sure.” He looked down at their joined hands, and Lia didn’t need her gift to know what he was thinking.

“You’re wondering whether I can read your mind,” she murmured.

He nodded, meeting her gaze. “Can you?”

She searched his face. “How would it make you feel if I could?”

“A little embarrassed, to be honest with you.”

“Why?”

His lips quirked, and there was a decidedly sensual gleam in his eyes. “If you knew some of the thoughts I’ve been having about you, believe me, you’d think twice before coming anywhere near me.”

Lia’s belly quivered with arousal. She gave him a sultry smile. “How do you know I haven’t been having rather explicit thoughts about you?”

He flashed a wolfish grin. “I sure as hell hope you have.”

Lia laughed, gently tracing the lines in his warm, calloused palm.

He watched her for a moment. “Are you reading my palm?”

“Uh-huh. Do you know what I see?”

He shook his head, his eyes never leaving hers.

“I see you testifying at that hearing in five days, telling the world all the reasons why Alexandre Biassou deserves to spend the rest of his rotten life behind bars. I see those wise, compassionate members of the Security Council heeding your people’s cry for justice and handing down the punishment Biassou so richly deserves—”

“Death,” Armand growled.

Lia stopped, probing the feral intensity of his eyes. “If that’s what the Security Council decides—”

His face hardened. “That’s what he deserves. Nothing less.”

A fine chill ran through Lia, despite the humid night. “Listen to me,” she said, low and controlled. “You are not to take the law into your own hands. If that’s what you’re thinking of doing, put it out of your mind right now!”

A mocking gleam entered his eyes. “You mean, you don’t know what I’m thinking?”

“No, I don’t!”

He frowned. “What are you saying? You can’t read my mind?”

“No, damn it. For whatever reason, I can’t read your mind, Armand. It’s never happened to me before, but I guess there’s a first time for everything. You must have some sort of genetic anomaly that counteracts my psychic ability!”

“Really?” He blinked, then shook his head as if to clear it. “This is surreal. I can’t believe we’re actually having this conversation. I feel like we’re on the set of a movie, where the two dueling superheroes suddenly realize they’re the yin and yang to each other.”

Lia was not amused. “Go ahead and make fun of me,” she fumed, quickly gathering their trash. “That’s the kind of reaction I expected from you anyway, which is why I’ve never told anyone but my parents!”

“Wait a minute!” Armand protested as she jumped to her feet. “I wasn’t making fun of you.”

Ignoring him, Lia marched over to the trash receptacle and dumped in their empty plates and bottles. Armand grabbed her before she could start toward the storm-cellar door that led down to the underground bunker.

“Look at me.” He tipped her chin upward, forcing her to meet the glittering intensity of his gaze. “I was not making fun of you, Lia. I think you’re the most wonderful, extraordinary woman I’ve ever met. I believed that before you told me about your special gift, and I believe it even more so now.”

“You don’t think I’m a freak?” Lia retorted.

Armand shook his head, tenderly stroking her cheek. “How could I ever think that about you? Do you have any idea how much you mean to me? I’m in love with you, Lia. I love you so damn much it kills me to think about going back to Muwaiti without you.”

Lia’s heart squeezed painfully. Tears rushed to her eyes, spilled down her cheeks. But before Armand could gather her into his arms, she stepped out of reach and pinned him with an unwavering stare.

“If you love me, then promise me you won’t go after Biassou if he walks,” she commanded, her voice husky with emotion. “Promise me.”

Armand clenched his jaw, then shook his head slowly.

“Promise me.”

His eyes went hard and flat. “I can’t make that promise.”

“Damn you!”

“Lia—”

“Are you crazy?” she screamed. “Do you have a death wish? Do you have any idea what will happen to you if you try to kill Biassou? If you succeed, you’ll be sent to prison—or executed! And if you fail, God help you. Remember those gruesome punishments you were talking about earlier? The ones Biassou is notorious for? How much worse do you think it will be for you if you try to kill him? He will subject you to the worst, most excruciating torture you’ve ever imagined, and then he will smile in your face before killing you! Is that what you want? Are you trying to become a damn martyr?”

“What other choice do I have?” Armand exploded, his eyes flashing with fury. “I had that son of a bitch right where I wanted him—twice. But I was trying to be honorable and humane. Like my father, and like Francois Seligny. So I let Biassou go. Twice, damn it. And because I spared his worthless life, hundreds of innocent people have died. Do you think my act of mercy comforts me at night? Do you think I congratulate myself for taking the high road? No! So, yes, Lia, if the Security Council fails to do what’s right, I’m going after Biassou to finish what I started.”

Lia stared at him, trembling with rage and despair. “I won’t let you. For your own good I’m going to tell someone. I’m going to make sure you can’t get anywhere near him.”

“Don’t bother,” Armand sneered. “I got to him before, and I will get to him again. Believe that.”

Chilled by the lethal promise in his eyes, Lia realized she was fighting a losing battle. Heaving an angry breath, she threw her hands up in the air.

“Fine,” she snapped. “You want to get yourself killed? Be my damn guest. If that’s how you want to repay me for repeatedly putting my ass on the line to save you, that’s fine with me. You know what? Don’t even come down to the bunker with me tonight. Sleep out here, out in the open. There’s no point in me trying to protect you anymore if you’re just going to run out and get yourself killed anyway!”

Armand descended upon her. She fought against him, swinging wildly and shoving at his chest, but he was too strong for her, pinning her arms between them, imprisoning her in his embrace until the fight gradually drained out of her and she melted in his arms with a muffled sob. He crushed her to him, kissing her fervently, running his hands over her hair and face, whispering tender endearments against her mouth.

With only a look passing between them, they turned and made their way down the concrete stairs into the dank, dusty cellar. Lia had lit scented candles earlier, hoping to dispel some of the gloom and the musty odor that permeated the air.

They undressed each other quickly, fingers tangling in their desperate haste. When they came together, flesh to flesh, it was in an explosion of heat and need. Wrapped in each other’s arms, they sank to their knees on the soft pile of sleeping bags that covered the cement floor. He cradled her face between his hands, and her head went back as he kissed her throat, his teeth and tongue tormenting the sensitive flesh until a liquid rush flooded her loins.

She pushed him onto his back, then straddled his lower thighs. He propped himself on his elbows and watched as she brushed her wet, pulsing sex along his skin, back and forth, up and down, making him shudder. Their gazes locked as she leaned down and took his throbbing penis deep inside her mouth. He swore hoarsely, his eyes smoldering with desire as she sucked him, using her tongue in ways she’d never dreamed of doing to another man. She could feel the tension building in his body, hear his harsh breathing in the silence of the cellar.

And then suddenly he was gripping her hair, pulling back her head. His tiger eyes gleamed in the candlelit darkness, fierce with arousal. He sat up, and she quickly climbed onto his lap, wrapping her legs around his hips, locking her feet behind his broad back. He grasped her buttocks, lifting and sliding her onto his erection. Her breath hissed out of her, her back arching at the erotic invasion.

With her body molded perfectly to his, he began thrusting inside her, long, deep, penetrating strokes. She clung to his big shoulders, her fingertips digging into his muscles, her body on fire. He lowered his head, closing his full lips around one distended nipple. Lia moaned, waves of pleasure crashing through her. She reached down behind her, stroking his engorged testicles. He groaned and thrust harder, faster.

As she stared into his hard face, watching his focused intensity, she realized she had never felt closer, more connected to anyone than she did to this man. Whatever happened tomorrow, she would always love him, always long for him.

He gripped her tightly, driving rhythmically inside her. She clawed at his back, driven by a savage, blinding hunger that threatened to consume her. Moments later she came with a violent shudder, her head falling back on a soundless cry as the force of his own release filled her.

They made love long into the night, intensely, passionately, because the future was paved with danger and tomorrow was not promised. And when the end came for both of them in a final shattering climax, Lia buried her face against his chest and closed her eyes as silent, mournful tears rolled down her cheeks.

I love you. Please don’t ever leave me.

Chapter 17

Thursday, September 11, 2008
0900 hours
Fredericksburg, Virginia
Day 7

The next morning after breakfast, Lia pulled out her prepaid cell phone and checked her voice mail.

Still no messages.

She disconnected and stared at the phone, frustration and dread coiling in her gut. The mole was waiting for her to make the first move.

Sooner or later, she’d have no choice.

Beside her in the car, Armand stared through the windshield, a solitary muscle leaping in his jaw. He’d been mostly silent throughout breakfast, his face preoccupied and stony. Even when Lia joked that the waiter was staring at her bruised cheek and probably blaming Armand for it, his answering smile was distracted. Now as they sat in the car, he seemed totally oblivious to her presence. Or so she thought until he suddenly spoke.

“How much do you know about the assassination plot?”

Startled, Lia looked at him. “The one involving Biassou?”

Armand nodded tightly.

“I don’t know the details, if that’s what you’re asking. For assignments like these, protective agents are usually kept on a need-to-know basis. In this instance, you are all I need to know. However, based on the hush-hush nature of your extraction and delivery to the United States, I have to assume that Biassou was either plotting to assassinate the president, or the vice president.”

Armand stared at her, vaguely amused. “You never even asked.”

“I’m not supposed to. That’s against protocol.” She searched his face, her mouth curving ruefully. “Of course, now that I’ve broken just about every rule in the book, I might as well go all the way. President or vice president?”

“The president. Biassou despises Grace Fordham. He sees her as a serious threat to his regime. If she’s reelected—”

Lia snorted. “That’s a foregone conclusion. She’s very popular in this country. She has a commanding double-digit lead over her Republican opponent in all the polls. Some are even calling the election a mere formality.”

Armand nodded with a grim smile. “Of course, Biassou knows all this. Which is why he’s trying to get rid of her now, before she’s reelected. His presidency won’t survive four more years of her aggressive campaign against him.”

Lia turned in her seat to face him. “So how did you learn about the assassination plot?”

“Jean-Claude Baptiste, a disgruntled member of Biassou’s party, came to me and told me everything. He even provided incontrovertible proof of the plot—tapes, audio recordings from secret meetings.”

“He gave you copies?”

Armand nodded. “Biassou suspects, but doesn’t know for sure that I have copies. After he killed Baptiste, he ransacked his house and confiscated everything. Whoever is working with him doesn’t know about the copies, either. I suspect he, or she, planted the listening devices in our cabin hoping I would confide in you.”

“Good thing I never asked,” Lia muttered.

Armand smiled blandly. “I wouldn’t have told you anyway.”

“Why? Because you don’t trust me?”

“No, because I don’t want to endanger your life any more than it already is. Why do you always have to think the worst?”

“Force of habit. Anyway, why wait weeks until the hearing? Why not just present the evidence to the Security Council and arrest Biassou now?”

“Because no one knows I have the evidence. No one but President Fordham.”

Lia frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“For the last two years, Fordham has been monitoring the situation in Muwaiti and working to build a case against Biassou. She’s had several meetings with members of the United Nations Security Council to explore the possibility of bringing Biassou to trial for crimes against humanity. When I first contacted the Secret Service to alert them to the assassination plot, it took a while for my message to be screened, authenticated and routed through the proper channels. It was President Fordham herself who contacted me again. She said she’d been praying for that final piece, the linchpin in her case against Biassou. If I didn’t know better, I would think she was happy that he was plotting to assassinate her. She said my testimony would give her the ammunition she needed to finally nail the bastard.”

Lia let out a choked laugh. “She actually said that?”

Armand chuckled. “Verbatim. And when I told her about the evidence in my possession, I could have sworn she jumped out of her chair and danced around the Oval Office.”

Lia laughed. “That wouldn’t surprise me. I’ve met her several times over the years, even spent a weekend with her at Camp David when I was filling in for one of the members of her protection detail. She’s quite a character—warm, charming and feisty as hell.”

Armand smiled a little. “Anyway, we both agreed to keep the evidence concealed until the hearing. The information she filtered through the channels was that I didn’t have the proof. Fordham knew that Biassou couldn’t be acting alone, that he had to have a co-conspirator who was helping him plot her assassination, someone with top-secret clearance and someone who would have access to her itinerary. By waiting until the hearing, she was hoping to flush out the mole.”

Lia’s mind was reeling. “And has she? Has she learned the mole’s identity?”

Armand stared at her. “That’s what you and I have to find out,” he said with quiet gravity. “I’ve been the bait. Now we just have to lure in the prey.”

Lia held his gaze for a moment, then drew a long, deep breath and nodded. She knew what she had to do.

She dialed Janikowski’s cell-phone number. Once again, she got her voice mail. It was as if Janikowski had simply disappeared off the face of the earth.

“Something’s wrong,” Lia muttered, disconnecting the call.

“She’s still not answering?”

“No. And I don’t think it’s because she’s in on this. I think something has happened to her.”

Armand frowned. “Call the assistant director.”

Lia was already dialing the number to Bill McManus’s office. His secretary answered and patched her through almost immediately.

“Special Agent Charles,” McManus greeted her congenially. “I was just about to call you.”

Lia looked at Armand. “You were, sir?”

“Yes. Nancy asked me to pinch-hit for her while she’s gone. She had a family emergency and had to leave town suddenly. It was a private matter, from what I understand, so she instructed her secretary to let everyone know she was on a special assignment. Anyway, I’ve been making my rounds this morning, checking in with all her agents out in the field. You were next on my list.”

“I see.” Lia could hear the dying mercenary’s voice in her head. Quick…silver…Don’t…Quick…silver…

What had it meant? Was he thinking of a name? A place? A secret code?

“So how’s everything going with Magliore?” McManus inquired, a friendly smile in his voice. “How’s he adjusting to life outside of Muwaiti?”

“Oh, well, you know. As well as can be expected.” The voice was growing louder in her head, a persistent buzz. Failed…Quick…silver…Don’t…wanna die…

Closing her eyes, she reached up and rubbed her temple, which was suddenly throbbing.

On the other end, McManus shuffled a stack of papers. “Well, if you don’t need anything—”

Lia blurted, “Actually, sir, there is something I need to tell you.”

“Yes? What is it?”

She locked gazes with Armand. “Our location was compromised. I had to get Magliore somewhere safe.”

“What?” McManus sounded genuinely shocked. “When did this happen, Agent Charles?”

“Yesterday, sir.”

“Yesterday?” he echoed in disbelief. “And you’re just now reporting—”

“Under the circumstances, sir, I felt I had no other choice.”

Quick…silver…Quick…silver.

“Fine,” McManus snapped. “We’ll discuss it when you come into the office. I’m dispatching a team to pick up you and Magliore. What is your location?”

Lia hesitated. She could imagine an angry flush suffusing McManus’s face. She could see his thin lips pressed together, his gray eyes narrowed in the telltale manner that always warned others when he was not in a good mood. No, wait, Lia amended. Not gray…silver. His eyes were more silver. And something else…Another agent had once described him as having an unpredictable temperament. Calm and friendly one minute, volatile and abusive the next. Because the Secret Service used code names for presidents, first ladies, and other prominent individuals and locations, the agent had joked that if McManus ever had a code name, it would be Quicksilver.

Quicksilver.

Lia froze, the muscles in the back of her neck tightening. A clammy sensation settled over her skin.

“Special Agent Charles,” McManus ground out tersely. “What is your location?”

Lia swallowed. “I’m sorry, sir. I can’t tell you that.”

“What?” he exploded. “Special Agent Charles, have you taken leave of your senses? Need I remind you that Armand Magliore is a key witness in an investigation that could have international ramifications? He is a Secret Service asset, not your damn boyfriend!”

“Interesting word choice,” Lia said softly. “I never said anything about him being my boyfriend, sir. Where would you get that idea?”

On the other end, McManus swore loudly and viciously. “For the last time, Agent Charles, I am ordering you to—”

“Does the name Quicksilver mean anything to you?”

Dead silence.

And that was all the confirmation she needed.

“Listen,” McManus said in a low, conciliatory tone, “let’s discuss this when you get here. You’ve obviously had a very trying—”

“Goodbye, sir,” Lia said coldly.

She ended the call and looked over at Armand. He was watching her with a quiet, sympathetic expression.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

Lia shook her head, numb with shock. “Bill McManus was responsible for my promotion and transfer to protective services four years ago. Since then, he’s been very supportive of my career growth and achievements.” She stiffened, struck by a new realization. “He’s the one who assigned me to protect you. He sent me on this mission fully expecting me to be killed alongside you. Like a lamb to the slaughter.”

Armand nodded grimly. “So what do you want to do now?”

Lia’s jaw hardened. “I want to make him pay for what he’s done.”

“Then I think it’s time we reached out to someone who can make that happen.”

Their gazes held. They spoke at the same time: “President Fordham.”

Chapter 18

Monday, September 15, 2008
0900 hours
United Nations Headquarters
New York City
Day 11

Armand bent over the bathroom sink and splashed cold water over his face and into his eyes, which felt gritty after several days of sleep deprivation. Reaching for a paper towel, he patted his face dry, careful not to drip water onto his well-tailored charcoal suit. Lia had whistled appreciatively when she had come to his hotel room that morning to check up on him. “President Fordham has impeccable taste,” she’d declared when Armand had told her where the suit came from.

Armand had gazed into her eyes as she had fixed his tie, teasing his clumsy handiwork. “Hey, I haven’t worn a suit in years,” he’d retorted with a grin. “Knotting a tie wasn’t exactly a skill I needed to survive in the jungle.”

She’d laughingly agreed, and as he had held still for her, his mind had been filled with an image of her, cheeks glowing with health and happiness, belly swollen with their first child, smiling at him as she arranged his tie before he left for work. The image was so vivid, so powerful, that a wave of longing had swept through him, making his chest tighten painfully.

At that moment Lia had met his gaze, her smile fading when she saw the raw, naked yearning on his face. An unnamed emotion had filled her eyes before she had glanced away and straightened his collar, murmuring, “You’re good to go,” before turning and quietly leaving the room.

It was the last time they’d been alone together this morning.

When they arrived at the United Nations headquarters for the hearing, Lia disappeared with a team of other Secret Service agents to secure the building, leaving Armand in the custody of two senior agents from the president’s protection detail. At Grace Fordham’s insistence, the two men had pretty much replaced Lia once she and Armand had become guests at the White House. Although the elegant accommodations, sumptuous meals and gracious hospitality were unrivaled, Armand had found himself missing the rustic mountain cabin, even the underground bunker in the woods, where he and Lia had been completely alone, cut off from the rest of the world. In stark contrast, the White House mansion had been a constant beehive of activity, and there had always been other people around—stewards, staff, Secret Service agents. After having Lia all to himself for nearly a week, Armand had considered himself lucky if they were left alone for more than five minutes. Even their leisurely stroll through the picturesque Rose Garden had been observed by curious onlookers.

It wasn’t the way he’d hoped to spend his final days in America with her.

President Fordham had assured him that, barring any unforeseen circumstances at the hearing, he and his family would be able to return to Muwaiti within a week.

Which meant he had a week to convince Lia to return home with him and marry him—a daunting task further complicated by their lack of privacy. On the few occasions when they were alone, Lia had assiduously avoided talking about their relationship, or the future.

He’d told her that he loved her, but so far, she hadn’t reciprocated. So he had decided it was time to lay it all on the line. It was time to tell her the whole truth, that he’d been in love with her for the past eight years, ever since he had first laid eyes on her outside that clinic. Surely she couldn’t turn him away after hearing a confession like that, he reasoned.

He hoped.

If Armand hadn’t been so preoccupied with thoughts of Lia, he might have heard the dull thud of two bodies hitting the floor outside the men’s restroom. He might have looked up faster when the door suddenly opened and a dark shape stepped inside the room.

By the time he switched off the tap water and turned his head, Alexandre Biassou stood less than ten feet away.

And he was pointing a silenced pistol right at him.

Armand’s mouth went dry. So this is how it will end, he thought grimly. Gunned down by his worst enemy in a Manhattan restroom. It shouldn’t have surprised him. Hadn’t he always known, on some unconscious level, that his own life would end in bloodshed, just as his father and his mentor had died violently?

Slowly, deliberately, he wadded up the used paper towel and dropped it into the trash receptacle built into the counter.

“So we meet again, diable,” he murmured, his voice edged with dark humor.

Biassou’s cold, black eyes gleamed with malicious satisfaction. “Did you think this was over?” he demanded in deep, thickly accented tones. “Did you think you had won?”

“I have,” Armand said with unerring calm. “At this very moment, the members of the Security Council are listening to audio recordings in which you describe how you intended to assassinate the president of the United States. Bill McManus, your co-conspirator, has already been taken into federal custody and has confessed to everything, including the murder of Nancy Janikowski, who had the misfortune of stumbling upon your assassination plot and confronting him. All of your dirty little secrets have been exposed. This hearing is nothing more than a formality. Your fate has been sealed.”

“You insolent little fool!” Biassou spat, a vein throbbing in his temple. “I could have given you anything you wanted. Wealth, prestige, property, an abundance of beautiful women at your disposal. I could have made you prime minister—second-in-command.”

Armand let out a harsh laugh. “I thought I made it perfectly clear to you before that my soul is not for sale, diable. I want nothing to do with you or your corrupt regime.”

Biassou smiled, a slow, sinister smile Armand recognized from his nightmare. “If my fate has been sealed,” the dictator said, raising his gun to eye level, “so has yours.”

A sudden commotion down the hallway made him hesitate for a split second, his head cocked at a listening angle.

Quick as a thought, Armand dove to the tiled floor just as Biassou fired at him. The blast was muffled by the silencer, but the bullet that grazed Armand’s left shoulder was very real.

Ignoring the hot stab of pain, he raised his pant leg, seized the small knife strapped to his ankle and hurled it at his adversary. The knife shot through the air and hit Biassou squarely in the chest.

His eyes bulged in shock, then slowly lowered to the pearl-handled knife protruding from his body. Recognizing Francois Seligny’s weapon, he coughed and then began to laugh, a dark, menacing rumble that sent chills down Armand’s spine and made him wish he could have snuck one of his guns into the building.

Biassou looked up, his malevolent gaze locking with Armand’s. “I appreciate your sense of poetic justice, Magliore,” he rasped. “Killing me with the blade of your slain mentor. Perhaps the three of us will meet again in hell.”

He raised his pistol and Armand calmly closed his eyes, bracing for death, thinking of Lia and what would never be.

The next sound he heard was the bathroom door crashing against the wall and the blast of a single gunshot. He opened his eyes in time to see Alexandre Biassou pitch forward like a felled tree, a bullet hole punched neatly through the center of his forehead. His body landed on the floor with a heavy thud and did not move again.

Lia stood in the doorway gripping a 9mm, her nostrils flared, her dark eyes simmering with controlled rage. When her gaze landed on Armand sprawled a few feet away, wounded but very much alive, tears of relief sprang to her eyes. She holstered her weapon and hurried to his side as a flurry of agents rushed in after her, shouting and barking commands into radios and earpieces.

Kneeling on the floor beside Armand, Lia gathered him into her arms with such stunning force she knocked the air from his lungs. “Oh, my God,” she whispered fiercely. “You gave me the scare of my life, damn it!”

Armand tried to laugh, but the sound was strangled, muffled against her fragrant bosom. He could have stayed there forever.

“How the hell did this happen?” another agent demanded, leaning over the dead body of Alexandre Biassou.

Lia answered in angry, staccato tones, “He hired someone to create a diversion in the lobby, and while everyone was distracted, he killed the guards assigned to him and came after Magliore. He had a silencer for the gun he took. The two agents posted outside the restroom probably never even saw him coming. He should have been handcuffed, damn it!”

She drew back from Armand, running one hand over his face, checking his wounded shoulder with the other.

“It’s just a flesh wound,” he reassured her, pulling himself into a sitting position as pain lanced through his side. “I can hardly even feel it,” he lied.

But Lia was already removing his suit jacket and ripping off his shirt to assess the damage. He mustered a sheepish grin for the agents who hovered nearby, watching him with concerned expressions.

“You all right, Mr. Magliore?”

Armand nodded, gazing dreamily at Lia. His beautiful avenging angel. “I’m fine, gentlemen. Just fine.”

One week later
Washington, D.C.

Lia sat on a downtown park bench, watching as passersby strolled across the manicured green lawn, sharing carefree laughs that made her envious. Although the afternoon sky was overcast, matching her somber mood, she wore a pair of dark sunglasses to reduce the risk of being recognized.

News of the “deadly showdown at the UN,” as the media had dubbed it, had sent shockwaves around the world. One week later, the conspiracy plot involving Alexandre Biassou, President Fordham, the Secret Service and the Muwaitian rebel leader and whistleblower remained the lead story of every news broadcast and newspaper around the globe. Lia, who had hoped to fly beneath the radar, was stunned to wake up one morning and find her photo splashed across the front page of the Washington Post. She began receiving so many calls from reporters that she changed her phone number. When the new number was somehow leaked to the press, she unplugged her phone altogether.

Even if she weren’t bound by protocol not to speak to the media, Lia had no desire to rehash what had happened when she was still struggling to cope with everything.

According to his deposition, Bill McManus had met Alexandre Biassou two years before, when he had accompanied the U.S. secretary of state on a peacekeeping mission to Muwaiti. Although the peace talks had broken down, Biassou had sensed that he had an ally in the assistant director, who, as it had turned out, was opposed to a female president from the beginning. The two men had begun secretly corresponding, and it wasn’t long before the assassination plot was hatched. To ensure that the trail would never lead back to him, McManus had stipulated that his name, identity and the specific nature of his involvement be withheld from members of Biassou’s faction. Biassou was simply to tell his men that he had a powerful American informant, nothing more.

McManus had been so determined to cover his own tracks that he had murdered Nancy Janikowski, whom he had known and worked with for years, when she unwittingly intercepted a communiqué from Biassou. He’d shot her in cold blood, then buried her body in the woods and fabricated the story about a family emergency.

Lia blinked back tears, reliving the sight of her former supervisor lying in a coffin at the funeral, her dark hair neatly combed over the gaping bullet wound in her temple. The likelihood that McManus would be convicted of treason did little to assuage the grief and anger Lia felt. The weight of Janikowski’s death, on top of everything else that had transpired over the past two weeks, pressed down on her like an anvil. She wondered if she would ever recover from the shock, the pain of betrayal, the senseless loss of a good friend and colleague.

Only time would tell.

She didn’t turn her head as Armand walked up the path and joined her on the park bench, deliberately sitting on the opposite end.

“Thanks for agreeing to meet me out here,” he said ruefully. “I know it’s probably not a good idea to be seen in public together, but it seemed like the only way to finally get some privacy. Your apartment is crawling with reporters, and even a public park seems more private than the White House.”

Lia smiled softly. “You don’t have to thank me for coming. You didn’t think I would let you leave without saying goodbye, did you?”

Armand stared down at his hands clasped between his legs. “I was hoping you wouldn’t say goodbye at all,” he said in a low voice.

Lia’s heart contracted. She kept her eyes trained ahead. “How’s your family doing? Are they enjoying their stay at the White House?”

“For the first few days. Now that the novelty is wearing off, they’re eager to return home and be reunited with their friends. I am, too.”

Once again Lia felt that painful squeezing in her chest. Forcing herself to ignore it, she said, “That’s understandable. How’s your shoulder?”

“Good as new. How’s your heart?”

She started, caught off guard by the question. She swallowed. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”

“Don’t you?”

Lia said nothing.

“Take these off,” Armand murmured, reaching across the bench to remove her sunglasses. “I can’t see your eyes. And you look like a Secret Service agent.”

“I am a Secret Service agent,” Lia said, quietly emphatic.

And I always will be. She let the unspoken words hang between them.

Armand held her gaze for a long, charged moment.

She was the first to look away. “What time does your flight leave tonight?” she asked, although she already knew the answer, had been agonizing over the date and time of his departure for days now.

“Eight,” he replied.

She nodded, her throat tightening.

“Am I the only one,” he said huskily, “who thought we had something special, a rare, powerful connection?”

Lia closed her eyes. “Of course not,” she whispered.

“Then why do you refuse to discuss our future together?”

“What kind of future can we have, Armand?” she cried, opening her eyes and staring at him. “We live thousands of miles apart from each other.”

“It doesn’t have to stay that way!”

“Who’s going to make the sacrifice?” she challenged. “Who’s going to leave behind everything they know to make this work?”

His piercing amber eyes drilled into hers. “I love you, Lia. I want to marry you. I want you to return to Muwaiti with me. Help me rebuild my country. Help me restore my people’s faith and trust in the government. Help me fulfill whatever destiny God has chosen for me. For us.”

Lia stared at him, her heart beating savagely against her rib cage. It was tempting, so very tempting, to accept his offer. She loved him like no other. But what he was asking of her, demanding of her, was too much.

“Damn it, Armand!” she exploded. “You’re forcing me to choose between your life and mine. My mother had to make the same choice, and it’s not fair.”

His expression turned fierce. “Are your parents happy? Have they not been happily married for over thirty years?”

“That’s not the point!”

“Then what is the point?” he snapped.

“The point is that I love my job, and I worked too damn hard to get where I am just to walk away. The fact that you can’t understand that is problematic in and of itself.”

“What I can’t understand,” Armand growled through clenched teeth, “is how you can remain so loyal to an organization that abused and betrayed your trust.”

Lia’s eyes narrowed sharply on his face. “Don’t you dare try to use what happened as leverage. The Secret Service did not abuse and betray my trust—Bill McManus did. There’s a big differ—”

“I love you, damn it. I love you!”

She wavered, hot tears filling her eyes. “I know—”

“No, you don’t understand.” Moving closer, Armand grabbed her face between his hands. The searing intensity of his gaze made her tremble. “This wasn’t an overnight thing for me. I’ve loved you for eight years, Lia. Eight years.”

She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“I saw you that day, outside the clinic in Port le Duc. I was passing by, on my way to another military base, and I saw you! You were making the children laugh so they wouldn’t be afraid of the vaccination needles, and I thought you were the most beautiful, bewitching woman I had ever seen. I went back the next day, but you had already left the island.” His voice softened, deepening with emotion. “I never forgot you, Lia. I dreamed about you for years, wondering if I would ever see you again. In a strange way, dreaming about you helped me get through those dark, endless days and nights of fighting. You know how soldiers carry around photographs of their wives and girlfriends, their newborn babies? Well, I carried a picture of you in my mind, in my heart. You gave me something to hope for, something to believe in, even though I knew I would probably never see you again. And then, suddenly, you were there.”

Incredulous, Lia traced his features with her eyes. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “Why did you wait this long to tell me?” she whispered, her throat constricted.

He shook his head. “I don’t know. It wasn’t a conscious decision. When I saw you that night in the jungle, I was so shocked that you were actually there, I could hardly speak. After that night there just never seemed to be the right time to tell you. After a while I was afraid I might scare you off by coming across as an obsessed weirdo.”

Lia chuckled softly. “I wouldn’t have thought that about you.”

“I wasn’t taking any chances.” His eyes probed hers. “Anyway, would it have made a difference if I’d told you earlier? Would we be having a different conversation right now if you’d known how long I’ve been in love with you?”

Averting her gaze, Lia pushed out a long, shaky breath. “I…I don’t even know what to say. What you’ve just shared with me…I’m humbled beyond words.”

“I don’t want your humility, Lia.” His voice was strained.

She turned back to him, realizing she’d unintentionally hurt him. “I love you. After everything we’ve been through, you must know that. I love you so much. When I realized that Biassou was missing, and I couldn’t reach anyone on the radio, I was so scared. My God, I’ve never been so scared in my life! I—I thought I might be too late. I thought he’d already killed you, and it…it tore me apart!”

“Don’t think about it,” Armand murmured soothingly. “It’s over now. You got there in time, and you saved me, sweetheart. Let’s put all that behind us and look ahead to the future. Come home with me, Lia. Be my wife.”

Her heart thudded hard in her throat as he stared into her eyes, ensnaring her, compelling her, bending her to his will as easily as he had seduced her.

She forced herself to break eye contact. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think straight when he was looking at her like that. “Why can’t we reach some sort of compromise? Maybe we could—”

“I can’t leave Muwaiti.” His tone was flat. Final.

Lia looked at him. “But I have to leave my family, my job, my home,” she said bitterly. “Is that it?”

He just stared at her, awaiting her decision.

Her insides began to tremble. “I—I need more time. I can’t just make a life-altering decision like this on a spur of the moment.”

“How much time do you need?”

“I don’t know!”

After a lengthy silence, Armand rose to his feet. When he spoke, his voice was cool and detached. “I think you’ve already made your decision. Goodbye, Lia.”

She stared up at him, stunned and angry that he could close the door between them so neatly. As if he were merely adjourning a business meeting that had not gone according to plan. She half expected him to reach out and politely shake her hand.

Her chin lifted proudly. “Goodbye, Armand.” How she got those words out past the tightness in her throat was beyond her.

He inclined his head, then turned and walked away.

Lia sat there, watching as he climbed into the nondescript town car that would take him back to the White House. Back to the airport.

Out of her life.

This time for good.

Chapter 19

Six months later
Early March

Somehow she made it through the bleak days and weeks and months that followed. She returned to work after taking just a week off and was informed that she’d been transferred to the president’s protection detail—a request made by Grace Fordham herself. Two weeks later Lia received another honor, the Presidential Award of Valor, for the courage and resourcefulness she had demonstrated in protecting Armand Magliore. With her parents, friends and colleagues beaming proudly and cheering her on, Lia had accepted the prestigious award, smiling through her heartache and despair.

It had been several weeks before the media maelstrom resulting from the thwarted assassination plot died down, and the November election once again had dominated the news. As expected, Grace Fordham had defeated her Republican opponent to become reelected, but it was the outcome of another election that soon captured the world’s attention. In January Armand Magliore had been elected president of Muwaiti by an overwhelming majority, the largest landslide victory in the country’s political history. Lia had watched, with tears in her eyes and her chest bursting with pride, as he addressed a jubilant crowd of supporters, thousands of whom had traveled from around the country to usher in their new leader. She had been riveted by the sight of liberated Muwaitians cheering, waving banners and chanting Armand’s name with tears of joy streaming down their faces. By the time he had finished his rousing speech, in which he thanked his fellow countrymen for their resilience under Alexandre Biassou and exhorted them to help him rebuild their great nation, Lia was weeping, as well.

When Grace Fordham had traveled to Muwaiti to personally congratulate the new president and to discuss a long-overdue alliance between their two countries, Lia had known it was too soon for her to face Armand again. Fordham had granted her request to forgo the trip, demonstrating the kind of compassion and sensitivity one could only expect from another woman. It was for that same reason that Fordham, upon her return, hadn’t told Lia that Armand was rumored to be engaged to Nathalie Seligny, the daughter of former President Francois Seligny. Nathalie, who had returned to Muwaiti after the election, had reportedly accompanied Armand to various social and political functions. When Lia found out—courtesy of a newspaper article titled Muwaitian President Courts Potential First Lady—she’d been devastated.

That was what had finally pushed her over the edge. She took a leave of absence from work and retreated to the comforting warmth and familiarity of her childhood home in Arlington, Virginia.

One Saturday morning in early March, she and her parents were seated in the living room, watching television and debating whether to spend the day working in the garden or catching a matinee and having an early dinner. They had just voted on the latter when the news anchor suddenly announced, “And now, as promised, we bring you our exclusive interview with Muwaiti’s newly elected president, Armand Magliore.”

Lia froze.

Her mother shot a warning look at her father, who cleared his throat and reached for the remote control on the coffee table.

“No!” Lia cried. “Don’t turn it off.”

“But, baby—”

“I want to watch it.”

Stephen Charles sat back against the sofa, shrugging at his wife as if to say, What else could I do?

Lia’s pulse thudded as Armand’s darkly handsome image filled the television screen. He was dressed in a simple yet tasteful charcoal suit that reminded her of the one he’d worn to the UN hearing. She remembered teasing him as she had reknotted his tie, then looking into his eyes and seeing the love and desperate yearning she felt mirrored in his gaze. She’d run from him that morning, afraid to face her innermost desires, afraid to wish for something that could never be.

And now, as she greedily drank in the sight of him, she wondered for the umpteenth time whether she’d made the right decision by letting him walk out of her life.

The sound of his deep, magnetic voice filled the living room, washing over her, into her. He was describing his vision for Muwaiti, a true democracy where every citizen, regardless of economic status, could achieve their greatest potential and provide for their families with the full support of their government. The gushing reporter proceeded to rattle off a list of his accomplishments, all the more impressive given the short time he’d been in office.

Unlike his predecessor, Armand had established a cabinet filled with smart, progressive men and women who valued integrity as much as he did and who weren’t afraid to disagree with him. He had brokered important treaties with neighboring governments and was working cooperatively with the international community to lift trade sanctions on the exportation of Muwaitian goods and resources. In an effort to revitalize tourism, he had launched a global ad campaign in which he and fellow Muwaitians appeared in a number of television spots surrounded by the lush, tropical beauty of their island. Working with his advisors, Armand had already developed an economic-stimulus package that would resuscitate the economy, drastically reduce unemployment and poverty and increase wages for all workers, including the farmers and merchants who were the backbone of the country’s labor force. He successfully overhauled the military, instituting a new-and-improved organizational structure and cleaning house from top to bottom. Those who had gone into hiding after Biassou’s death were captured, tried and convicted of their crimes—and no one celebrated this more than the farmers and merchants who had been regularly terrorized by the lawless soldiers.

The news interview was interspersed with footage of Armand as he took the reporter on walking tours of burned-down schools, businesses and neighborhoods—casualties of Biassou’s reign of terror and violence. Armand outlined his plans to rebuild the damaged properties and develop new, affordable housing communities once the economy was stabilized. Lia’s heart ached at images of him swinging small children into the air, hugging old grandmothers, digging ditches alongside day laborers, laughing and conversing with his reunited freedom fighters. He was their native son, and seeing him on the streets and in the villages, moving freely among his people, made Lia realize like never before that he could never belong anywhere but Muwaiti.

The interview was nearly over when the reporter broached the subject Lia had been dreading. “Is there any truth to the rumors that your marriage to Nathalie Seligny is imminent?” Armand chuckled softly, and Lia found herself holding her breath, her stomach clenching as she awaited his response.

“Come on,” the smiling reporter cajoled. “You have to know that everyone is dying to find out whether the world’s most eligible bachelor will soon be off the market. Come on, Mr. President, you can give us a little hint. If you want, you can even convey a special message to her while millions of viewers are watching.”

Lia could feel her parents’ concerned gazes on her. Her father had leaned forward, preparing to grab the remote control and switch the channel if Armand so much as uttered an affectionate word to Nathalie Seligny.

Just when Lia thought she couldn’t take the suspense anymore, Armand lifted his eyes to the camera and said with quiet sincerity, “My fighting spirit, my hopes and dreams, will always belong to my beloved countrymen. But my heart has been stolen by the extraordinary woman who saved my life more often than I probably deserved. I never truly thanked her, so if by some miracle she’s watching this program, I want her to know how much I appreciate everything she did for me. I wouldn’t be here without her.”

Lia was half crying and half laughing as she jumped up from the sofa, her heart bursting with sheer joy and relief. “I have to go,” she whispered fiercely. “I have to go to him!”

Her parents traded meaningful glances.

“We know, baby,” Helene Charles said with a soft, intuitive smile, moisture shimmering in her own eyes as she gazed at her daughter. “We know.”

It was just after one o’clock the following afternoon when Lia arrived in the capital city of Port le Duc. The international airport was small but modern, bustling with tourists toting luggage and cameras. The ad campaign apparently had worked.

As Lia walked through the busy terminal, listening to the musical cadence of accents wafting around her, she felt an incredible sense of homecoming.

This was where she belonged.

She’d known it the very first time she visited Muwaiti. She knew it now.

She stepped out into the sunny, humid afternoon and quickly surveyed the row of taxicabs and airport shuttles lining the curb. She went with the first driver who approached her, his teeth flashing white against his shiny dark skin as he beamed a welcoming smile at her.

“You look familiar, mademoiselle,” he said, his eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror. “Where you headed to?”

When Lia told him her destination, his face split into a wide grin. “I think President Magliore will be very happy to see you.”

Not as happy as I’ll be to see him, Lia thought with mounting anticipation.

As the taxi cruised through the narrow streets of the bustling port city, she took in the colorful sights and sounds as if it were her first visit to the island. She saw whitewashed buildings flanked by swaying palm trees, sidewalk vendors hawking their wares to tourists, and locals gathered in front of shops and restaurants. She saw exotic masks and costumes, wooden figurines and beaded necklaces on display in storefront windows, and she could hear the pulsing rhythm of steel drums interspersed with the sounds of traffic. The city was gearing up for the Carnival of Port le Duc, the national parade that drew thousands of revelers annually. In a week the island would be engulfed by lively music, elaborate floats and nonstop festivities. Already Lia could feel a difference in the air, in the way people moved, an electric energy and vitality that had been missing during her trip to Muwaiti last year. She knew the changed atmosphere had as much to do with the country’s new leader as the upcoming Carnival celebration.

They left the main thoroughfare and headed down a two-lane highway that hugged steep cliffs overlooking a breathtaking expanse of turquoise ocean. Before long the presidential palace rolled into view, a large estate set against a stunning backdrop of mountains. Nestled by tall palms and painstakingly trimmed bushes that exploded in vibrant profusions of bougainvillea, and featuring steep French windows and columned porticos, the white mansion did not seem austere and uninviting nor excessively lavish. It exuded an air of gracious hospitality that lulled visitors into forgetting that the head of state resided here.

And suddenly Lia realized why. “This isn’t the palace that Alexandre Biassou built,” she said aloud.

The cabdriver smiled at her in the rearview mirror. “Oui. You are correct. This is the original presidential palace, home to every leader we had before the tyrant. President Magliore did not want to reside in Biassou’s fortress. He considered tearing it down, but then he decided to turn it into an orphanage. Now many of the children don’t even want to leave.” He laughed.

Lia smiled, warming with pleasure at Armand’s generosity. A moment later her smile disappeared as they drove past an unmanned security booth and continued up a long cobblestone driveway. They passed acres of manicured green lawn and a stone fountain at the center of the property before coming to a stop at the bottom of a wide, steep staircase.

Lia climbed out of the taxi before the driver could get out and open her door. Her stomach was knotted in a vicious tangle of nerves. She didn’t know what she was going to say or do when she saw Armand. She’d just have to let her heart do the talking.

As the driver removed her suitcase from the trunk, a man she presumed to be the butler emerged from the house and quickly descended the steps. “The president is not expecting any guests today,” he said imperiously. “What is the nature of your visit to the palace, mademoiselle?”

Before Lia could respond, the cabdriver laughed and said, “Look at her, mon. Do you not recognize her?”

The butler squinted at Lia for several moments. As recognition slowly dawned, his eyes widened in surprise. He bowed deferentially and began apologizing. “Forgive me, mademoiselle, I did not know you were coming to Muwaiti. This is such an honor. No one told me to expect—”

“Lia?”

Lia lifted her gaze to the house—and froze. There, standing in the open doorway and staring at her in stunned disbelief, was Armand. Raw emotion swept through her body with such force it brought tears to her eyes and rooted her to the spot.

He stepped from the doorway and started down the steps, his eyes never leaving hers. He looked so good, and decidedly un- presidential, in a black Bob Marley T-shirt and dark jeans that rode low on his hips. President or not, he would always be a renegade. And that was one of the many things she loved about him.

He came to a stop before her, his expression incredulous as he gazed down at her. “What are you doing here?” he whispered hoarsely.

“I…” She had dreamed about him nearly every night for the last six months, and now that he stood less than a foot away from her, words failed her.

Armand just kept staring at her, as if he thought blinking or looking away would cause her to disappear.

They barely noticed as the butler discreetly paid the driver, tipping him generously. It was only when Lia heard the taxi door opening that she broke eye contact with Armand long enough to smile and wave at the friendly cabbie. “Merci beaucoup,” she told him.

He tipped his head, grinning broadly. “Enjoy your stay, mademoiselle. May it be a long one!”

A silent look passed between Lia and Armand. He gently took her hand, then leaned down and retrieved her suitcase, ignoring the butler’s protest. Together they ascended the stairs, their gazes locked on each other.

A small crowd of servants and aides awaited them inside the sweeping elegance of the entrance hall. They were staring at Lia with identical expressions of awed curiosity. Suddenly she felt shy, self-conscious.

Armand handed her suitcase to the butler, then announced, “Everyone, I would like you to meet Miss Lia Charles, from America.” His eyes met hers. “She will be staying with us for a very, very long time.”

Lia’s heart soared.

A loud round of applause filled the room, and as the household staff members bowed and welcomed her with radiant smiles, Lia blinked back tears.

No sooner had the crowd dispersed than she threw her arms around Armand, crushing her mouth to his, kissing him with a blind, hungry desperation she had suppressed for too long. He clutched her tightly to him, his lips ravaging hers, his hands rushing up and down her back.

“I was a fool to let you walk out of my life,” she said in a choked whisper against his mouth. “I’ve been so miserable without you these past six months—so dead inside. I’m so sorry for hurting you!”

He shook his head, brushing tender kisses across her face. “I shouldn’t have pressured you like that. I should have given you more time to decide what you wanted.”

“But I already knew what I wanted,” Lia said tearfully. “I wanted you, but I was too stubborn and afraid to admit it, and I almost lost you.”

Grasping her head in his hands, Armand pressed a hard kiss to her mouth and said huskily, “You could never lose me. I love you. I never stopped.”

“I know,” she said with a wobbly smile. “I saw the interview on television. What you said at the end—I’ve never been so relieved in my life!”

He stared at her in wonder. “I’ve loved you for eight years. Did you think I would get over you in six months?”

“I don’t know.” She lowered her gaze uncertainly. “When I heard about you and Nathalie Seligny—”

“Look at me.” Armand coaxed her chin upward, his eyes tunneling into hers. “Nathalie and I are just friends. That is all we will ever be. You’re the only woman for me, Lia. You’ve ruined me for all others.”

A huge, silly grin spread across her face. “You really have a way with words, Armand Magliore. Or should I call you Mr. President? Or Your Excellency? Or would you prefer Your Royal Highness?”

He laughed and she smiled, her voice gentling. “I’m so proud of you, Armand. You did it. You became president of Muwaiti. I was so ecstatic when I heard!”

“You inspired me,” he said quietly. “That night at the bunker, when you were speaking with such passion, such conviction, about the problems plaguing Muwaiti. It really struck a chord in me, made me realize like never before what needed to be done.”

Pleasure shimmered through her at his words. “Thank you for saying that. But I can’t take all the credit. As I recall, it was your brother, Henri, who urged you to run for president long before I did.”

Armand grinned sheepishly. “Which is another reason why I made him my chief of staff. Maybe, just maybe, I should start taking his advice more often.”

“Maybe.” Lia grinned. “Felicite is going to make a wonderful ambassador. She has the perfect personality for it, and I know she’ll represent Muwaiti well wherever she goes. That is, if her overprotective big brother lets her go anywhere.”

Armand chuckled. “She’s a resident ambassador, which means she will reside here at home. But there will be plenty of opportunities for her to travel abroad. I want to repair our diplomatic relations in the international community. Felicite will help me do that.”

Lia smiled, laying her hand against his cheek. “You’re going to do so many wonderful things for this country—even more than you already have.”

Armand caught her hand and brought it to his mouth, pressing an openmouthed kiss to the center of her palm that made her belly quiver. Holding her gaze, he said, “There’s still much work to be done. I’ve surrounded myself with the best people, but I’m still missing the most important piece. I need you by my side, Lia. I need you to help me lead my countrymen—our countrymen—into the glorious future I promised them. Will you do that?”

Her heart bursting with elation, Lia threw her arms around his neck and kissed him so hungrily there could be no doubt in his mind what her answer was. But just in case it was still unclear, she smiled into his eyes and said, “If you’re asking me to be your first lady, the answer is yes.”

Whooping with delight, Armand lifted her into his arms and swung her around. Lia laughed, wondering if it was possible to be so thoroughly, deliriously happy.

Setting her down gently, his eyes glittering with excitement, Armand began making plans. “You’re going to sit right beside me on the float during next week’s Carnival kickoff parade. I’m going to introduce you to the people of Muwaiti as their soon-to-be first lady.”

His excitement was contagious. Lia smiled at him, even as tears of joy blurred her vision. “How soon are we talking about?”

“Very soon. I can’t wait much longer. And I already know the place, this beautiful old cathedral that overlooks the ocean. It holds almost a thousand, which still won’t be enough for the number of people who’ll want to attend our wedding. If you’d like, we can go look at it tomorrow.”

“I’d like that very much.”

“We can tell my family tonight over dinner. They’re going to be thrilled. They know, better than anyone, how badly I’ve missed you.” He grinned. “At one point they even considered flying to America to convince you to change your mind about me.”

Lia smiled warmly. “You have a wonderful family. I look forward to getting to know them better.”

“They’re going to love you, Lia.”

“I hope so.” She hesitated, biting her bottom lip. “Uh, about the whole mind-reading gift…”

He chuckled softly. “Don’t worry, ma petite. It will be our little secret.”

Lia grinned ruefully. “It’s just that I wouldn’t want them to feel weird around me. I realize it’s hard enough getting to know new in-laws without having to worry about them being able to read your mind. Especially if you’re thinking something like, ‘What the hell does he see in her?’”

Armand laughed. “I don’t think you’d ever have to worry about that, but I understand what you’re saying.” Sobering after a moment, he searched her face. “No regrets about moving away from your parents? Leaving your job?”

Lia gazed at him. “The only regret I would have is not spending the rest of my life with you.”

He took her hand, splaying her fingers across his heart. She didn’t have to read his mind to know what he was telling her. I love you.

“I love you, too,” she mouthed back, and he smiled.

“As for my parents,” she continued, “they’ve already told me that they plan to visit us on a regular basis. I believe their exact words were, ‘Just try to get rid of us.’ And as for my job…well, something tells me I will be very busy as first lady of Muwaiti. And who knows? Maybe one day I’ll open my own international security consulting firm. I’ve always had that in mind as a possible second career after retiring from the Secret Service. And speaking of security,” she said, giving Armand a stern look, “we need to discuss your security plan around here. I was rather alarmed when I arrived this afternoon and saw that no one was manning the security booth.”

Armand chuckled, shaking his head at her. “How’d I know you would have a problem with that?”

She arched a brow, awaiting his explanation.

He sighed in resignation. “Today is Sunday. I like to give the guards the weekends off to spend time with their families. And I’ve never particularly cared for leaders who live in ivory towers and hide behind fortresses. I want to be accessible to my people.”

“I know that, darling. And I understand, believe me, I do. But you have to be practical. You’re president of one of the largest countries in the Caribbean. I know that the people of Muwaiti adore you and would never want to hurt you, but, as I’ve always told you, it’s better to be safe than sorry. No one would begrudge you having round-the-clock security here at the palace. When it comes to your safety, I’d rather not take any unnecessary risks.”

He shook his head, a poignant smile playing about his lips as he looked down at her. “Always my protector, my guardian angel.”

She touched his face. “I almost lost you once. I never want to go through that again.”

Armand held her eyes for a long moment, then sighed. “All right. We can carve out some time tomorrow to review my security detail.”

“Thank you.” Lia gave him a teasing smile. “So you are trainable.”

He smiled softly, stroking a hand over her hair. “Only for you.” He ran an appreciative gaze over her, taking in her short, breezy skirt and strappy high-heeled sandals. “God, you look incredible. I’ve never seen you in a skirt and heels before. And your hair is down, just the way I like it.”

“I know,” Lia said demurely. “I did it just for you. And sometime tonight, when everyone else has gone to sleep, I’m going to sneak into your bedroom suite and do everything I’ve dreamed of doing to you for the last six months.”

Armand groaned, his eyes darkening with desire as he sank his fingers into her hair and tipped her head back. “Don’t tempt me, woman,” he growled, nuzzling her throat. “If you knew how badly I’ve wanted to carry you upstairs and make love to you ever since you arrived, you wouldn’t tease me like that.”

Lia smiled, shivering at his touch and the deep, seductive timbre of his voice that sent heat curling through her blood. She’d never stood a chance of resisting this man. She’d been thoroughly seduced—mind, body and soul.

“Armand?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“Thank you for holding on all those years. Thank you for waiting.”

He lifted his head and looked at her. All the adoration in his heart was evident in his intense gaze. “You were more than worth the wait,” he said huskily.

Their lips met in a deep, searing kiss that left them both trembling in anticipation of the night ahead, and the many nights to come.

As they drew apart, Armand gave her a tender smile and held out his arm to her. “Come. Let me give you a tour of your new home.”

Lia’s eyes misted as she stared at him. Home, she silently marveled. With Armand. She could hardly believe it. After a lifetime of feeling lonely and alienated from others because of her psychic gift, she had finally found love and unconditional acceptance in someone other than her parents. She had found someone with whom she could share her triumphs and fears, her hopes and her dreams. Someone who would cherish her, nurture her, protect her as fiercely as she would him. She had found someone to share her life with.

As far as she was concerned, that was the only gift she would ever need.

Smiling into his eyes, she slipped her arm through his, and together they started off, walking into their new life as one.

ISBN: 978-1-4268-2188-2

SECRET AGENT SEDUCTION

Copyright © 2008 by Maureen Smith

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