BLIND INSTINCT

FIONA BRAND

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For Marion.

The very best of friends.

Thank you to Jenny Haddon, a former bank

regulator, for her invaluable advice about the world

of international banking; Pauline Autet, for help

with the French language;

Claire Russell of the Kerikeri Medical Centre,

for help with the medical details;

Robyn Kingston, for lending me two wonderful

books about spies and codes;

and Tim and Simon Walker, for supplying

ballistics and WWII military information.

Thank you also to Miranda Stecyk for her

professionalism and help with this trilogy.

Prologue

France, 1943

The drone of a Liberator B-24 bomber broke the silence of the forested hills and valleys that flowed like a dark blanket to the Langres Plateau. The plane dipped below ragged clouds that partially obscured the light of a full moon. Below, bonfires pinpointed the drop zone and a light flashed from the edge of the thick pine forest.

Morse code for “zero.” The agreed signal.

The engine note deepened as the American aircraft banked and turned to make its drop. A pale shape bloomed against the night sky, growing larger as it floated to earth.

Icy air burned Marc Cavanaugh’s lungs as he stripped a leather glove from his right hand. Unfastening a flap pocket, he extracted a magazine for the Sten submachine gun that was slung across his chest and slotted it into place.

Fingers already numbed by the cold, he jerked on the parachute cords, steering himself toward the flashing pinpoint of light. He studied the thick swath of forest from which the signal had originated, the stretch of open country below—a plowed field bare of crops. As he lost altitude, detail rushed at him: a tree, wind-blasted and skeletal; a rock wall snaking across ground plowed into neat furrows; the glitter of frost.

Shadows flowed across the field. Jacques de Vallois’s men—he hoped.

Marc jerked on the cords, slowing and controlling his descent then braced for landing. Seconds later, he unlatched the harness and shrugged out of the straps. Stepping away from the distracting brightness of the chute, he dropped into a crouch, the Sten pointed in the direction of a flickering shadow to his right.

“Benis soient les doux.”

Blessed are the meek.

Cavanaugh let the muzzle of the gun drop, but only fractionally. “Car ils hériteront de la terre.”

For they shall inherit the earth.

“De Vallois.”

White teeth flashed and metal gleamed as de Vallois lowered a Schmeisser MP40. “At your service.”

A brief handshake later, de Vallois barked orders at his men. A former attaché of de Gaulle, de Vallois was formidably skilled in clandestine operations. One of the architects of the French Resistance, he had worked tirelessly refining their systems and training recruits. It was unlikely that his efforts would be fully recognized during his lifetime, but de Vallois’s determination was unshaken. He lived for la France, and he would die for her.

De Vallois said something in rapid French. With economical movements, two of his men gathered up the chute, which glowed with a ghostly incandescence. Within minutes the field was clear, the bonfires doused.

De Vallois jerked his head. “Allons-y!” Let’s go.

Seconds later they were beneath the cover of the pines.

The parachute was buried in a hole that had been previously dug and the disturbed ground was covered over with a thick scattering of pine needles. As high a price as the silk would command in Lyon or Dijon, the risk of being searched while transporting the parachute was too high and de Vallois’s men too valuable to risk. With the recent incarceration and execution of key Resistance figures, Himmler’s SS and the Geheime Staats Polizei—the Gestapo—were actively hunting insurgents and traitors against the Nazi Regime.

Half an hour later, they walked free of the trees and stepped onto a stony track. De Vallois checked his watch, then signaled them off the road.

Lights swept across the bare fields. An armored truck rumbled past.

Long minutes passed. De Vallois grunted. “Come. That is the last patrol of the night. Even the SS have to sleep.”

Marc stepped up onto the road. The cloud cover had broken up, leaving the night even colder and very clear. Moonlight illuminated the barren fields and a stark avenue of pines.

Jacques grinned at the exposure. “Don’t worry—my information is exact. My people understand that many lives are at stake.”

A truck, its headlights doused, cruised out of a side road and halted beside them. Jacques opened the passenger door and gestured for Marc to climb in. “The only thing I can’t guard against is a traitor.”

One

Shreveport, Louisiana, 1981.

Mae Fischer flicked on her bedside lamp and shook her husband’s shoulder, the pressure urgent.

Ben’s eyes flipped open, instantly alert. “She’s sleepwalking again.”

“And talking.”

“Damn.” He thrust out of bed in time to see his seven-year-old daughter, Sara, dressed in pink flannel pajamas, her long, dark braid trailing down her spine, drift past his bedroom door. He walked out onto the landing as she came to a halt alongside the landing rail, staring fixedly at something only she could see.

Since the phenomenon had started several months ago, they had blocked off the stairs with the wooden gate they had used for her when she was tiny. There was no danger of her falling down the stairs, but he lived in fear that she would either climb the gate or fall over the landing rail. The drop to the hardwood floor below was a good twelve feet. At the very least, she would break bones.

She unlocked an invisible door, stepped “inside” and knelt down. He watched, resisting the urge to shake her awake or simply scoop her up and carry her back to bed.

Their family doctor had warned them against waking her suddenly. Apparently the shock could be dangerous. A specialist, Dr. Dolinski, had seconded the opinion. Ben wasn’t certain what dangerous meant, exactly, but he had assumed Dolinski was talking about physical shock, maybe even a seizure of some kind.

Mae seemed to have even less understanding of her daughter’s condition than Ben did. At times, she was actively frightened by Sara’s episodes which was why, confused as he was by what was happening to his daughter, he had taken over dealing with the situation.

Soft lamplight poured from the bedroom as he crouched down beside her. The blank expression on her face and the intensity of her gaze sent a shaft of fear through him. “Sara, honey, you can wake up now. It’s only a dream.”

Talk softly, and keep talking. Bring her back slow, that had been Dolinski’s advice. Don’t do anything that might jolt her out of that state.

His heart squeezed tight as he watched her repeat actions he had seen her do a number of times. Her movements were smooth and precise as she reached into some invisible cupboard, pulled out an invisible book and leafed through to a page. When she was finished, she replaced the book, locked the cabinet, pushed to her feet, walked a few steps, then appeared to close another door and lock it. She placed the “keys” she had used on what he had decided was an imaginary shelf, a part of the landscape she had created on the landing that must be, to her, as solid and real as the walls and rooms of this house.

She paused and stared in the direction of her room, a sharp, adult expression on her face. For a split second he had the unnerving impression that he was looking at someone else, not his daughter. The notion made him go cold inside as she drifted back in the direction of her room.

But crazy as her actions seemed, he didn’t think Sara was suffering from a personality disorder. He recognized what she was doing, and she repeated the same actions over and over again.

His theory, developed over months of observation, was even crazier than Dolinski’s. To most people—civilians—what was happening to Sara was simply weird, but to Ben, an ex-Naval officer, the actions formed a familiar pattern. Sara’s symptoms pointed to a particular diagnosis that shouldn’t have affected a seven-year-old child.

His father had suffered battle fatigue after the Second World War, and Ben himself had seen and heard about enough cases firsthand. For the past few months he had done extensive research on the effects of posttraumatic stress syndrome. He had talked to old soldiers and visited veteran’s hospitals. It wasn’t unusual for soldiers to relive battles in their dreams, night after night, going over and over the same incident, as if the scene had been burned so deeply into their minds that they couldn’t forget or move past it.

He’d had his own share of posttraumatic stress syndrome after the Gulf War. Sleepwalking was rare, but there were documented cases.

He shadowed Sara as she made an invisible turn, his attention sharpening. This was something new.

He watched as she shrugged into an invisible coat and wound what seemed to be a scarf around her throat. Her head came up and the remote expression on her face turned to terror.

“Rouge.”

He frowned. “Sara?”

She looked directly at him, her gaze once more sharply adult, but he had the distinct impression that she didn’t register him; she was looking at another face.

She spoke clearly and precisely. The content and the language she used—German—chilled him. A name registered: Stein.

He watched as she unwound the invisible scarf. “Who is Stein?”

Her face went blank, and for a moment he thought she wasn’t going to answer. The technique of trying to enter into the dream, to defuse the grip it held on his daughter, had so far proved spectacularly unsuccessful. It seemed that when she dreamed she was literally locked into another world and, short of physically intervening by shaking her awake, he couldn’t reach her.

She fixed him with an eerie gaze. “Stein?” she said in a coldly accented voice that shook him to the core. “Geheime Staats Polizei.”

All the fine hairs at the back of his neck lifted. Sara was his daughter; he loved her fiercely, and yet, in that moment she was not, by any stretch of the imagination, his cute, lovable little girl.

“Stein’s dead,” he said softly. “You don’t have to worry about him anymore. The war’s over. We won.”

He kept talking, relating what his own father had told him about the Second World War, emphasizing several times that the Allies had won. It had hurt, it still hurt, but they were okay now. They would never let the mistakes that had led to the horror of the Second World War be repeated.

He didn’t know if what he was saying was penetrating the world she was locked into, or if he was making any sense, because talking to Sara as if she had actually been there didn’t make any kind of sense. But if even a fragment got through, it could help.

She blinked, and the terrible tension left her face. She stared at him, the dream Sara abruptly there, with him, her gaze incisive. For the first time, he had the impression that he was finally making headway, even if this uncanny “grownup” Sara still shook him.

Dolinski had mentioned the possibility of multiple personalities, but Ben had never been prepared to believe that. His daughter was tall for her age, already strong willed and with a sharp intelligence. Today, she had spent most of the afternoon down at the swimming hole with her cousin, Steve, and the Bayard kid who had moved in next door. Sara had been calling the shots, and that was typical. She had a natural knack for organization and command. To him, the “sleep” personality was recognizably Sara.

“Did you hear what she said?”

“Not now, Mae,” Ben said calmly, his gaze still locked on Sara’s, but the high pitch of Mae’s voice had shattered the fragile bridge he’d built. He had been so close—

Sara blinked at him, in an instant shifting from eerily self-possessed to sleepy and bewildered. “Did I walk again?”

The fear in her eyes tugged at his heart. He scooped her up, walked to her room and placed her in her bed. “Just a little, but it’s okay. I got you, honey. It’s over now.”

Sara’s gaze clung to his as he tucked her in, taking her through the comforting bedtime routine, even though it was after midnight. He didn’t know how much of the experiences she retained. Before tonight he would have said none, but now he wasn’t so sure. Something had changed in that moment he had made contact with her inner world. He had thought about the contact as a bridge. If that was the case, then he had finally made a start at crossing it and maybe neutralizing whatever it was that was upsetting her.

“What’s Geheime Staa—” She frowned. “I said that, didn’t I? When I was sleepwalking.”

“It doesn’t matter, honey. It was just a dream.” He gripped her hand and gently squeezed it. “This is what matters, this is real.”

But he was beginning to think they had a bigger problem than Dolinski had outlined in his reports. He was no longer certain the therapy sessions were helping. Building a bridge to the core of the stress that created the behavior was all very well, but he would prefer that Sara forgot whatever it was that was upsetting her.

Ben sat on the edge of the bed, keeping a watch on his daughter to make sure it was over. Within minutes her eyelids drooped and she sank into an exhausted sleep.

Mae had gone back to bed. He should follow her, but even if he climbed between the sheets, he didn’t know if he could sleep.

Sara was a highly intelligent, creative child. After extensive physical and mental testing, Dolinski was convinced she was suffering from some kind of mental stress that had been brought on by an event that had made a shocking and indelible impression. Perhaps a graphic scene witnessed on television at a time when she was feeling especially vulnerable, or even in real life. Unable to cope with what she had seen, her mind had sublimated the event and the sleepwalking occurred when fragments kept surfacing in dreams.

According to Dolinski, dreams were a “safe” level to process unpalatable information, or create an acceptable context for an event, so the mind could absorb the information and move on. In his opinion, as upsetting as Sara’s symptoms were, they would fade with time. Young children were mentally tougher than most people gave them credit for—they bounced back when adults crumbled. He could see no reason why Sara should be the exception to the rule.

Ben had been happy to go along with Dolinski’s optimism. His explanations had seemed logical and scientific, and they had been backed by several impressive diplomas on his office wall. Now he was forced to revise that opinion.

He was no authority on mental disorders—or, for that matter, psychic phenomena. But over the past few months, he had read exhaustively on both subjects. As difficult to understand as many of the mental conditions were, at least they seemed to have identifiable causes and were researched and presented in a logical, scientific manner. Most of the material in books on psychic phenomena had been presented with a distinct lack of methodology or any kind of scientific or logical grounding.

As open as he had tried to keep his mind, he’d had difficulty buying into theories that seemed as wild and crackpot as some of the psychic conditions described. But a certain category of “cases” had uncannily mirrored what was happening to Sara.

Past-life memories.

He hadn’t mentioned the concept to Mae.

Getting his head around the idea that Sara could have lived a previous life, and that the memories of that life were filtering into this one, made him feel like a crackpot. But for her sake, he had to open his mind to possibilities that he would normally dismiss.

First fact: she was seven years old and she could speak French and German—two languages in which she had received no formal instruction. Ben knew a smattering of both of those languages from his time in the Navy, enough to conduct some basic conversation. But even allowing for the fact that Sara could have picked up a little of either language from other kids at school, she shouldn’t be capable of the sophisticated syntax she had used while sleepwalking. And if she could speak a small amount of French and German, why hadn’t they ever heard her doing so while she was awake?

Secondly, any normal American kid mentioning Germany’s historic secret police would have used the popular term Gestapo, if they had known about it at all, not the full name, Geheime Staats Polizei.

Thirdly, when Sara was sleepwalking, Ben had the distinct impression that she was not a child. Her actions were smooth, controlled and precise, the expression on her face chillingly adult.

In his mind, those three facts added up to the kind of proof no one would believe—certainly not Dolinski.

Ben was convinced his seven-year-old daughter wasn’t mentally unstable and that she hadn’t witnessed a shocking event either at home or at school. However, he did believe she was suffering from posttraumatic stress syndrome— but from another place, and another time.

Specifically, occupied France in the Second World War.

Her eyes flipped open, disconcerting him. “I don’t want to be like this, Daddy.”

He let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding. Her voice was normal, her expression that of a child. The sharp, incipient Sara who had lifted all the hairs at his nape and upset Mae wasn’t in evidence. “Then don’t be, honey. Just tell yourself, ‘I’m Sara Fischer, I’m seven years old, and the only place I have ever lived is Shreveport, Louisiana.’ Repeat it after me, then when you go back to sleep it’ll be true.”

“What if it isn’t?”

“You have to make it happen—inside your head. Remember what Dr. Dolinski said? Whenever you’re frightened, just tell yourself not to have the dreams.”

“I like the way you say it better. I’ll do that.”

The crispness of her decision was disconcertingly close to her sleepwalking voice. “Do you ever remember any of the dreams?”

She turned her head on the pillow, and he realized she was checking to make sure Mae wasn’t in the room or lurking at the door. “Sometimes.”

His chest tightened. This was the first time she had admitted that she remembered anything, and the reason was obvious. Mae’s reaction, and probably the visits to Dolinski, had frightened her. “What are you doing when you kneel down and reach into the cupboard?”

“Getting the book. I have to get words, but only one word at a time.”

“Can you remember what the book is?”

She shook her head.

So, okay, not too detailed. He didn’t know whether that was a blessing or not. But like it or not, the “memories,” if that was what they were, had already changed Sara, and he was very much afraid that they were here to stay.

Abruptly his mind was clear. He had tried Dolinski’s method for long enough and it wasn’t easing the situation. In fact, he was certain the “bridging” tactic was making the dreams more acute. From now on he was going to do this his way. He would teach her a technique he had learned during his years of active service in the Gulf. The technique was straight-down-the-line-simple. He was going to teach Sara how to forget.

Two

Shreveport, eleven years later

Sara Fischer hooked her handbag over her shoulder, dried her hands and paused at the nightclub’s washroom counter to check her makeup and her hair.

She frowned at a face that was faintly exotic and sophisticated, and subtly not her, courtesy of the makeover her mother had given her as an eighteenth birthday gift.

Mae Fischer adored shopping, lunching and parties. The fact that Sara would rather take long solitary walks or bury her head in a book was incomprehensible to her mother. The harder Mae worked to break Sara out of what she called “her shell,” the more Sara resisted. They were mother and daughter and they loved one another, but they were like chalk and cheese. Sara was far more comfortable with her father’s company and his quiet acceptance of the way she was.

She made her way back to the table she occupied with her cousin Steve, his latest girlfriend, Cherie and Marc Bayard, Steve’s best friend, who was back from Baton Rouge for the weekend. Steve and Cherie were absent from the table, which meant they were part of the raucous, gyrating crowd on the dance floor, leaving her alone with Bayard—alone as anyone could be in a nightclub packed to capacity.

Bayard got to his feet, towering over her as he pulled out her chair. A familiar tension locked her jaw as she sat down. She had known Bayard for years, although they didn’t often cross paths now. He was two years older, from an old and extremely wealthy “cotton” family.

A law student at LSU, and on the college football team, by definition, he was popular. The fact that he was also tall and dark, with the signature Bayard good looks—dark eyes, chiseled cheekbones and tough jaw—and that she’d had a crush on him since he had moved next door when she was seven, didn’t make him any easier to be with. Steve’s idea of a blind date as a birthday gift couldn’t have gone more horribly wrong.

“Would you like to dance?”

Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. She was certain Bayard had a steady girlfriend and that he should be with her rather than here on a mercy date. “To be honest, I’d like to go home.”

“Stay here a minute, I’ll tell Steve we’re leaving.”

“No, wait. I can get a cab.”

But he had already gone. Seconds later he was back. Looping the strap of her bag over her shoulder, she rose to her feet. His fingers slid through hers, the contact unexpected and faintly shocking as he pulled her through the crowd. When they stepped outside, he didn’t relinquish his hold. Instead of heading for the parking garage, he pulled her in the direction of the river. “Let’s walk for a few minutes. I need to clear my head.”

A cold breeze straight off the water sifted through her hair and sent a damp chill sliding over her skin. Mist swirled, curling up and over the bank to lie in drifts across the road, muting the syncopated flash of casino lights.

“Cold?” Seconds later, his leather jacket dropped around her shoulders.

A small shudder at the transition from cold to blazing warmth went through her. The old saying, Someone is walking over my grave, ran through her mind.

She pulled the lapels of the jacket together, both relieved and irrationally disappointed that Bayard was no longer holding her hand. That presupposed that she had wanted him to hold her hand, and there was no way she was going there. She wasn’t big on setting herself up for a fall.

She’d had boyfriends, although no one she had wanted to get too up-close-and-personal with. Her mother worried that she was emotionally cold. Sara had another theory. When it came to men and relationships, she was naturally reserved, but she wasn’t without feelings. She liked the men she dated; she just didn’t love them. The people she did love—the members of her family—she loved fiercely and without reserve. One day she would fall in love and that would be it; she would have chosen her mate. Until that moment happened, if she couldn’t drum up any enthusiasm for her dates, she wasn’t going to worry about it.

Bayard slowed, then came to a halt on a small footbridge that led into a picnic area. When she stopped beside him, his long fingers curled into the lapels of the jacket. His dark eyes fastened on hers as he pulled her loosely against him. “If you don’t want this, just say so.”

As his head dipped, her stomach lurched. A kiss: she had not seen that coming.

She stared at his mouth and panic hit. If he kissed her they would cross a line, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to go there. As frustrating as her crush on Bayard was, at least it was controllable, and safe. “Did Steve put you up to this?”

A high-pitched scream jerked his head around. He said something short and succinct. “Wait here.”

Two youths—one with long, greasy blond hair, an iron bar held in a two-handed grip, the other shorter, with dark hair, holding a knife—had backed two young women up against a park bench.

Bayard grabbed the one with the iron bar, knocked the bar out of his hand and flung him to the ground. The guy with the knife wheeled, spitting abuse. The two young women scrabbled for their purses, which had fallen to the ground, and ran toward a lighted parking lot.

Sara watched, heart in her mouth, as the knife wove through the air. Another figure darted out of the cover of a clump of trees. Adrenaline pumped, Bayard was easily strong enough to take on two attackers, but not three, and the knife tilted the odds against him.

Without thinking, she darted forward, letting the jacket slide from her shoulders, and grabbed the iron bar. Bayard spun, his gaze locked with hers for a split second. A blow from the blond guy, who had pushed to his feet, caught him on the jaw, rocking his head back. The knife arced and for a dizzying moment time seemed to stop. Emotion roared through her. The iron bar chopped down on the knife-wielding thug’s arm, the shock of the blow numbing her fingers. The bar spun away. Fingers closed in her hair, jerking her sideways. A split second later, her attacker was on the ground. Bayard had laid him out with one well-timed punch.

The short, dark guy had disappeared. The third youth, a carbon copy of the greasy blond, jerked his friend to his feet. Within seconds they had melted into the trees.

Bayard picked up the knife and tossed it into a nearby trash can, his dark eyes glittering. “You should have stayed out of it. You could have been hurt.”

“What I did worked out.” She massaged her scalp, which was stinging. Her head felt weird, throbbing and heavy.

“You are hurt.”

She glanced down, saw the dark stain on her side, and registered that she was bleeding.

Bayard dragged the flimsy silk top up. Reaction shivered through her as he probed the cut across her midriff. Now that she knew it was there, the stinging pain made her eyes water.

“It’s long, but it’s just a scratch. You won’t need stitches, but you’ll probably end up with a scar.” He shrugged out of his shirt, and folded it into a pad. “Is your tetanus shot up to date?”

“I had one last year when I cut my foot swimming in the river.”

The sweet scent of blood filled her nostrils. Bayard’s warmth swamped her as he tied the makeshift bandage around her waist. Her eyes squeezed shut as the pressure in her head tightened another notch.

Icy water flowing. Rank upon rank of dark pines.

Cavanaugh…bandaging the deepest cuts. Then they were moving, skirting tracts of open land that glowed, stark and bare beneath the moon. Cavanaugh babying her along, his arm around her waist—

Not Cavanaugh…Bayard.

Her eyes popped open again. She stared at Bayard, the moment of recognition shocking in its intensity.

Bayard frowned. “Who?”

It registered that she must have said the name, Cavanaugh, out loud. She blinked, shaking off the weird, shifting sense of déjà vu, the clinging tendrils of that dreamworld.

“Damn. Steve said you weren’t dating.”

His hands closed on her hips, his mouth brushed hers, clung, and the memories evaporated in a raw surge of heat.

Sound burst from her throat, smothered and urgent. Her fingers dug into the smooth pliant muscle of his shoulders. Her breasts were flattened against his chest. She could feel the firm shape of his arousal pressing into her belly. One hand gripped her nape, the other cupped her bottom, uncomplicatedly carnal. He hauled her hard against him, and the concept that she was emotionally cold and incapable of feeling passion dissolved in a white-hot flash.

Her arms closed convulsively around his neck. A split second later she was off the ground, her feet dangling, the short skirt pushed up around her hips. A short, sharp shock went through her as she felt Bayard, hot and heavy, between her legs. The constraints of his jeans and her panties aside, if he got any closer they would be making love.

His mouth lifted, sank again, taking her under. She gasped for air, breathing in his heat, his scent. She felt as if she was drowning, dying…

Cold, pure air, burned her lungs. Harsh light bounced off towering peaks. Numbing pain, like a vise crushing her chest.

A detonation, echoing…

Shock spasmed through her. She jerked free, stumbling back a step. Bayard’s fingers closed around her arms. If he hadn’t grabbed her, she would have fallen.

“What’s wrong? What is it? Was I hurting you?”

“No.”

Yes.

She had died.

Her heart was pounding. On an intellectual level, she knew that if she had memories of a previous life, then of course she had to have died. How else could she be here now? But in all the time she had dreamed and remembered shadowy, insubstantial fragments of that past life she had never remembered the moment of her death.

Nausea rose at the back of her throat. She pushed free, needing the distance. With shaky fingers she smoothed her skirt down around her thighs. Her mouth felt swollen. She could still taste Bayard; her body was throbbing. But the emotion was somehow entwined with the memory of her death.

She couldn’t say, “I remember you, but not from here, now.”

The phenomenon had stopped, years ago, when she was twelve.

The year Bayard had gone away to boarding school.

Comprehension hit. The answer so simple she wondered she hadn’t seen it before. The dreams had started when she was seven. The year the Bayard family had moved into the big house next door. In that first year, Steve, who lived less than a mile away, and Marc had become inseparable, and Marc Bayard had become a part of the Fischer family. Until he had turned twelve and gone away to boarding school in Baton Rouge.

Ever since then she had been normal. The memories, the visits to specialists, had become a part of her past. She had almost forgotten them, and she had needed to forget.

Now, Bayard had walked back into her life and suddenly she was remembering again. And more sharply, more distinctly.

She dragged her gaze from Bayard’s jaw and the memory of that hot, crazy kiss. His face was shuttered; he probably thought she was insane. She had lost count of the number of times she had considered the possibility herself. There was no way he wouldn’t have heard at least the basic details of her illness. Living in such close proximity, it was a cast-iron certainty that Mae Fischer had shared her worries with Mariel Bayard.

“Sara—” Bayard reached for her hand.

She evaded his grip on the pretext that she needed to retrieve his jacket. She bent and picked up the buttery soft leather, wincing as the cut throbbed. “You’d better have your jacket back.”

She pressed her hand to her side where blood was leaking through the makeshift bandage.

Bayard draped the leather jacket over her shoulders. “You need it more than I do.”

The fleeting pressure of his touch, his clean masculine scent enfolding her, was a reminder of what they had been doing just minutes ago, and how close she had come to more. A part of her still craved him, which was doubly crazy. She stepped away, pointedly avoiding any further contact.

His gaze was remote. “It’s all right, I won’t touch you.”

That’s right, don’t touch me. Don’t come within a mile of me.

It had taken her years to recover from the dreams, the horror that had pushed through into her life. She still had trouble with the night, and sleeping.

She wanted Bayard, but she couldn’t allow him near her again. She couldn’t afford him.

The trip home was awkward. The evening was mild, but she couldn’t get warm despite the jacket and the heater switched on. Half an hour later, Bayard dropped her back at her house. He waited until she made it to the porch and stepped inside the front hall before reversing and heading down the drive.

Cavanaugh.

The stark moment of recognition shivered through her again.

She had remembered Bayard. That fact alone was stunning. If someone from that previous life was going to be in her life now, why wasn’t it someone like her parents or Steve?

She watched until the sweep of Bayard’s headlights disappeared. She didn’t know anyone by the name of Cavanaugh, although she was sure that if she checked the phone book, she would find a long list. Not that she was going to do that. As far as she was concerned the past was the past and it could stay there; she didn’t want it in either her present or her future.

She was Sara Fischer in this life, but in the Second World War she knew with flat certainty that she had been someone else—an English spy called Sara Weiss. Beyond that basic recall, and the blurred memories of dreams, she didn’t have many concrete details. By the age of eight, annoyed by the disruptive effect of Dr. Dolinsky’s tactics, her father had taught her what he had termed “applied amnesia.” In effect, how to dismiss and forget the dreams. For several weeks every time she woke from a dream, her father had instantly distracted her by reading her chapters of a novel until she fell asleep. By the time they had worked their way through the full set of a popular series of children’s mysteries, she had learned the knack of not thinking about the dreams. Without the strong link created by repeatedly recalling the dreams, or talking about them, they had literally dissolved so that, if she thought of them at all, all she remembered was that she had dreamed, not the content.

Her father didn’t know it, and he wouldn’t be happy if she told him, but she had made some enquiries about Sara Weiss, and found that she had existed, the daughter of a German businessman and a Frenchwoman, who had been resident in England. She had died in 1943, although she hadn’t ever been able to find any details about her death.

Finding out that Sara Weiss had existed had been a jolt. Up until that point, the idea that she was remembering actual events had been a purely cerebral reality, with no grounding in fact.

She had conducted a search on the Internet. Seeing the name listed in black and white, the details of a life that uncannily mirrored her own in terms of interests and education, then discovering that Sara Weiss had died while in her early thirties, had shaken her.

Somewhere there would be a grave. Proof of a life lived and lost. A life that still lingered on in her mind.

Accepting that reality was difficult enough. Being confronted with a physical link to that past in the form of Bayard was a complication she didn’t need.

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