Only an idiot would have kissed the stubborn scientist…

And maybe Frank was. What had he been thinking? This was no romantic tryst, but a serious situation. Not that romance was his specialty, anyway. Every man had deficiencies, and that happened to be his.

Realizing she hadn’t budged from her precarious spot on the edge of the slope, he cursed. He had to get her down. “What are you waiting for?”

“For hell to freeze over!” she yelled back in a very unladylike manner.

“Consider it frozen! Don’t make me come up there, C.J., or so help me—”

“What? What is it you’ll do to me?”

He heard the panic in her voice, and thought quickly of how he could defuse it. “I’ll kiss you again! Only I won’t stop there—I’ll touch you in places you didn’t know you had. Before I’m through, you’ll be begging me to make love to you!”

Dear Harlequin Intrigue Reader,

What’s bigger than Texas…? Montana! This month, Harlequin Intrigue takes you deep undercover to the offices of MONTANA CONFIDENTIAL. You loved the series when it first premiered in the Lone Star State, so we’ve created a brand-new set of sexy cowboy agents for you farther north in Big Sky country. Patricia Rosemoor gets things started in Someone To Protect Her. Three more installments follow—and I can assure you, you won’t want to miss one!

Amanda Stevens concludes her dramatic EDEN’S CHILDREN miniseries with The Forgiven. All comes full circle in this redemptive story that reunites mother and child.

What would you do if your “wife” came back from the dead? Look for In His Wife’s Name for the answer. In a very compelling scenario, Joyce Sullivan explores the consequences of a hidden identity and a desperate search for the truth.

Rounding out the month is the companion story to Harper Allen’s miniseries THE AVENGERS. Sullivan’s Last Stand, like its counterpart Guarding Jane Doe, is a deeply emotional story about a soldier of fortune and his dedication to duty. Be sure to pick up both titles by this exceptional new author.

Cowboys, cops—action, drama…it’s just another month of terrific romantic suspense from Harlequin Intrigue.

Happy reading!

Sincerely,

Denise O’Sullivan

Associate Senior Editor

Harlequin Intrigue

Someone to Protect Her

Patricia Rosemoor

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Patricia Rosemoor is the recipient of the 1997 Career Achievement Award in Romantic Suspense from Romantic Times Magazine. To research her novels, Patricia is willing to swim with dolphins, round up mustangs or howl with wolves…. “Whatever it takes to write a credible tale.” She even went to jail for a day—as a guest of Cook County—to research a proposal. Ms. Rosemoor holds a Master of Television degree and a B.A. degree in American literature from the University of Illinois. She lives in Chicago with her husband, Edward, and their three cats.

Books by Patricia Rosemoor

HARLEQUIN INTRIGUE

38—DOUBLE IMAGES

55—DANGEROUS ILLUSIONS

74—DEATH SPIRAL

81—CRIMSON HOLIDAY

95—AMBUSHED

113—DO UNTO OTHERS

121—TICKET TO NOWHERE

161—PUSHED TO THE LIMIT

163—SQUARING ACCOUNTS

165—NO HOLDS BARRED

199—THE KISS OF DEATH

219—TORCH JOB

243—DEAD HEAT

250—HAUNTED

283—SILENT SEA

291—CRIMSON NIGHTMARE

317—DROP DEAD GORGEOUS

346—THE DESPERADO

361—LUCKY DEVIL

382—SEE ME IN YOUR DREAMS*

386—TELL ME NO LIES*

390—TOUCH ME IN THE DARK*

439—BEFORE THE FALL

451—AFTER THE DARK

483—NEVER CRY WOLF*

499—A LOVER AWAITS

530—COWBOY JUSTICE

559—HEART OF A LAWMAN†

563—THE LONE WOLF’S CHILD†

567—A RANCHER’S VOW†

629—SOMEONE TO PROTECT HER

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Frank Connolly—The former military pilot vows to protect his charge with his life.

C. J. Birch—The brilliant scientist is knowledgeable about everything but men.

Gilad—The mercenary’s mission is to convert or kill C.J. His reputation is on the line, and he has never failed yet.

Jewel McMurty—The adolescent experiences the pangs of first love for Frank.

Daniel Austin—The Montana Confidential team leader is faced with stopping danger from several directions at once.

Knowing nothing about planes, flying or transporting horses by air when I started this book, I must give credit to those who gave me the information I needed to select the correct plane that could both transport horses and land in the mountains and to write a realistic controlled crash.

Thanks to writers Vickie Spears, Cassandra Blizzard, Mary Adamski and Harriet Robbins Ackert. To pilot Clifford Wells and his wife, D.J. And to horse transporter Carl Webster.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Prologue

The photograph didn’t do her justice.

He studied the woman hiding behind the too-big lab coat and glasses. Innocent and unsuspecting, she was standing before the building nestled into the Rocky Mountain foothills, shading her eyes against the brilliant Colorado sun as if she were looking for someone.

Him?

He imagined her letting go of her too-obvious inhibitions, letting down her hair and begging him to thread his fingers through the honey-blond strands. He could almost see her throwing back her head and arching her long, elegant throat in invitation.

He chuckled…merely a way to amuse himself while waiting. Nothing got in the way of business—neither the job he was being paid for or his own agenda.

He ran a forefinger over the photograph. “The subject is in view.”

“She doesn’t see you watching her, does she?” came the hollow voice through his headset.

Keeping himself from turning off the cell phone clipped to his belt in irritated response, he clenched his jaw and said, “I’m invisible.”

“Invisible” being one of his specialties, the reason he had been hired.

At the moment, he was camouflaged behind the handicapped card dangling from his rearview mirror. Physically fit people avoided looking at those with disabilities, as if the condition were contagious. And the card was his invitation to a parking spot right near the entrance of the National Center for Aquatic Research, where British scientist C. J. Birch worked.

For the moment, anyway.

“What is she doing?”

Other than taking a candy bar from her pocket and breaking off a chunk of chocolate?

“Leaving the premises, I assume.”

“Well, don’t let her get away!”

Watching the chocolate disappear into her full, unpainted mouth made him stir in his seat.

He could take her here. Now. Right from under the noses of the unsuspecting employees who threaded the grounds. But that might call attention to himself, the last thing he wanted.

Besides, he had a personal debt to collect and this situation would give him the opportunity for which he’d been waiting.

Two men, also in lab coats, exited the building and stopped to talk to the woman. Had she been waiting for them? It seemed so when they all started for the parking lot together.

“She won’t get away from me,” he murmured more to himself than to his contact. “She’s not alone now, but I’ll find the right moment to get to her and soon.”

“How soon—”

“I’ll let you know when I have her.”

Ripping the headset from his ears, he turned off the cell phone and cut the connection before the impatient man could make any more ridiculous demands.

He turned the key in the ignition. The engine hummed to life and his vehicle quietly slid from its spot to stalk her.

The woman was walking with the men and yet not, he noticed. She kept to one side of the pair and left a gap that bespoke volumes about her comfort zone with the opposite sex. An incentive—like any predator, he enjoyed playing with his prey before consuming it.

He was a professional, hired but not hurting for money, not needing the work. What he needed—demanded—was stimulation. Excitement. A challenge. Something clever to add to the mystique of his reputation.

He never duplicated a job.

Never failed, either.

Never.

Chapter One

“Gran told me you’re originally from South Dakota, not Montana. How come you didn’t say so? What about your family?” Jewel McMurty asked in her rapid-fire style. “You don’t have a wife and kids, do you?”

The twelve-year-old’s bright green eyes pinned Frank Connolly as he washed the dust from a chestnut quarter horse named Sierra Sunrise, who’d topped his racing career at more than a million dollars in winnings. Now the lucky devil would be standing at stud, getting his chance with a different vixen or two on a daily basis.

“Just a brother. He’s the one with the wife and kids. And his own ranch.”

“So why aren’t you there?”

“Got a job to do.” Ostensibly to work with the horses on Lonesome Pony, though his real job as a Montana Confidential agent was equally vital and a lot more dangerous. He’d barely had time to stow his gear before he was put to work when he’d arrived several days before. “Which you’re keeping me from doing.”

Lonesome Pony. He knew all about being lonesome. Figured the girl did, too. Her parents were divorced, and she’d been bundled off to live with her grandparents for a while—no one her own age to hang with. Desperate for attention, she’d been following him around like a lost puppy ever since he’d arrived, and he hadn’t been hardhearted enough to discourage her. Like all kids, she had a million questions, mostly personal, mostly about the past he didn’t want to talk about. Damned if he’d be telling her his sob story. He didn’t want to think about Bosnia, no less share the nightmare with a kid.

He gave Jewel a playful squirt with the hose. While she shrieked with laughter, she stayed put.

“I can help, you know.”

“These boys think they’re hot stuff,”

Frank said, indicating the trio of stallions that had been delivered barely an hour before. “I wouldn’t want a little thing like you to get trampled.”

“Little?” All gangly limbs, she drew herself up as tall as she could and still missed the five-foot mark. “I’m nearly a woman!”

Thinking she’d be insulted if any laughter dared escape his lips, Frank bit the inside of his cheek. “You could do me a big favor, then.”

“What?” she asked, young voice ripe with suspicion.

“Take care of Silver over there.”

He indicated the pasture across from the main house, where an old gelding that had been sent over from a nearby spread stared out at the action he couldn’t join.

He looked lonesome, too.

“Yeah, I saw him come in this morning,” Jewel said. “Why is he all by himself? And how come he limps? What’s wrong with him?”

“He got hit by a truck on a ranch road a while back. This here’s gonna be his retirement range.”

“Hit by a truck?” Jewel’s expression went solemn. “He’s going to be okay, though, right?”

As okay as a thirty-year-old, badly injured horse could be, Frank thought.

What he said was, “He’ll always have that bum hip. Can’t keep up with his pals, so he could use some human attention—lots of good grooming, tasty treats and smooth talk. You up to that?”

Jewel nodded and eyed the mottled white horse. “I’m very reliable. Ask Gran or Gramps. They’ll tell you.”

Gran and Gramps were Dale and Patrick McMurty, the elderly caretakers who lived in the main house with Daniel Austin, head of operations for Montana Confidential. Dale cooked and kept house, while Patrick was a crack handyman.

Patrick also happened to be a retired military man who knew how to keep his own counsel about what really was going on underground at Lonesome Pony—that the ranch was a cover for Montana Confidential, a division of the Department of Public Safety.

Frank dug into a pocket and pulled out a plastic bag filled with apple chunks. Sierra Sunrise nosed his arm and Frank slipped him a treat. He stored a few pieces in a vest pocket and held out the bag.

“You can start with these.”

Jewel’s smile was brilliant. Snatching the offering from his hand as eagerly as had the stallion, she whipped around, her long blond ponytail bobbing.

And, now uninterrupted, Frank quickly went to work. The horses enjoyed the spray of water and soapy scrub. And they didn’t refuse the apple chunks he’d kept back for them. He always carried treats when working around horses. And being big-money boys, these stallions were used to lots of pampering and attention.

He wondered if they’d miss the track. They’d spent their young lives running fast, being caught in the limelight. He knew a little about that, too. But he’d gladly left the limelight to others—so maybe the boys would feel the same.

Besides, Frank thought, catching sight of a pretty golden mare nosing her way through the slats of the pasture fence, they had compensations. The soft-eyed mare peered out at them and whickered flirtatiously. The stallions snorted and stomped and did their best to look studly in return. Frank grinned. The mating dance had begun. Slipping the boys into their own individual paddocks outside the barn, he checked his watch—just about time for the meeting.

Awaiting him was the fancy log house with its wide porch overlooking the pasture, and beyond that, the mountains. He could get used to living in Yellowstone country with its spectacular alpine scenery. The Absaroka-Beartooth Wilderness lay to the east, the foothills of the Gallatins to the west. A man couldn’t ask for a prettier home.

Or a more unusual one.

Lonesome Pony had been a guest ranch for decades—hence a bunch of rifle and archery ranges and horseshoe pits plus a fancy circular corral for those former Friday night rodeos still lined the fine-gravel walk between the house and barn. On the other side of the property, a hut well-stocked with gear stood near the bend in Crooked Creek, which provided some of the most spectacular fly-fishing in the country. But the oddest thing to Frank was the swimming pool surrounded by cabins, providing separate living quarters for him and the other agents.

At least he would have his privacy, something he treasured after months of enforced communal living in a stinking hole.

Ahead, the McMurtys stood in the small garden to one side of the house.

Wisps of thinning white hair sticking out from the brimmed hat pulled low over his sun-leathered face, Patrick dumped a sack onto the ground. “Are you gonna stand there so you can tell me every move to make, woman?”

“Only if I want you to get it right the first time,” Dale said, fists on her ample hips.

“If you don’t like the way I do things—”

“I know. Do it myself. But if I don’t participate, you’ll think I’m ignoring you.”

“We could try it that way and see for sure,” Patrick suggested slyly.

Frank figured they’d keep things lively for his boss—if they didn’t drive the man crazy with their bickering.

Dale spotted Frank. “I don’t know why I’ve put up with this old buzzard for nearly forty years. He can’t keep a civil tongue around me.”

Patrick mimicked her. “If I did, you’d think I was ignoring you.”

“Sounds to me like true love,” Frank said, pushing back painful memories of his own.

Before the McMurtys could respond, a shrill voice came from the other direction. “No, Daddy! No!”

Carrying his cranky daughter from the cabin area, Kyle Foster, one of the other agents, spoke to her in a low, soothing voice. “Mrs. Mac is going to take good care of you for just a little while.”

The blond moppet screwed up her face and began to wail “Da-a-a-d-dy!” as she fisted his shirt. She looked so fragile pressed against her father’s broad, solid frame.

“Shh, honey. You be a big girl and I’ll let you ride your pony later. You want to ride Ribbons, don’t you?”

Molly rubbed her eyes with balled fists. Even to an old bachelor like Frank, it was evident the three-year-old needed a nap. He caught Kyle’s attention and indicated he was heading for the house. Looking as if he were about to tear out his sandy brown hair, Kyle nodded.

“You take a nice nap for me,” Dale chimed in, “and when you wake up, I’ll have some homemade oatmeal cookies with lots of raisins for you.”

Frank didn’t know if it was the promise of the pony ride or the cookies that sealed the deal, but Molly finally allowed the housekeeper to take her from her father. Kyle caught up to him at the long porch that fronted the main house.

“I don’t know if I was cut out for this—not the job, but being a single father.”

“Being a responsible parent takes more work than any profession, that’s for certain. But I’m sure you’ll get the hang of it.”

Frank knew all about Kyle Foster, bomb specialist. He’d been a hero until a bomb scare had gone wrong and his partner had died in the explosion. Guilt had plummeted Kyle out of the L.A. force, but law enforcement was obviously in his blood, for he hadn’t resisted Daniel’s recruiting tactics. Frank didn’t envy Kyle’s having to balance a dangerous job with parental responsibilities, but, unfortunately, his wife had left him no choice when she’d dumped her child as well as her husband for a Hollywood film producer.

They entered the house. The big open living area bespoke its past as “Dude Ranch Meeting Central.”

The former lounge and lobby rose two stories, as did the massive fireplace constructed from local river rock. A moose head balefully looked down at them through glass eyes. Over the middle of the room hung a chandelier of elk horn. And a cast-iron bighorn sheep challenged them from the windowed area where Daniel stood, back to them, phone to his ear.

“Yeah, Mitch, so far, so good. The locals don’t suspect anything.”

Frank knew Daniel was talking to Mitchell Forbes, who had run the Texas Confidential operation. Daniel had worked as an agent there, and though he had retired from active duty, he’d been asked to start a branch of the agency in Montana where a serious terrorist threat had the Department of Public Safety worried.

“They just figure I’m a crazy man for wanting to become a rancher at my age in this economic climate. They treat me with friendly tolerance.” Daniel turned and silently greeted his two agents. He indicated he’d only be a minute. “Uh-huh.”

Frank threw himself onto one of the club chairs upholstered in a Navajo pattern and appreciatively gazed at the framed photographs lining the opposite wall—a turn-of-the-century chronicle of the railroad, rodeos and roundups of the area.

“I’m not looking forward to baby-sitting her, that’s for certain,” Daniel was saying. “I’m only doing it as a favor to the director. Listen. Frank and Kyle are here, and I want to meet with them, fill them in and make sure that we have what we need.”

The Montana Confidential operation was just getting off the ground. So far, the men had been busy building their cover. Frank didn’t mind working with the horses—a side benefit of the job, actually—but he was eager for an assignment.

When Daniel hung up, Frank asked, “So who are you baby-sitting?”

“Whitney MacNair.”

“Of the Washington and Martha’s Vineyard MacNairs?” Kyle asked.

The nation’s second family of American politics, Frank knew. As a MacNair, Whitney had grown up privileged and pampered and in the spotlight. Her face was better-known to him than any cover girl’s.

“The same,” Daniel agreed. “Her family was furious when the press ran with the story about her accepting gifts from her boss and they quickly yanked her out of the limelight.”

Her boss being the very married Senator Ross Weston. Frank mused, “Odd that she’s being sent here, to Weston’s home state.”

“Her father asked the Director of the Department of Public Safety for a favor, and since I needed an assistant…” Daniel ran a hand through his blond hair and shrugged. “We’ll make it work somehow. Weston’s not from these parts, anyhow, so I don’t imagine him showing up on our doorstep anytime soon. Now, gentlemen, let’s get down to business.”

“Down” being a secret room built below the study.

They followed Daniel into a room off the main living area. It appeared to be a typical if spacious office with a computer desk and seating area and a spectacular view of the mountains. The walls were lined with builtin bookshelves. Daniel went to an inner wall and reached behind a book of Montana photographs. A click and the section of bookshelf swung open.

“Gentlemen…”

Frank led the way into an elevator car, Kyle following, Daniel bringing up the rear. He slid the bookshelf unit back in place and hit the down button. The machinery no more than whispered its presence as the car descended to the secret “war” room below.

“I haven’t even had time to check out the equipment,” Daniel said. “I’m sure we’ll have to shake out some bugs in the system before we’re operating smoothly.”

Computers, fax machines and telephones awaited in the communications center. The men split up and for the next hour or so thoroughly checked out the electronics.

Frank put one of the computers through its paces. Once satisfied all was as it should be, he left the area to check out the rest of the quarters. Locked cabinets—weapons and ammunition—lined one of the lowceilinged walls. Another work area held listening devices and cameras. He noted a red warning light perched over a nearby closed door. Lab for surveillance photography, he guessed. They had everything they would need to do their jobs and then some.

Daniel and Kyle caught up with him; they took seats around a large conference table where materials were already laid out. Enough for four men, Frank noted, when only the three of them were present.

He asked, “So are we it for now?”

“For however long it is until Special Agent Court Brody arrives,” Daniel agreed.

“FBI,” Kyle muttered. “Suit-and-tie law enforcement. Yeah, he’ll blend in with the locals, all right.”

“Actually, he’ll blend better than any of us.” At the far end of the table, Daniel fiddled with what looked to be one of several dossiers spread out in front of him. “Brody grew up in this neck of the mountains—a positive for us. And he’s only on loan from the FBI until I can recruit another permanent agent.”

“As long as he doesn’t think he’s in charge and doesn’t get in our way,” Frank said.

He had no fondness for special agents, not after the Bosnia debriefing.

“Don’t worry, I’ll do my best to stay out of your way.”

As one, all three men at the table turned toward the deep voice coming from the other side of the room.

Speaking of the devil…

Court Brody had sneaked up on them all. He stood at the elevator, arms crossed over his chest, eyes hidden by sunglasses undoubtedly meant to intimidate.

Daniel cleared his throat and stood. “Come in, come in. We’re just getting to know one another.”

“So I heard.”

Frank watched the big man—tall, rather than wide—stalk them. He didn’t seem too happy.

Well, neither was Frank.

He felt flushed and outside of himself. What the hell was wrong with him? Hadn’t he learned to be on guard at all times? The elevator operated almost silently, true, but what had happened to his instincts?

Without instincts, in a combat situation, a man could be dead in the blink of an eye.

A rush of adrenaline exacerbated the pounding of Frank’s heart. It pounded so loud the sound filled his ears. Surely they could all hear it. He glanced around the table, but no one was paying him any mind.

Daniel and Kyle were focused on the FBI man, who took the end seat as far from them all as he could. Only then did he remove the sunglasses to reveal cold gray eyes. If he and Kyle didn’t welcome Brody…well, the feeling was too obviously returned.

“Welcome to Montana Confidential.”

Daniel returned to his seat and made formal introductions. “Court Brody, special agent, FBI. Frank Connolly, pilot and ex-military man. Kyle Foster, chemist and former member of the L.A. bomb squad.” He took a big breath and paused, but no one else spoke. “Well, I hope you’re all ready to get to work.”

“Horses or otherwise?”

Court drawled. Daniel smiled in the face of the man’s tightly held hostility. “This morning I received information that members of a terrorist group called the Black Order have been slipping into Montana via the Canadian border.”

Court appeared skeptical. “To what end?”

“Rumor says they want to get their hands on a new biological weapon—D-5, a water-borne virus.”

“To what end?” Court asked again.

“We don’t know yet, but if they succeed and get it into a major water supply, it could mean big trouble for a lot of folks.”

Frank jumped in before Court could hold center stage. “D-5?” He’d heard about the virus. As far as he knew, “big trouble” spelled death. “Where?”

“The Quinlan Research Institute. Scientists there are working on an antidote, so they have a quantity of the virus, of course.”

“And without the D-5 at the lab, there will be no antidote,” Kyle said. “How close are they to developing one?”

“Not even in the ballpark. That’s why we’re bringing in British scientist C. J. Birch from the National Center for Aquatic Research.” Daniel turned his gaze to Frank. “Rather, you are as soon as we’re finished here. The ranch plane is online, waiting for you at the Boulder Municipal Airport.”

“What about a first officer?” Frank asked. The plane was a twin-engine DC-3, requiring two in the cockpit.

“Rent-a-pilot by the name of John Vasquez. He’ll meet you at the field tomorrow morning. Your cover is that you’re picking up some prize quarter horse mares for the ranch’s breeding program. But your real mission is getting C. J. Birch to the Quinlan Research Institute tomorrow, safely and without drawing too much attention.”

Frank didn’t voice the opinion that flying in horses would raise more than a few eyebrows. Normally the only horses transported by air rather than truck were Thoroughbreds being ferried from Europe or Japan or the Middle East, or across country to big-money races.

But rather than a fancy jet, they would use a reconditioned pre-World War II DC-3. The old tail-draggers were workhorses—no pun intended—usually put to use these days hauling cargo that didn’t move around, hence the need to palletize the horses.

The plane itself wouldn’t draw too much attention, especially since it would land on a runway already laid out on Lonesome Pony land. Lots of the bigger ranches had their own planes, Frank knew, if normally single-prop jobs. And he guessed if the locals heard about the horses, that would merely serve as proof of Daniel Austin’s madness in setting up what was sure to be a money-losing breeding ranch.

But back to the operation and the reason the scientist needed to be brought in undercover. “You’re expecting trouble?” Sweat trickled down Frank’s spine at the thought.

“Hopefully not, but just in case, I want Birch protected by the best.”

Which wasn’t necessarily him, Frank feared, though he kept his mouth shut on that score. Too late to raise questions about his capabilities at this point. He’d already committed himself.

But question himself he did as Daniel wrapped up the meeting and sent him off to pack an overnight bag before being driven to the Bozeman airport, where a charter would get him to Boulder before dark. Was he ready to be responsible for another’s life? Or had he been a fool to let Daniel sweet-talk him into Montana Confidential?

Truth was…he just didn’t know.

He only knew he had to prove himself. To make up for what he’d been unable to stop from happening…to make amends, somehow.

Maybe then the nightmares would quit him.

As the agents left the house, a dark green SUV pulled up with a screech of tires. A woman with red-gold hair slid out from behind the wheel. The moment her high-heel-clad feet touched the gravel, Frank recognized Whitney MacNair.

She pushed down her designer sunglasses and murmured, “Just what I need, some hunky men.”

Opening the back of the SUV, she revealed a pile of designer luggage. She turned her gaze on Frank.

“Sorry, ma’am, I already have an assignment.”

Undaunted, she walked right up to Court and slipped a hand around one arm. “Ooh, so strong,” she cooed. “And I can tell you’re a real gentleman.”

Frank kept going, glancing over his shoulder to watch the show. It did his heart good to see a scowling Court Brody be forced to haul the woman’s luggage inside.

Frank’s log cabin was the farthest from the swimming pool. The most isolated, the reason he’d chosen it. The living area, bedroom and bath all had been decorated by the same hand as had done the main house. Some would consider these to be small quarters, but after the hellhole that had been home for five months, Frank considered them palatial.

Quickly gathering a few articles of clothing and throwing them into an overnight bag, he set it next to the rucksack he never traveled without. Then he grabbed his Stetson, left the cabin and wended his way around the swimming pool. Waiting next to the ranch truck, Patrick McMurty was talking to Daniel and Kyle.

As he caught up to the men, Whitney stuck her head out a second-floor window. “Excuse me, but I’m desperate. I need some more muscle up here…to move the furniture around. If I’m going to be happy living here, then I need to mix things up a little.”

Frank figured she was going to mix things up a lot.

“Damn, we don’t have time for such nonsense,” Daniel muttered.

As if she expected the objection, Whitney pulled a helpless expression. “Pretty please.”

Kyle muttered, “She doesn’t seem like the kind to give up.”

“Yeah, yeah. And we wouldn’t want her to be unhappy.” Daniel held his hand out to Frank for a brisk shake. “Good luck. We’ll see you and Birch tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” Frank echoed as Daniel and Kyle rushed off.

Glad for his excuse to get out of dancing to the woman’s tune, Frank shook his head and climbed into the passenger seat.

Already behind the wheel, Patrick started the truck. “That one’s gonna be something else.”

“Daniel can handle her.”

Patrick shot the truck down the driveway, spewing gravel in all directions. Frank felt himself hurtling toward a situation that could too easily spin out of his control.

Suddenly, getting to know the lovely, if spoiled, Whitney MacNair seemed far more appealing than going after some nerdy little man who could be a powder keg in disguise.

CECILIA JANE BIRCH wasn’t thrilled to be leaving for the wilds of Montana at the crack of dawn the next morning. Having lived her entire thirty years in ultra-civilized England but for the past few months, she considered Boulder, Colorado, as uncivilized as she cared to get. All those mountains in the distance…all that open sky…all those snakes, one of them with her name, she was certain.

She shivered at the thought.

But her work was her life, after all, and the Quinlan Research Institute needed her expertise, so she had no choice, really.

And how much less civilized could things get, anyway?

At least that’s what she decided to believe as she left her colleagues to their drinks at the outdoor table of the Brickwalk Café, where they’d had a dinner meeting to catch up loose threads. Not knowing how long she might be gone, she’d turned over her files to her assistant Len Miller, who would take over the project she’d been heading—for good if he had anything to say about it, she assumed.

Well, it just couldn’t be helped.

Dusk had fallen over the Pearl Street Mall, the red-bricked pedestrian-only heart and soul of the city. The area around the restaurant was sparsely populated since an outdoor concert with Cowboy Sam and the Spurs had lured university students to the other end of the mall. Now, if only they knew some civilized tunes. C.J. had always preferred the classics.

She did enjoy the short walk along historic buildings housing numerous shops, galleries, offices and sidewalk cafés—not that it could compete with London, of course. All summer, entertainers had abounded, including the Zip Code Man, who could identify towns and sometimes even describe building styles in neighborhoods, based on a visitor’s zip code. Then there was the sword swallower, contortionist, juggler and professional accordionist—all buskers who played for the hat.

As she stopped to pull a chocolate bar from her pocket, a sudden goosey feeling along her neck gave her pause. Surreptitiously, she looked around.

From a few feet away, a bronzed statue seemed to be watching her.

C.J. blinked. Not a statue, but another busker, skin and clothing like painted bronze. He leaned on his closed umbrella, his hat upended at his feet. Then he deliberately changed positions to a new pose and froze.

Performance art such as this she would never understand, C.J. thought, caught by the statue’s steady gaze on her as she backed off.

For some reason her mouth went dry and she realized she was holding her breath.

Suddenly the statue lunged for her, grabbed her arm so that she dropped her candy bar, and whirled her from the walkway toward a side street. Not knowing whether to laugh or to express outrage, C.J. attempted to be good-natured about the situation…until she realized the man wasn’t letting up.

“I say, you may stop now!”

But he didn’t.

Heart fluttering, C.J. dug in her heels and attempted to pry the man’s fingers from her arm. “Sir! What do you think you’re about?”

He wasn’t letting her go, that was for certain. Not even looking at her, he was inching her into the shadows, away from any conceivable assistance.

“Stop!” she yelled, attempting to hit at him.

Her fist glanced off his arm, not deterring him in the least, so C.J. did the only thing she could think of—she opened her mouth and screamed. Quite loudly. Before she could see if anyone noticed, her attacker jerked her and knocked the breath from her. She threw herself to the ground. He barely paused before continuing to drag her.

“Stop, please!” she gasped out as her hip hit a bump in the walkway. “Take my wallet and leave me be.”

He didn’t so much as pause.

Frantic now—what did he want if not her money and credit cards?—C.J. tried grabbing on to a litter can, but she couldn’t get ahold before he jerked her along. Her shoulder burned viciously. She cried out again, but had little hope that anyone would hear.

“What is it that you want?” she cried, fearing the worst.

Her very life?

Chapter Two

Wondering if she would be alive to see the sunrise, C.J. was amazed when a man hurtled past her and tackled the busker so hard the force almost ripped her arm from its socket before the knave finally freed her.

A panting, hurting, horribly frightened C.J. tried to make out the identity of her rescuer, but it was nearly dark now. All she could see was a tangle of limbs as the men did a bizarre dance away from her seemingly in slow motion. Punches were traded, though in such close quarters, she suspected neither man had enough leverage to do harm. Suddenly, her attacker forced the other man away from him, kicked out and connected with the man’s knee, then ran, so the incident was over nearly as quickly as it had begun.

Her rescuer caught himself and appeared ready to follow the blackguard, but then he stopped and limped back to where she still sat in a dazed puddle.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes—at least I think so.” Testing her limbs, she winced when she stretched out her abused arm. “Bruises and strains, I suspect, but I shall live. Thanks to you.”

“Let me help you up.”

The touch of his strong hands at her waist shot a foreign sensation through C.J. He helped her to her feet and continued to steady her. Inches from her attractive dark-haired savior—she could see that much, at least—she felt her throat clog. That darned tongue of hers must have swollen to twice its size as it often did around interesting men. And when he reached out to right her glasses, which sat crookedly on her nose, her knees weakened.

“Can you walk?” he asked.

Glad for the excuse to put some distance between them, she nodded her head and demonstrated. The joints wobbled but worked. Well, perhaps it was more of a teeter than a true walk, but she managed.

When a few yards separated them, she choked out, “You see? All better.”

“But I can’t just leave you here.” He looked past her. “Think you can make another half block?” He indicated the hotel ahead. “I can get you there, make sure you’re safe until someone can come for you.”

She nodded, not bothering to protest that there would be no one to fetch her. No husband. No suitor. Not even a female friend, since she hadn’t been in the country long enough to bond with anyone. But a respite in soothing surroundings was the very thing, she decided. He took her arm in a gentlemanly fashion and let her set the pace.

Realizing that he was still limping slightly, she said, “Perhaps it’s you who is hurt.”

“Nah, just an old war injury kicking up.”

Humor? she wondered. At a time like this? How curious. As they approached the old hotel that had been restored to its former elegance, his stride evened out, so she didn’t think more of it.

C.J. loved Hotel Boulderado with its domed, stained-glass skylight, cantilevered oak staircase and lovely period furniture. In addition to eating in the hotel’s restaurant, she often wandered through the place and sat in the lobby as if waiting for a friend, when all she wanted was to experience the pleasure of being in someplace civilized.

Upon entering, she found a chair in a corner, “Oh, yes, this is better.”

The man’s brow furrowed. “You’re a Brit. Odd…”

“Yes, I’m surprised to find myself in your Wild West, as well,” she agreed, a sense of euphoria filling her. The aftermath of the adrenaline rush of being attacked, she was certain.

“No, it’s just that I was looking for this British scientist when I saw that guy dragging you off.”

Scientist? C.J. gaped. How many British scientists could be working in Boulder, Colorado?

The man sat in a chair that brought their knees close, making her shift in her seat away from him.

“We really should report this incident to the police.”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “But I need to find this guy tonight.”

“I believe you have. C. J. Birch here.” She extended her hand.

His piercing blue eyes widened on her. “You’re…?”

“Exactly. And you?”

He gave her hand a vitally American shake.

“Frank Connolly, Montana Confidential. I’m flying you out of here tomorrow.”

Noting that he hadn’t let go of her hand, C.J. murmured, “How bizarre.”

“What?”

She slipped from his grasp and stared at her fingers for a moment. Then she blinked and looked at him. “Why, the way you found me, of course.”

“I was told you would be having a dinner meeting at the Brickwalk Café. But when I got there…one of your colleagues told me you’d just set off.”

“Perfect timing, then.” As if fate had taken a hand and stepped in to protect her. Making C.J. feel a bit better about her coming circumstances. “Well, I’m settled down inside now, so perhaps we should make that report to the authorities.”

“No!” Frank followed the loud retort by scanning the lobby.

C.J. followed suit. No one seemed to have noticed.

“No authorities?” she asked. “Why not?”

“Considering who you are…who I am…it complicates matters.”

Her turn to go wide-eyed. “You think the attack had something to do with my work?”

Frank continued peering around the lobby, as if he were now looking for suspects. “Possibly.”

That thought had never entered her mind. “Then the local authorities—”

“Might delay your departure. We can’t afford that.”

“No, we can’t.” C.J. had been brought up to speed about the urgency of finding the antidote to D-5. “But what if…if the attacker indeed was after me. If he could find me on Pearl Street—”

“He’d know where you live,” Frank finished for her. “I booked a hotel room for the night, but considering what just happened, I’ll be staying at your place. Don’t worry, I won’t let you out of my sight until I get you to the Quinlan Research Institute.”

“I do hope you don’t mean that literally,” C.J. said, allowing the starch in her voice to thicken. “I do need a good night’s rest. You’ll find the couch in the next room close enough.”

TOO CLOSE, C.J. AMENDED once she was alone with Frank Connolly. He’d fetched his rental car and had driven her from the hotel to her flat near the university, a one-bedroom in a modest complex filled mostly with grad students who were considerate types. Luckily for her, the place had come furnished, so she hadn’t had to hunt for nonexistent domestic skills; rather, she’d moved right in and had gotten down to her work at the lab immediately.

Gripping the bedding for the couch to her chest, she entered the living room, thinking how odd a man’s presence in her place seemed.

“I really couldn’t tell what he looked like under all that paint, Daniel,” Frank was telling his supervisor. “He was a fraction taller than me—probably an even six feet. And he was more muscular.”

C.J. gave Frank a surprised once-over. Clothed only in a pair of jeans and a soft, sleeveless white T-shirt, he appeared muscular enough. As a matter of fact, she considered him to be quite perfect.

“Yeah, all right. Tomorrow, then.”

Flushing at her uncalled-for thoughts, C.J. quickly turned away and spread a bottom sheet over the couch cushions as Frank hung up. Before she knew what he was about, he was far too close.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do,” she said, keeping focused on the sheet rather than the man. “You’re a hero. You deserve a civilized bed…even if it’s not really a bed.”

“Trust me, I’ve slept in worse. Much worse.”

She wondered what “worse” meant. A seedy motel, perhaps?

“Here, let me do that.”

He took the top sheet from her hands. At the unexpected touch, she sprang back and watched him work. His precise movements. The strength apparent in the contracting muscles of his arms. The way the trim cut of his short dark brown hair threaded with silver perfectly suited his high forehead and broad cheekbones. He reminded her a little of that actor—George Clooney—only sexier.

“Daniel’s putting out feelers on your attacker.”

He took the blanket from her and snapped it open over the couch. “Gonna try to ID him.”

“But without a true description,” C.J. mused, “where would he even begin?”

“The MO—uh, modus operandi. This guy was a pro, but pros normally try to blend in, a little hard to do covered in bronze paint. So this one’s somewhat unique. Might be easier to tag him than if he’d played it like Joe Regular.”

“I see what you mean.” She dropped the pillows at one end. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“I’ll be fine. Get some rest. We’ll be up at the crack of dawn.”

“Yes. Thank you.” She started for her bedroom door, then hesitated. She turned to find him staring at her. Something about his expression made her falter. Then she moistened her lips and said, “I mean that, Frank Connolly. The ‘thank you’ part. You really are a hero.”

With that she slipped into her bedroom, closed the door, then leaned against the wall, trembling. She lived such a quiet, ordinary life. The last few hours—being attacked and rescued, having a man more handsome than George Clooney not only in her apartment but sleeping on her couch—were sure to stand out in her mind forever.

Quickly she stripped out of the trousers and summer sweater that required a trip to the cleaners. Not until she returned to Boulder, whenever that might be. She passed her already packed medium-size suitcase and shoulder bag on the way to the bathroom.

Standing under the shower longer than she normally would, C.J. hoped the pounding hot water would relieve some of the ache of being dragged by her arm, of having her hip make more contact with the ground than was comfortable. She also hoped the water would relax her enough so that she could fall asleep.

But freshly scrubbed and encased in her favorite satiny pajamas, she still found sleep to be an elusive creature. Thoughts continued to roil through her head as she lay in the silent dark.

The burden of finding an antidote before a water supply could be contaminated with D-5.

The horror of having been attacked.

The discomfort of having her too appealing rescuer mere feet away, separated from her merely by a flimsy—and unlocked—door.

HE WAS HIT.

“Get out! Get out!”

No time to think…eject.

A plume of smoke surrounded him, choking him. The crippled jet veered off, nose down, spinning, its death scream sounding in his head.

Explosion…his ears imploded.

He flew down, wingless, through a momentarily silent world.

A world of jagged peaks and valleys coming closer fast.

The chute shot open behind him. He jerked back. Stomach lurched. Then all righted.

He was coming down…but to what?

The ravaged earth met his feet. The stink of fire burned his nostrils. Folds of material enveloped him, taking him prisoner.

He fought, knowing his very life depended on it….

THUMPING…POUNDING…groaning…

Terrifying noises awakened C.J. from an already restless sleep. Heart lurching, pulse pounding, she sat straight up in bed. An intruder? She groped for the telephone, had the slender receiver in hand before remembering.

Frank Connolly.

Her heart thudded. What was going on in her living room? Was Frank fighting off the intruder once more? Half asleep, he would be vulnerable. He could be dead by the time the authorities arrived.

Dropping the phone and grabbing an empty vase, she flung open the door. Barely able to make out thrashing on the couch in the dark, she yelled, “Stop that!” and flew across the room.

“Huh? What’s going on?”

The deep-throated grumble replaced the more threatening noises and stopped C.J. dead in her tracks. Closer now, she realized Frank was alone. And asleep. At least he had been until she’d come charging in.

A lamp clicked on. C.J. blinked at the magnificent display of Frank’s naked torso, cast in gold from the lamplight. The very breath caught in her throat as she allowed her gaze to explore the planes and angles, the muscular perfection that begged to be touched….

“I must have been dreaming,” he mumbled, shifting on the couch so that the sheet dropped lower.

Not seeing a band of white—or any other color—along his hip, she wasn’t certain he wore anything beneath.

“Or h-having a n-nightmare.” The very thought of a naked man on her couch—especially this man—was disconcerting. “I, uh, thought you were in trouble.”

“And you were going to save me?”

Frank stared at her somewhat in wonder, as if he were really seeing her for the first time. His expression changed subtly. Heat creeping up her neck, C.J. set the vase on a table and shoved her hands behind her back.

“Tea,” she offered in desperation as he continued to pin her with his intense gaze. “I have a calming herbal if you would like to try it.”

“Sure. That would be great.”

Relieved for the respite from the odd tension he caused in her, she fled to the kitchen.

FRANK HAD PULLED ON a T-shirt and his jeans by the time C.J. returned to the living room.

“This should settle you down,” she murmured, placing a tray heavy with a porcelain teapot and cups and saucers on the table before the couch.

“I’m fine.”

Not appearing to believe him, she sat down on a chair opposite.

Frank watched closely as she poured the tea. Her hands were graceful, her ringless fingers long, her short nails glossy as if she’d just buffed them. She held out a cup on a saucer, and he suddenly realized the delicate set decorated with flowers and dragons was the only really personal item he’d seen in her apartment.

Even that vase she’d commandeered as an impromptu weapon was colorless, like the rest of the apartment. A furnished rental unit, no doubt. Bland, but easy. Still, he wondered why she’d done nothing to make the place her own. It was devoid of the little things he usually noticed in a woman’s place.

“Thanks,” he said, adding more sugar than was good for him—at least if he wanted to sleep.

She didn’t comment, merely raised one pale eyebrow.

“If you need someone to talk to, I’m available.”

“I told you, I’m fine.”

“If you say so,” she murmured, her voice as soothing as she’d promised the tea would be. She took a sip. “But sometimes talking helps.”

“Talking can’t change anything, can’t bring someone back!” Frank said heatedly before catching himself. “Okay, so what’s the giveaway?”

“Other than you scaring me half to death in your sleep? Your eyes. You try to hide it, Frank, but when you’re not vigilant, they tell me that you’re troubled…haunted by your past.”

Certain she didn’t know about his background—how could she when she hadn’t even known who was coming for her—he said, “Perceptive as well as intelligent and beautiful, huh?”

She blinked at him and he could see that she was thrown. “I’m not beautiful—I’m a scientist.”

Frank started. Maybe she didn’t get many compliments of that sort, considering she hid behind lab coats and glasses and an unflattering hairstyle. But without the glasses, her hair tousled and brushing her shoulders, C.J. indeed appeared beautiful, if in a starched, stiff-upper-lip kind of way. Her body wasn’t encased in a lab coat now. Rather, satiny material drowned her curves. The peach-and-cream stripes of her pajamas complemented her honey-gold hair and flawless ivory complexion.

But again, she seemed to be hiding.

And Frank couldn’t help but wonder what he might find under the baggy garments.

Cup halfway to her mouth, C.J. hesitated. Their gazes locked for a moment, and Frank felt as if he’d just caught a doe in his headlights. He watched the subtle change in her expression before she hid that, too.

She took a quick sip of her tea, then rose, snatching up her saucer. “Since you’re not inclined to talk, anyway, I’ll just finish this in my room.”

“Something I didn’t say?”

But if his comment amused her, she hid it well.

Spine stiff, C.J. retreated to her bedroom.

“I’d rather not fly with an exhausted pilot, so try to let that tea work its magic on you,” she murmured, just before she closed the door.

And locked it. Frank was certain he heard the bolt slide into place.

To lock him out? he wondered.

Or herself in?

He swigged down the tea and set down the cup, too delicate for his big hands. But it was perfect for hers, he thought. He could see her cradling the fine porcelain, even after he turned out the light and closed his eyes.

For once it wasn’t Bosnia that kept him awake halfway through the night.

THE FIRST RAYS OF DAWN streaked the sky over Boulder Municipal Airport. Gilad had been lying in wait for nearly an hour. As always, he was patient.

And he really was more clever than the bungled attempt on the Pearl Street Mall indicated. He was still burning at that temporary setback.

He disliked failure. Disliked looking like a fool even more.

For that, he would require special payment.

Gilad knew all about Frank Connolly, ex-military pilot. His contacts were fast and thorough. Yes, indeed, he could easily imagine the bastard’s worst fears.

As he checked his watch yet again, just as he had been doing every few minutes, an addendum to his plan was already forming. Something that would give him infinite pleasure. A very special way to test his enemy’s true mettle…

Thinking about Connolly flying without benefit of either plane or parachute brought a smile to his lips.

But his fanciful musings were cut off at the sound of footfalls along the tarmac. Time to get down to work. He stepped out in clear view of the approaching man, who was stocky, of medium height and with burnished skin tone. His mustache was neat, as were his navy slacks, white short-sleeved shirt and tie. A laminated ID swung from his pocket protector.

“Vasquez?”

“Right. You Connolly?”

Gilad nodded.

“So where’s the horse van?”

“Not here yet.”

“Then why did you insist I get here an hour earlier than planned?”

“We have something to take care of.”

“What’s that?”

Gilad slipped the cold object from his pocket, saying, “Let me show you.”

Chapter Three

C.J. yawned her way to Boulder Municipal. She’d barely fallen asleep before dawn. And all too soon, Frank had been pounding at her door.

To look at him, one would think he’d had a full eight hours’ sleep. She knew better. She’d heard him roaming around the living room for at least an hour after she’d locked herself in. What had been bothering him? she wondered. Something serious—at least the nightmare had made it seem that way. He hid his exhaustion well, though. She wondered what else he was hiding and why he thought it was necessary. Not that she should expect true confessions from a stranger. His past was his past, just as hers was her own.

“Your chariot awaits,” Frank said, breaking into her thoughts. “And the trailer is already here, too.”

“What trailer?” But she swept her gaze right past the commercial vehicle and onto the adjoining aircraft, which appeared to have been built in the previous century. “What is that thing?”

“A DC-3.”

He brought the car to a stop near the hangar, and she took a better look. The plane’s lines were chunky, both propellers and wheels appeared to share a housing, and its tail practically swept the tarmac.

“Can you actually get that thing in the air and keep it there?”

“Plenty of these babies still take up airspace, hauling cargo—and they have been for the better part of six decades.”

“That’s what bothers me.”

She couldn’t help the trepidation that filled her. Too many stories of failed parts on old planes. She rubbed her arms and refocused her attention back to the trailer, where a man in dark pants and a white shirt was talking to another dressed more casually in jeans, plaid shirt and billed cap.

A special ramp already in place led from the trailer’s back end up to the rear door of the aircraft. Suddenly, from the side of the trailer, brilliant red lettering jumped out at her: Equine.

“That’s a horse trailer!” she said accusingly.

“Did I forget to tell you? Our cover is that we’re hauling the mares to Lonesome Pony.”

Doubly concerned now, she thought to protest, but before she could get a word out, Frank opened his door, slid from behind the wheel and reached in back for his gray, broad-brimmed hat. Added to the jeans, boots and multipocketed vest, it made him look more like a real Wild West cowboy than a government agent.

Though an involuntary thrill shot through her—probably due to the old American western movies that had once fascinated her long, long ago—C.J. tried not to be impressed.

He said, “Wait here while I take care of getting these girls loaded.”

“Gladly.”

Stuffing the hat on his head, Frank aimed straight for the other two men.

That they needed a cover made C.J. shudder. That horses were that cover made her shudder more. A decrepit old plane and now horses!

What had she gotten herself into?

Still wondering a few minutes later, she watched Frank stalk back to the vehicle, an expression of displeasure pulling at his mouth. She read his frustration in his jerky movements when he threw open the door and held out a hand.

“We have a problem,” he announced as he helped her out.

“Apparently.”

“How are you with horses.”

“H-horses? How am I what?”

“We don’t have a groom. He didn’t show. We can wait around for another one, but that’ll delay our departure for a couple of hours. And after what happened yesterday, I want to get you away from here and safely to Quinlan ASAP.”

“Horses?” she squeaked. “You’re asking me to groom horses?” C.J.’s stomach twirled at the thought. “I’m not good with horses.”

He shook his head. “No actual grooming involved. You just have to keep them calm. There are only four of them. But I, uh, don’t know if they’ve ever flown before.”

“Calm?” She wasn’t calm. How was she supposed to keep four horses calm? And in such a small space? Suddenly, the belly of the big plane shrank in her mind to the size of a box stall. “How?”

“Talk to ’em. Scratch ’em between the ears.”

As if the matter was both simple and settled, he opened the trunk and hauled out her two cases and his own two bags.

“And if talking and scratching doesn’t work?”

“I assume, being a research scientist, you know how to handle a syringe.”

“The rudiments, yes.”

He slipped the three smaller bags over his shoulders and hefted the larger suitcase upright. “So if one of the girls gets overly excited, you shoot her with a mild tranquilizer.”

Then he took off for the stairs at the front of the aircraft, wheeling the larger of her bags behind him.

“What if something goes wrong?” she demanded, following close on his heels. “Something I can’t handle? Really, I’m not very good with horses.”

She would refuse to go with him, would charter her own bloody plane…if not for the incident on Pearl Street.

“Then you call me and I’ll handle it.”

“You would leave the cockpit?”

“That’s why I have a co-pilot. He can take over the controls.”

Frank stopped suddenly and she nearly ran into him. C.J. gasped and stepped back, muttering, “Sorry.”

He gave her a curious look that made her mouth go dry. And a pulse ticked in her throat. She could feel it, even when she stopped breathing for a moment until she shook herself back to reality and the fact that nothing personal was happening here. Frank Connolly was merely doing his job, for heaven’s sake, which at the moment happened to be her.

Then he said, “Try not to think worst-case scenario. Everything’s going to be fine and you’ll be at the research institute before you know it.”

“From your lips to God’s ear,” she murmured, thinking again of the horses.

Once inside the belly of the plane, Frank lashed down their luggage. “Take a seat while I help bring in the mares.”

But C.J. was too jittery to just sit and wait. She tried to focus on the now, on her surroundings.

The plane appeared solidly built, so why wouldn’t this sense of trepidation leave her alone? It had to be the thought of being confined with several horses that made her feel so…so…unsettled.

And yet the jitters went beyond the fear of the known.

The unknown held far more power—a villain with no description.

Would he come after her in Montana?

Would she ever be safe?

There were four passenger seats, three in one row, then one extra from which she could easily see openings in two of the four stalls. She came closer for a better look. The double-double configuration—two stalls in the front, two in the back—was open on top. The U-shape would allow two of the horses to hang out their heads toward her.

The stalls sat on anchored pallets in the center of the cargo area, leaving aisles for humans to walk along each side. She wandered toward the rear of the aircraft. Feed and other supplies had already been brought in and secured. As had western tack—she noted saddles and other leathers. She moved up the other aisle toward the cockpit.

The clop-clop of hooves against metal drew her to a window. Frank was leading a big bay mare up the ramp—C.J. could see her tossing head and rolling eyes over the raised side. Though the driver led a small palomino that seemed perfectly calm, she felt her pulse surge and she pulled back. She had to get over her irrational fear—only a few hours and she would be free of them.

C.J. glanced down the side aisle as Frank stepped in. He held the mare’s head low to squeeze her through the opening, then walked her straight through the back stall to the one in front, where he began securing her with cargo straps.

He did all with such ease that she suspected he must have a lot of experience with horses. She had to remember that, as well as his promise to handle any difficulty.

“Spice Girl,” Frank said, as he hooked two tie-downs from the leather collar encircling her neck to holes beneath the U of the stall front.

“Pardon me?”

“Her name.” He indicated the adjoining stall where the driver was securing the palomino. “And that one’s Double Platinum.”

As if knowing their names would make this any easier on her, C.J. thought as Frank dug into one of the myriad pockets on his vest and pulled out a zipped plastic bag that appeared to be filled with apple chunks. He shook out a few pieces and offered it to the mares.

Then he handed her the rest. “Here,” he said before retreating to the exit.

C.J. held the bag of apple bits by two fingers. “What am I supposed to do with these?”

“Make friends.”

That would mean getting close….

Perhaps later if she really needed something to soothe the beasts, she thought, looking for a place to stuff the bag. The pockets of her jacket were too small, but she was wearing a pair of loose tan trousers with extra-deep pockets. One was already half filled with a handful of individually wrapped chocolate bits, so she shoved the bag of horse treats into the other.

“You must be the passenger, C. J. Birch.”

C.J. whipped around to face the neatly dressed man she’d seen from the car when they arrived. He held a clipboard in one hand and held out the other. She looked up to see his mouth curve into a friendly grin beneath a thick black mustache.

“John Vasquez, first officer on this flight.”

Glancing at his picture ID and shaking his hand, she noticed his face was deeply tanned. “Mr. Vasquez.”

“We’ll be taking off shortly, as soon as those other two horses are loaded.”

His accent was slight, making her think that while he’d been born in Mexico or elsewhere, he’d probably been in this country for many years.

“Good. I’m anxious to be in the air.”

And away from a place that had proved unsafe, even as she’d feared, if not in the manner she had expected. True, the Quinlan Research Institute was bound to be far more remote than the National Center for Aquatic Research, but that was probably good. Less likely that the villain could find her again. She could take comfort in that.

And at least her well-being would be guarded by Frank Connolly and the other Montana Confidential men.

“If you’ve never been in one of these old planes, be prepared for the noise, especially since we’re hauling cargo. No sound-proofing.”

“I don’t mind a little noise.”

“Good. Now, if you’ll excuse me, miss, I have some checks to make.”

“Go ahead, please,” she said even as she heard hooves clacking against the metal ramp.

She only hoped her work on the antidote to D-5 went well and fast. Then she would go home, C.J. thought. England. She wouldn’t be afraid there.

Frank and the van driver went through the same routine with the other two horses, a dainty chestnut named Born to Be Wild and High Note, another bay. And then they set up hay nets in front of each of the four horses.

Not that the animals were relaxed enough to eat, she noted.

“They’ll chow down when we’re in flight,” Frank assured her. “You’ll have to water them at least once.”

He indicated the large resin water container and two metal buckets lashed to the side of the cargo bay.

“Uh-huh.”

She could handle that, C.J. told herself, even as her pulse tripped a beat.

“And the tranquilizers are in that pack,” he said, pointing out a fastened-down canvas bag with lots of outer pockets. “Top zipper.”

“I’m praying for a smooth, uneventful flight,” C.J. said. She hoped to heaven she wouldn’t need to go into the bag for anything.

“I’ll take care of the ramp and stairs,” the driver said as he left with a wave.

Frank secured the door behind him. And as if they knew what was going on, the mares grew restless. One snorted, another whinnied, and all four tested their constraints.

“Talk to them,” Frank said as he made his way to the cockpit. “I’ll let you know when to buckle up.”

“Talk to them,” she echoed softly, moving so the mares could better see her, yet keeping a safe distance. “Take it easy now, ladies.”

She spoke to them in a soothing tone even as she heard Frank and his copilot begin a preflight checklist. Not that she knew locks and chocks from gear and flap selectors. She tuned out the men and concentrated on her charges. As little as she might like a job, she had always taken any responsibility given her seriously.

“These restraints are for your safety and are only temporary,” she assured the mares, thinking she sounded somewhat like a flight attendant. Which, in a way, she was. “Soon you’ll be frolicking in a big pasture.”

The actual words she chose might be lame, but to C.J.’s relief, the mares seemed to respond to the calming sound of her voice.

Suddenly the engines roared to life, as did the mare called Double Platinum. She stomped and snorted and tried throwing up her head. Dismayed at the animal’s frustration, C.J. stepped just close enough to give the velvety surface of her nose a gentle pet.

Her own stomach tumbled as she murmured, “There, there, now.”

The palomino calmed, but the chestnut in one of the rear stalls seemed equally upset. Her sense of unease growing, C.J. quickly moved around to reassure her, as well. Unfortunately, a pat on the nose didn’t do a thing. The mare’s eyes rolled wildly and the muscles in her neck bulged. C.J.’s heart accelerated when the animal began thrashing around in the confined space. And when she kicked the sides of the stall, C.J. flew back, fearful for her own safety.

And for the frightened beast’s, as well, since she knew how easily a horse could break a leg.

Getting nowhere with rudimentary calming techniques, she thought to call Frank. And yet she hesitated. He would think her a coward. But what were her options?

The awful realization suddenly set in—she’d have to drug this one.

Her hands shook as she unzipped the bag for the supplies. No sooner did she get to the syringe and set it up with the tranquilizer than she heard Frank’s voice over the intercom, his commanding tone competing with the roar of the engines.

“Time to buckle up!”

“In a minute!” she yelled back, fighting herself, trying to get near the mare, who was intent on biting her rather than accept the tranquilizer with dignity.

Or so it seemed to a frustrated C.J.

But she had to do this, she thought as the shaking of her hands spread to the rest of her. Had to. She couldn’t let Frank down. He was counting on her. She concentrated on that fact. On the man who had come out of nowhere to save her. He’d asked this one thing of her and she would do it.

Sweat popped on her brow as she made one attempt after another to get close. Her stomach threatened to empty itself. But it would have to wait, C.J. thought, until after she’d administered the injection. Every time she tried, however, the chestnut moved with her and gave her the evil eye. Then the mare would roll her eyes and bare her teeth. And the restraints were long enough to give her some latitude.

It became a dance of sorts, a matter of the mare trying to assert her will over the too weak, too humiliatingly cowardly human in charge.

About to rush to the cockpit and beg for Frank’s help, C.J. realized that she had no options when the plane began to move along the tarmac.

Too late!

She had to do this!

“Now, just settle down, Miss Wild!”

The mare sassed her back.

A desperate C.J. thrust her free hand under the animal’s head and shoved upward until the restraints tightened. The unplanned action took the chestnut by surprise—she didn’t fight for a few precious seconds, long enough for C.J. to administer the injection. And by the time the mare knew what she was about, it was all over and C.J. quickly backed out of teeth range.

“There, now you’ll feel better.”

As would she.

Born to Be Wild snorted. Her long red lashes swept over her eyes and she suddenly appeared a bit befuddled. And vulnerable. C.J. told herself to back away, to get to her seat. She herself was still shaking and unsteady on her feet.

But something deep within her responded to the mare’s fear and confusion.

Thrusting her hand in her pocket and fishing out an apple chunk from the bag, she was almost surprised when the mare took it from her palm without trying to nip her. The tranquilizer was already doing its job.

Breathing easier, C.J. fought her way forward, legs wobbly but doing the job, as the plane taxied faster. Still unsettled even though the mares were taken care of and no one was hurt, she threw herself into her seat and buckled up mere seconds before the big metal bird launched itself into the sky.

MORE THAN HALFWAY THROUGH the flight and everything was going according to plan. No panicked pleas for help from C.J., either, Frank thought.

Back in disguise from the moment she’d left her bedroom that morning—a too-large pantsuit and hair twisted and secured away from her face with a big, plain clip—she’d almost convinced him that he’d imagined the attraction he’d felt the night before. Almost. That moment of connection in the plane had brought those feelings tumbling back.

Not that she would show him her soft side after he’d left her to be terrorized by four ferocious mares.

Frank grinned and snorted to himself.

“Something wrong?” his copilot asked.

“Wrong? No.” Nothing, now that he had C.J. out of harm’s path. “Just thought of something amusing, is all.”

“Mmm.”

Which was about the extent of Vasquez’s conversational skills. He’d barely volunteered a word not related to work since the plane had taken off. Frank ignored a trickle of discomfort—he’d never been paired with such a reticent pilot. At least Vasquez was competent. And he himself was unsettled in general. Maybe he just needed to stretch.

“Think you can handle the controls for a while?”

Vasquez slid him a sideways glance. “Isn’t that why I’m here?”

A peculiar way to answer a question—with another question. Just another facet of the man’s odd nature, Frank guessed, like the zippered paratrooper boots he wore. Not that he would bother asking the man about them.

Before exiting the cockpit, Frank took stock of their position. They were about fifteen minutes from the Montana border. He wondered if Daniel had made any headway in identifying C.J.’s attacker. He’d get the answer to that one soon enough.

He turned away, his gaze sweeping over his copilot, whose concentration was on the controls. His head was bent forward slightly, and Frank noticed a dark stain along the man’s shirt collar.

As if aware of the close scrutiny, Vasquez glanced up at him in question.

Frank nodded and left the cockpit.

As he entered the cabin area, he didn’t know what to expect—certainly not C.J. curled in her seat, half turned toward her charges, who stood calmly staring at him. Spice Girl was munching the last of her hay.

And C.J. was dead asleep.

Her mouth hung open slightly. And he imagined he could hear the softness of her breath against the harsh power of the engines. Her hair was half wrested from its clip, and her glasses yet again sat crookedly on her delicate nose.

Frank couldn’t help himself. He reached over to straighten the metal frames on her face. And while his hand was there, he couldn’t stop himself from brushing knuckles over her cheek, smoothing back the loose hair.

Suddenly her eyes shot open and with a strangled breath, she sat straight up.

“The horses…what…”

“They’re fine.”

She checked her watch. “No, they’re not. I haven’t given them water—”

“I’ll do it. You’re still half asleep.”

She sat there looking a little dazed, while he filled one of the buckets and offered it to Spice Girl, who immediately dipped her nose into the water and began siphoning.

“I am awake now,” C.J. said, launching herself out of the seat. “I can do that.”

Frank crooked an eyebrow at her. “What? You want me out of here already? Surely you trust my copilot at the controls for a little while.”

She shoved her hands behind her back. “It’s just that I’m usually on top of things.”

The statement was reminiscent of Jewel telling him how responsible she was. The girl had taken the task he’d given her with Silver very seriously also.

Not that he was comparing C.J. to the twelve-year-old. She was every inch a woman. And yet…in some ways, she did seem younger than her years would indicate…and she seemed unsure of herself. Around all men?

Or did he make her feel insecure somehow?

C.J. walked around him and moved toward the back of the plane. As he switched the water bucket to the palomino, he realized she was checking on the chestnut without getting too close.

“She’s asleep, huh?”

“With some help,” C.J. said. “It’s a good thing you came prepared with that tranq.”

“That’s me. A real Boy Scout. You know our motto—Be Prepared.”

“For anything?”

“Most things,” he muttered.

For Frank realized that he wasn’t prepared for her, for the shock of being attracted to another woman so soon.

After refilling the bucket, he watered High Note, all the while surreptitiously watching C.J. A scientist of some repute, she seemed unsure of herself in her present situation, unable to look him square in the eye.

Oddly enough, he found her uncertainty charming.

Born to Be Wild woke up long enough to take a short drink, then dozed once more. He turned to find C.J. looking amused.

“I just got it. Born to Be Wild. High Note. Double Platinum. Spice Girl. Music—all their names are connected with music.”

“Their owner is a pop singer,” Frank said.

“Anyone famous?”

“Ever heard of Jill and Her Four Jacks?”

“Afraid not.”

“Then I guess not famous enough.”

Her lips quivered into a smile that lit up her face. She really was pretty when she smiled.

“So this Jill still owns the mares?” she asked.

He nodded. “They’re ladies of leisure now, retired from the racing circuit to be introduced to some good ole boys to make baby racehorses. Jill wanted Sierra Sunrise to be one of the daddies, and since we own him…”

“Ah, I see.”

Her discomfort seemingly renewed—at the turn of the conversation? he wondered—she checked her watch.

“So we’re almost there?” she asked.

“We’ll be crossing the Wyoming-Montana border any minute now. In a couple of hours, you’ll be settled into your new digs.”

“You will be staying at the research institute, as well, won’t you?”

“Actually, I’ve got a cabin on Lonesome Pony, which is up the road a piece.”

“Oh, I thought—”

“If you’re worried about safety, you’ll be guarded at all times.”

“But not by you.”

“Not unless I’m assigned.”

“Which isn’t exactly likely, is it?” she asked. “You being a pilot and all.”

Though her expression remained neutral, Frank had the distinct impression that C.J. was disappointed. She obviously saw him as some kind of knight in shining armor because of his saving her, when all he’d been was lucky.

“I’d better get back to the cockpit.”

“Right.”

Pure luck had put him on her trail at the exact time she was being attacked.

Pure luck that the attacker had given up so easily.

That fact still bothered him as he set down the bucket and moved forward.

The bastard had gone to considerable trouble to stage the attack. Why would he give up so easily? Unless he figured he’d have another shot at C.J.

Frank worried over it as he reentered the cockpit.

Vasquez didn’t seem to hear him and Frank froze for a moment as the man worked the controls and the plane adjusted slightly. Almost imperceptibly.

Changing direction?

Frank frowned. What the hell did Vasquez think he was doing? He came up behind the man, his gaze once again drawn to the stained collar. The skin there appeared a shade paler than the flesh higher on the man’s neck, as if the color had actually rubbed off…and the color was definitely a shade darker than his arms were.

Makeup?

Why the hell would a pilot be wearing makeup?

Only one reason came to mind.

Before Frank could decide how to react, the choice was taken from him.

The man who called himself Vasquez turned in his seat just enough so Frank could see the gun in his hand.

Chapter Four

“Don’t be a fool!” Frank said. “You pull that trigger and we’re all in trouble.”

The plane was pressurized only so long as it was sealed. A bullet hole would require they wear oxygen masks—meaning the horses would die for sure, and maybe them, too. And the slimy bastard knew it, counted on it to keep him in line, Frank thought.

“We’d be in trouble only if I miss you, which would be difficult at this range, so I suggest you don’t try any fancy moves.”

Playing along for the moment, Frank stayed where he was and glanced out the cockpit windows. Just ahead, mountainous terrain. They were flying low, approaching the Pryor Mountains. Sweat trickled down his spine.

What to do?

Getting the man to talk might buy him some time while he formulated a plan. Though his situation did seem pretty grim, maybe he could warn C.J.

“Who’s paying you?” Frank took an educated guess. “The Black Order?”

A Cheshire grin spread under the fake mustache. “Someone who can afford me.”

“To do what, exactly?”

“Remove Dr. Birch from temptation’s path.”

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.