“I have very little in common with that starry-eyed girl who rushed into your arms—and into your bed—without a second thought.”

“I was very fond of that girl.” Regret edged Egan’s voice.

Fond of. Fond of. The words rang out inside Maggie’s head like a blast from a loudspeaker. Oh, yes, he had been fond of her. And she had loved him. Madly. Passionately. With every beat of her foolish young heart.

And now, everything that was female within her longed to lean on him, to seek comfort and support in the power of his strong arms and big body. She was so alone and had been for what seemed like a lifetime. And who better than her son’s father to give her the solace she desperately needed at a time like this?

But would Egan love and protect her…even though she had kept his son a secret all these years?

Dear Reader,

As you have no doubt noticed, this year marks Silhouette Books’ 20th anniversary, and for the next three months the spotlight shines on Intimate Moments, so we’ve packed our schedule with irresistible temptations.

First off, I’m proud to announce that this month marks the beginning of A YEAR OF LOVING DANGEROUSLY, a twelve-book continuity series written by eleven of your favorite authors. Sharon Sala, a bestselling, award-winning, absolutely incredible writer, launches things with Mission: Irresistible, and next year she will also write the final book in the continuity. Picture a top secret agency, headed by a man no one sees. Now picture a traitor infiltrating security, chased by a dozen (or more!) of the agency’s best operatives. The trail crisscrosses the globe, and passion is a big part of the picture, until the final scene is played out and the final romance reaches its happy conclusion. Every book in A YEAR OF LOVING DANGEROUSLY features a self-contained romance, along with a piece of the ongoing puzzle, and enough excitement and suspense to fuel your imagination for the entire year. Don’t miss a single monthly installment!

This month also features new books from top authors such as Beverly Barton, who continues THE PROTECTORS, and Marie Ferrarella, who revisits THE BABY OF THE MONTH CLUB. And in future months look for New York Times bestselling author Linda Howard, with A Game of Chance (yes, it’s Chance Mackenzie’s story at long last), and a special in-line two-in-one collection by Maggie Shayne and Marilyn Pappano, called Who Do You Love? All that and more of A YEAR OF LOVING DANGEROUSLY, as well as new books from the authors who’ve made Intimate Moments the place to come for a mix of excitement and romance no reader can resist. Enjoy!

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Senior Editor

Egan Cassidy’s Kid
Beverly Barton

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Billy Ray Beaver, D. G. Hatch

and every man and woman who served their country

during the Vietnam War years. And to their families.

Special thanks to Malaina for permitting me to use her

heartfelt poetry that so beautifully expresses the

emotions shared by many veterans.

BEVERLY BARTON

has been in love with romance since her grandfather gave her an illustrated book of Beauty and the Beast. An avid reader since childhood, Beverly wrote her first book at the age of nine. After marriage to her own “hero” and the births of her daughter and son, Beverly chose to be a full-time homemaker, aka wife, mother, friend and volunteer. The author of over thirty books, Beverly is a member of Romance Writers of America and helped found the Heart of Dixie chapter in Alabama. She has won numerous awards and made the Waldenbooks and USA Today bestseller lists.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

Prologue

After all these years, he finally had what he wanted—the perfect ammunition to use against his worst enemy. At long last, he could make Egan Cassidy pay. All he had to do to bring Cassidy to his knees was kidnap Bent Douglas.

General Grant Cullen, the supreme leader of the Ultimate Survivalists, leaned back in his swivel chair and grinned. Revenge was sweet. Hell, just the contemplation of revenge was sweet.

He had waited nearly thirty years for this day and he was going to savor every minute of it.

“I want champagne,” Cullen told his right-hand man, Winn Sherman. “Send one of the boys to the wine cellar. This is a celebration!”

“Then your phone call was the news you’ve been waiting for?” Winn asked.

“Oh, yes.” Grant rubbed his hands together gleefully. “I’ve been searching a lifetime to find a way to destroy Egan Cassidy. I knew that sooner or later the way in which I could inflict great suffering on him would be revealed to me.”

“And the way has been revealed, sir?”

Grant laughed. “Mmm-mmm…” He licked his lips and sighed. “I could have killed Cassidy years ago, but I wanted more. I need to see him suffer, to see him lose everything, the way I did. And now it’s going to happen.”

“I thought you’d told me that Cassidy had nothing to lose, except his life.”

“Ah, but that’s the joy of it. He does have more to lose—much more—and he doesn’t even know it,” Cullen said.

“Then this last private detective uncovered something you can use against Cassidy?”

“Indeed he did. He came upon some information that none of the other idiots I hired ever discovered.”

Grant couldn’t remember when he’d felt more alive. More exhilarated. Pure pleasure wound its way through his mind and body as he fantasized about the moment he would rip out Cassidy’s heart.

“It seems that for the past fourteen years Cassidy has paid for flowers to be placed on the grave of Bentley Tyson III, a former Vietnam vet, from some Podunk little town in Alabama,” Grant explained. “When I learned that bit of information, I knew that Tyson had meant something to Cassidy. So I had my detective investigate a little further. Seems Tyson saved Cassidy’s life in Nam.”

Winn frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. What good is this information if Tyson is dead?”

“Tyson had a younger sister.”

“I see, sir. What significance—?”

“Maggie Tyson Douglas has a fourteen-year-old son.”

“I don’t follow you, sir,” Winn admitted sheepishly. “Tyson’s sister and nephew wouldn’t mean anything to Cassidy, would they?”

“Oh, yes, but they do, my friend. They do. They mean more to him than he realizes. Especially the boy.” Euphoria unlike any he had ever known suffused Cullen’s very soul. “After we’ve arranged to bring Bent Douglas here for a little visit, I plan to telephone Cassidy and tell him just how important Maggie Douglas’s child is to him.”

“I’m confused, sir.” Winn’s cheeks flushed with embarrassment. “You’re inviting this boy here to the fort?”

Cullen shot to his feet, clamped his hand down on Winn’s shoulder and smiled broadly. “We’re going to insist the young man come for a visit. You see, Colonel Sherman, Bent Douglas is Egan Cassidy’s kid and the man doesn’t even know it.”

Chapter 1

“Don’t eat so fast,” Maggie Douglas scolded. “We aren’t running late this morning. We have plenty of time to get you to school early for your student council meeting.”

“I’m hungry, Mama,” Bent replied, his mouth half-full of cereal. “Is my grilled cheese sandwich ready, yet?”

Using a metal spatula, Maggie sliced the sandwich in two, then lifted it from the electric skillet and laid it on her son’s plate. For the past six months the boy had been eating her out of house and home. No matter how much he ate, he remained famished. She smiled, remembering how her father had teased her brother when he’d gone through his ravenous period at about the same age Bent was now.

Maggie wanted to ruffle her son’s hair, the way she’d done when he was younger. But another change that had occurred in the past few months was Bent’s obsession with his hair and clothes. He wore his silky black hair in the latest style: short, moussed and sticking straight up. And his baggy jeans and oversize shirt looked as if they’d been purchased at a secondhand store, despite their hefty price tags.

Bent lifted a sandwich half and stuck it into his mouth. His gaze met Maggie’s just as she rolled her eyes heavenward. He munched on the grilled cheese, swallowed and then washed it all down with a large glass of orange juice.

Bent wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Go ahead and ask me.”

“Ask you what?”

“Ask me if my legs are hollow.” Laughing, Bent shoved back his chair and stood. “You know you said Grandfather used to tell Uncle Bentley that he ate so much his legs had to be hollow.”

“I don’t need to ask you. I’ve come to the conclusion that all teenage boys have hollow legs and sometimes—” she reached up and pecked the top of his head “—hollow noggins, too.”

“Ah, gee, Mama, don’t start that again. Just because I want to go to Florida with the guys this summer doesn’t mean I’m stupid.”

Maggie looked up at her six-foot son and a shudder rippled along her nerve endings. Dear Lord, the older he got, the more he resembled his father. And the stronger the wild streak in him grew. A yearning for adventure and excitement that was alien to Maggie. She’d always preferred safety and serenity.

“You’re too young to go off with a bunch of other boys, without a chaperone.” She and Bent had been batting this argument back and forth for weeks now. She had no intention of allowing her fourteen-year-old child to spend a week in Florida with five other boys, ranging in age from fourteen to eighteen.

“Chris’s big brother is going along to chaperone us.” Bent picked up his clear vinyl book bag from the kitchen counter.

“And how old is Chris’s big brother?” Maggie downed the last drops of lukewarm coffee in her mug, set the mug aside and grabbed her purse off the table.

“He’s twenty,” Bent said, as if twenty were an age of great wisdom and responsibility.

Maggie snatched up her car keys and headed toward the back door. “Let’s go. If I have to drop you off a block from the school, then we’d better head out now so you’ll have time to walk that extra block.”

Bent grabbed Maggie’s shoulder, then leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You’re the absolute best mom. Some mothers wouldn’t understand why a guy my age would be embarrassed to have his mommy drive him to school every day.”

Maggie caressed her kissed cheek. Those sweet moments of little-boy affection were few and far between these days. Her only child was growing up—fast. Each day she noted some small change, some almost indiscernible way he had transformed from a boy into a young man.

“Buttering me up won’t work, you know.” She opened the kitchen door and shooed him outside. “You aren’t going to Florida this summer, unless you go with me.”

Bent shrugged. “If you say so.”

He let the subject drop, but Maggie knew the issue was far from dead. Her son was a good kid, who’d given her very little trouble over the years, but she knew that the wanderlust in him would sooner or later break her heart. She could protect him, now, while he was still underage, but what would happen once he reached eighteen?

Ten minutes later, Maggie pulled her Cadillac over to the curb, one block from Parsons City High School. “Do you need any money?”

Bent flung open the door, glanced over his shoulders and smiled. Even his smile reminded her of his father’s.

“Got plenty,” Bent said. “You just gave me twenty Monday, remember?”

Maggie nodded. “Have a good one. And don’t be late this afternoon. You’re getting fitted for your tux at four-thirty so you need to meet me at the bookstore by four.”

He slid out of the car, then leaned over and peered inside, his smile unwavering. “I’ll meet you at the bookstore no later than four.” With that said, he slammed the door and walked down the sidewalk.

Maggie watched him for a few minutes, then eased the car away from the curb and out into traffic. Another perfectly ordinary day, she thought, then sighed contentedly. Perhaps her life wasn’t perfect, but it was good. Maybe she didn’t have a special man in her life and hadn’t had anyone since her divorce from Gil Douglas four years ago, but she was content. She had the most wonderful child in the whole world, a job she loved, enough money for Bent’s college as well as her old age and both she and Bent were blessed with excellent health. What more could a woman want?

A sudden, unexpected memory flashed through her mind. Her heartbeat accelerated. Heat flushed her body. Why had she thought about him? she wondered. She had tried to forget, tried not to ever think about that week they’d spent together and the way she had felt when she was with him. Fifteen years was a long time. Long enough for her to have gotten over her infatuation. So, why had she been thinking about Egan Cassidy so often lately? Was it because Bent had grown up to be a carbon copy of him?

She couldn’t help wondering where Egan was now. Was he even alive? Considering his profession, he could have been killed years ago. Emotion lodged in her throat. Despite the fact that a part of her hated him, she couldn’t bear the thought that he might be dead. As surely as she hated him, she still cared. After all, he was Bent’s father.

“Psst… Hey, kid, are you Bentley Tyson Douglas?” a deep, masculine voice asked.

Bent jerked his head around, seeking the man who had called out to him. “Who wants to know?”

A big, burly guy wearing faded jeans and an army fatigue shirt stepped out from behind a car in the parking lot at Bent’s right. “I’m a friend of a friend of your old man’s.”

Bent inspected the rather unsavory-looking character, from his shaggy dark beard to his scuffed leather boots. Bent very seriously doubted that this man was a friend of anyone Gil Douglas referred to as even an acquaintance. His adoptive father was one of the biggest snobs in the world. He probably wouldn’t let a guy who looked like this man did walk his dog.

“So? What do you want?” Bent asked.

“I got a kid fixing to start school here next year,” the man said, easing closer and closer. “Thought maybe you could tell me about the teachers and stuff like that.”

Bent glanced into the mostly empty parking lot. It’d be another twenty minutes or so before the majority of his fellow students would start arriving. The only cars already here belonged to a few teachers on early duty and the other student council members. But right this minute, he didn’t see another soul around. Instinct warned him not to trust this man. Maybe he was selling dope. Or maybe he was just a nutcase. Whatever, there was something all wrong about him.

Across the street, on the school grounds, Bent noticed a couple of students entering the building, but they were too far away to hear him if he yelled.

What are you afraid of, Douglas? he asked himself. You’re not some little kid. You’re a pretty big guy, so if this man tries anything funny, you can handle him, can’t you?

“Look, I haven’t got time to talk,” Bent said, taking several steps backward until he eased off the sidewalk and into the street.

The man grinned. Bent didn’t like that sinister smirk. Just as he started to turn and make a mad dash toward the schoolyard, he heard the roar of a car’s engine. Before he had a chance to run, the big man moved in on him. Tires screeched. Someone grabbed him from behind. A hand holding a foul-smelling rag clamped down over his nose and mouth. With expert ease, the two men lifted him and tossed him into the back of the car.

The last thing Bent remembered was the car speeding away down the street.

“So how does mama bear feel about her cub going to his first prom?” Janice Deweese stacked the tattered books into a neat pile, being careful not to crease any of the loose pages. “And with an older woman!”

“Grace Felton is only two years older than Bent,” Maggie corrected. “She’s hardly an older woman. Besides, I’ve known Grace’s parents all my life and—”

“She’s quite suitable for Bent.”

“Lord, did I sound that snobbish?” Maggie stood perched on a tall, wooden ladder placed against the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves at the back of the room.

“I did hear a hint of Gil Douglas in that comment.” Janice eyed the books in front of her. “Should I start on these today or wait until tomorrow? Repairing all eight of them will require a great deal of patience.”

Maggie checked her wristwatch. “Since it’s nearly four, why don’t you wait and get started on that job first thing in the morning. Bent should be here soon and I’ll need you to close up shop for me today.”

“Have you two settled your trip-to-Florida argument?” Janice slid off the stool behind the checkout counter and stretched to her full five-foot height.

“As far as I’m concerned it’s settled.” One by one, Maggie placed the recent shipment of books, which were collections of first-person Civil War accounts, into their appropriate slots on the shelves. “Bent is too young to go off to Florida with a bunch of other teenage boys. He’ll have time enough to indulge his adventurous streak after he turns eighteen.”

“Bent’s a great kid, you know. I don’t think you need to worry too much about him. You’ve done a wonderful job of raising him without a father,” Janice said.

“But Bent has a father who—”

“Who wasn’t much of a parent, even before you two got a divorce. Let’s face it, Maggie, you’ve brought up your son with practically no help from Gil Douglas.”

“Gil tried.” Maggie wished she could have loved Gil the way a woman should love her husband. Perhaps if she had, Gil might have been a better father to Bent. In the beginning, he had made a valiant effort, had even adopted Bent. But a man like Gil Douglas just wasn’t cut out to raise another man’s son.

“Face the truth, Maggie. Gil couldn’t get past the fact that you were engaged to him when you had your little fling with Egan Cassidy.”

Maggie tensed. “I’ve asked you not to mention his name.”

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to dredge up bad memories.”

That was the problem, Maggie thought. The memories weren’t bad. They were bittersweet, but not bad. Nothing had prepared her for an affair with a man like Egan. She had been swept away by a passion unlike anything she’d known—before or since.

“It’s all right,” Maggie said. “Just try not to forget again.”

The bell over the front door jingled as a customer entered. Both Janice and Maggie glanced at the entrance. Mrs. Newsom, a regular patron who collected first editions and had a passion for books of every kind, waved and smiled.

“You two just keep on doing whatever you’re doing,” Mrs. Newsom said, her sweet grin deepening the laugh lines around her mouth. “I just came to browse. I haven’t been by in several days and I’m having withdrawal symptoms.” Her girlish laughter belied the fact that she was seventy.

Maggie climbed down the ladder, shoved it to the end of the stacks and emerged from the dark cavern of high bookshelves into the airy lightness at the front of the store, where the shelves were low and spaced farther apart. She checked her watch again. Four o’clock exactly. Bent should arrive any minute now. Her son was always punctual. A trait he had either inherited or learned from her.

Bent regained consciousness slowly, his mind fuzzy, his body decidedly uncomfortable. Where was he? What had happened? He attempted to move, but found himself unable to do more than twitch. Someone had bound his hands and feet. He tried to call out and suddenly realized that he’d also been gagged.

The guy in the school parking lot and someone who’d come up from behind had drugged him and tossed him into a car.

Bent looked all around and saw total darkness. But he felt the steady rotation of tires on blacktop and heard the hum of an engine. He was still in a car, only now he was inside the trunk.

Obviously he’d been kidnapped. But why? Who were these guys and what did they want with him? His mother’s finances were healthy enough for her to be considered wealthy by some standards, but he knew for a fact that her net worth was less than a million. Her bookstore, which specialized in rare and out-of-print books, barely broke even, so she relied on interest and dividends from her investments for her livelihood. So why would anyone kidnap him when there were kids out there whose parents were multimillionaires? It just didn’t make sense.

Bent had heard about young boys and girls being kidnapped and sold on the black market, so he couldn’t help wondering if his abductors planned to ship him overseas. The thought of winding up on an auction block and being sold to the highest bidder soured Bent’s stomach. Or he could end up in some seedy brothel, a plaything for dirty old men. A shiver racked his body. He’d rather die first!

But he had no intention of dying or of being used as a sex slave. He’d find a way to get out of this mess. He wasn’t going to give up without one hell of a fight!

“I can’t understand where Bent is,” Maggie said, checking her watch again. “It’s ten after five. He always calls if he’s running late and he hasn’t called.”

Janice grasped Maggie’s trembling hands into her steady ones and squeezed tightly. “He’s all right. Maybe he forgot. Or he could be goofing off with the guys or—”

Maggie jerked her hands free. “Something’s wrong. He’s been in an accident or… Oh, God, where is he?”

“Do you want me to check the hospital? I can call the ER.”

“If he’d been in an accident, the police would have contacted me by now, wouldn’t they?”

“I think so. Yes, of course they would have.”

Maggie paced the floor, her soft leather shoes quiet against the wood’s shiny patina. “I’m going to call some of his friends, first, before I panic. He usually catches a ride with Chris or Mark or sometimes Jarred.”

“So call their houses and find out if maybe he’s with one of them. And if he just forgot about calling you, don’t give him a hard time.”

“Oh, I won’t give him a hard time,” Maggie said. “I’ll just wring his neck for worrying me to death.”

Setting her rear end on the edge of her desk in the office alcove, separated from the bookstore by a pair of brocade curtains, Maggie lifted the telephone and dialed Chris McWilliams’s number first.

Fifteen minutes and six calls later, Maggie knew what she had to do. Janice stood at her side, a true friend, desperate to help in any way she could. With moisture glazing her eyes, Maggie exchanged a resigned look with Janice, then lifted the receiver and dialed one final number.

Paul Spencer, Parsons City’s chief of police answered. “Spencer here.”

“Yes, this is Maggie Douglas. I’d like to report a missing child.”

“Whose child is missing?” he asked.

“Mine.”

“Bent’s missing?” Paul, who’d gone to high school with Maggie, asked, a note of genuine concern in his voice.

“I’ve contacted all his friends and even talked to Mr. Wellborn, the school principal. Although I dropped him at school this morning—early—for a student council meeting, he never arrived. No one has seen him all day. Oh, God, Paul…help me.”

“Are you at home or at the shop?”

“I’m still downtown at the shop.”

“Stay where you are. I’ll be right over. As soon as you fill out the N.C.I.C form, we’ll get it entered into the computer. But I’ll go ahead and have a couple of men start checking around to see what they can find.”

“Thank you.” The receiver dangled from Maggie’s fingers. Every nerve in her body screamed. This couldn’t be happening. Not to her child. Not to Bent, the boy she loved more than life itself.

Janice took the telephone from Maggie and returned the receiver to its cradle, then she wrapped her arms around her best friend. Maggie hugged Janice fiercely as she tried to control her frazzled emotions. This was a parent’s worst nightmare. A missing child. She kept picturing Bent hurt and alone, crying for help. Then that scenario passed from her mind and another quickly took its place. Bent kidnapped and abused—perhaps even killed.

Maggie clenched her teeth tightly in an effort not to scream aloud.

Egan Cassidy poured himself a glass of Grand cru Chablis as he watched the salmon steak sizzling on the indoor grill. As a general rule, he dined alone, as he did tonight. Occasionally he had beer and a sandwich at a local bar with another Dundee agent. And once in a blue moon he actually took a woman out to dinner. But as he grew older, he found his penchant for solitude strengthening.

He liked most of his fellow Dundee agents, but except for two or three, they were younger than he. Perhaps the age difference was the reason he had very little in common with most of the other employees of the premiere private security and investigation firm in the Southeast, some said in the entire United States.

And as for the ladies—he’d never been a womanizer, not even in his youth. There had been special women, of course, and a few minor flirtations. But it had been years since he’d dated anyone on a regular basis. He had found that most of the women close to his age, those within a ten-year-span older or younger, were often bitter from a divorce or desperate because they’d never married. And he found younger women, especially those in their twenties, a breed unto themselves. Whenever he dated a woman under thirty, he somehow felt as if he were dating his daughter’s best friend. Of course, he didn’t have a daughter, but the fact was that at the ripe old age of forty-seven he easily could have a twenty-five-year-old daughter.

Egan turned the salmon steak out onto a plate, then carried the plate and the wine to the table in his kitchen. Although the kitchen in his Atlanta home was ultramodern, his table and chairs were antiques that he’d brought here from his apartment in Memphis. Over the years, while he’d traveled the world as a soldier of fortune, he had always returned to the States, so he’d maintained a place in his old hometown. But two years ago, after joining the Dundee Agency, he’d bought a home in Atlanta and moved his furniture, many priceless antiques, into his newly purchased two-story town house.

The salmon flaked to the touch of his fork and melted like butter when he put it into his mouth. He ate slowly, savoring every bite. He enjoyed cooking and had found that he was a rather good chef.

Egan poured himself more Chablis, then stood, picked up the bowl of fresh raspberries on the counter and headed for the living room. He could clean up later, before bedtime, he thought. As he entered the twenty-by-twenty room, he punched a button on the CD player and the strains of the incomparable Stan Getz’s saxophone rendition of “Body and Soul” filled the room. The stereo system he and his friend and fellow Dundee agent, Hunter Whitelaw, had installed was state-of-the-art. The best money could buy. Everything Egan owned was the best.

Easing down into the soft, lush leather chair, he sighed and closed his eyes, savoring the good music as he had savored the good food. Maybe growing up on the mean streets of Memphis, with no one except an alcoholic father for family, had whetted Egan’s appetite for the good things in life. And maybe his lack of a decent upbringing and his brief tenure in Vietnam when he’d been barely eighteen had predisposed him for the occupation to which he had devoted himself for twenty-five years. He’d made a lot of money as a mercenary and had invested wisely, turning his ill-gained earnings into quite a tidy sum. He had more than enough money, so if he chose to never work again, he could maintain his current lifestyle as long as he lived.

Two hours later, the kitchen cleaned and the bottle of Chablis half-empty, Egan made his way into his small home office. The bookshelves and furniture were a light oak and the walls a soft cream. The only color in the room was the dark green, tufted-back leather chair behind his desk. This was the one room in the town house that his decorator hadn’t touched. He smiled when he remembered Heather Sims. She’d been interested—very interested. And if he had chosen to pursue a relationship with her, she would have been only too happy to have filled his lonely hours with idle chitchat and hot sex. Three dates, one night of vigorous lovemaking and they had parted as friends.

Egan sat, then opened his notebook and picked up a pen. No one knew that he wrote poetry. Not that he was ashamed, just that to him it was such a private endeavor. At first, it had been a catharsis, and perhaps even now it still was.

With pen in hand, he wrote.

because he was eighteen

he was considered

man enough to fight old men’s wars…

The ringing telephone jarred him from his memories, from a time long ago when he’d lived a nightmare—a boy trapped in the politicians’ war, a boy who became a man the hard way.

Egan lifted the receiver. “Cassidy here.”

“Well, well, well. Hello, old friend.”

Egan’s blood ran cold. He hadn’t heard that voice in years. The last time he’d run into Grant Cullen, they’d both been in the Middle East, both doing nasty little jobs for nasty little men. When had that been, six years ago? No, more like eight.

“What do you want, Cullen?”

“Now, is that any way to talk to an old friend?”

“We were never friends.”

Cullen laughed and the sound of his laughter chilled Egan to the bone. Something was wrong. Bad wrong. His gut instincts warned him that this phone call meant big trouble.

“You’re right,” Grant Cullen agreed. “Neither of us has ever had many friends, have we?”

Cullen was playing some sort of game, Egan thought, and he was enjoying himself too damn much. “You want something. What is it?”

“Oh, just to talk over old times. You know, reminisce about the good old days. Discuss how you screwed me over in Nam and how I’ve been waiting nearly thirty years to return the favor.”

“You want me, you know where to find me,” Egan said, his voice deadly soft.

“Oh, I want you all right, but I want you to come to me.”

“Now why the hell would I do that?”

“Because I’ve got something that belongs to you. Something you’ll want back.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Egan clutched the phone tightly, his knuckles whitening from the strength of his grasp.

“Remember Bentley Tyson III, that good ol’ boy from Alabama who saved your life back in Nam?”

“How the hell do you know about Bentley?”

“You’ve been paying for flowers to be put on his grave every year ever since he killed himself fifteen years ago.”

“Get to the point,” Egan snapped, highly agitated that a man like Cullen would even dare to say Bentley’s name. Bentley, who’d been a good man destroyed by an evil war.

“The point is I know that when you paid your condolences to Tyson’s little sister fifteen years ago, you stayed in Parsons City for a week. What were you doing, Cassidy, screwing Maggie Tyson?”

Egan saw red. Figuratively and literally. Rage boiled inside him like lava on the verge of erupting from a volcano. How did Cullen know about Maggie, about the fact that he’d spent a week in her home?

He’s guessing about the affair you had with her, Egan assured himself. He wants to think Maggie meant something to you, that she still does.

“I don’t know where you got your information,” Egan said. “But you’ve got it all wrong. Bentley’s little sister was engaged to a guy named Gil Douglas and they got married a few months after Bentley’s funeral.”

“Oh, I know sweet Maggie was engaged, but she didn’t marry Gil Douglas until five years later. What Maggie did a few months after Bentley’s funeral—nine months to be exact—was give birth to a bouncing baby boy.”

Egan felt as if he’d been hit in the belly with a sledgehammer. His heartbeat drummed in his ears. He broke out in a cold sweat. No, God, please, no! He’d spent his entire adult life looking over his shoulder, waiting for Grant Cullen to attack. He had denied himself the love and companionship of a wife and the pride and joy of children to protect them from the revenge Cullen would be sure to wreak on anyone who meant a damn thing to Egan.

“What’s the matter, buddy boy, didn’t sweet Maggie tell you that you have a son?”

“You’re crazy! I don’t have a son.” He couldn’t have a child. God wouldn’t be that cruel.

“Oh, yes, you do. A fine boy of fourteen. Big, tall, handsome. Looks a whole hell of a lot like you did when you were eighteen and you and I were buddies in that POW camp.”

“I do not have a son,” Egan repeated.

“Yes, Cassidy, you do. You and Maggie Tyson Douglas.”

Cullen laughed again, a sharp, maniacal sound that sliced flesh from Egan’s bones.

“You’re wrong,” Egan said, his statement a plea to God as well as a denial to Cullen.

“Run a check. Your name is on his birth certificate. And one look at a photograph of Bentley Tyson Douglas will confirm the facts.”

“I don’t believe anything you’ve told me. You’re a lying son of a bitch!”

“Well, believe this, buddy boy. As we speak, your son is in my hands. I had him flown in from Alabama this afternoon. So just think about that for a while. And you have a good night. Bye now.”

Chapter 2

It couldn’t be true. Maggie’s child couldn’t be his. She would never have kept the boy a secret from him all these years. Not Maggie. She would have come to him, told him, expected him to do the right thing.

Don’t be an idiot, Cassidy, an inner voice chided. You ended things with her rather abruptly once you realized she was in love with you. You gave her a hundred and one reasons why a committed relationship between the two of you would never work. You broke her heart. Why would she have come to you if, later on, she’d discovered she was carrying your child? You had made it perfectly clear that you didn’t love her or want her.

And there was another reason he couldn’t be the father of Maggie’s child—he had used condoms when he’d made love to her. He never had unprotected sex. The last thing he’d ever wanted was to father a child—someone Cullen could use against him.

His thoughts swirled through time to the week he’d spent with Maggie Tyson. She had been in mourning, torn apart by Bentley’s suicide. And she’d reached out to someone who had known and cared for her brother. Someone who had lived through the same hell, who understood why Bentley had been so tormented. She’d realized that Egan was on a first name basis with the same demons that had haunted her brother for so many years, had shared the same nightmares that finally had driven Bentley to take his own life. Maggie had reached out to Egan and, for the first time in his life, he had succumbed to the pleasure of giving and receiving comfort.

But the connection he and Maggie had shared quickly went beyond sympathy and understanding, beyond a mutual need to mourn a good man’s untimely death. Passion had ignited between them like a lightning strike to summer-dry grass. An out-of-control blaze had swept them away.

Suddenly Egan remembered—he hadn’t used protection the first time he made love to Maggie!

He paced the floor, calling himself all kinds of a fool and finally admitting that the only way to find out the truth was to telephone Maggie. God help us all if her child is my son and Grant Cullen really has kidnapped him.

Maggie escaped into the powder room, locking the door behind her. She needed a few quiet moments away from the crowd that had gathered at her house. All her friends, aunts, uncles and cousins meant well, as did Bent’s friends and their parents, who were congregated in her living room. Paul Spencer had stopped by less than an hour ago to give her an update on the local manhunt for Bent. No one had seen the boy all day and there wasn’t a trace of him or the book bag he’d been carrying. It was as if her son had dropped off the face of the earth.

The agony she’d felt earlier had intensified to such an unbearable degree that she wondered how she was able to function at all. But somewhere between the moment she realized that Bent was missing and this very second, a blessed numbness had set in, allowing her to operate with robotic efficiency.

If only she could shut down her mind, stop all the horrific scenarios that kept repeating themselves over and over in her head.

She held on to the hope that Bent was still alive and unharmed. That any minute now he would walk through the front door with a perfectly good reason for where he’d been and why he had worried her so.

She could hang on to her sanity as long as she could believe that her son was all right. If anything happened to Bent…if she lost him…

Maggie rammed her fist against her mouth to silence a gut-wrenching cry as she doubled over in pain. No! No! her heart screamed. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t fair. Bent was all she had. He was her very life. If she lost him, she would have nothing.

Her son deserved to live and grow up to be the man she knew he could be. He had a right to go to college and get a job and find a girlfriend. To marry and have children. To live a normal life and die in his sleep when he was ninety.

As Maggie slumped to her knees in the small powder room, she prayed, trying to bargain with God. Let him be all right. Let him live and have a long, happy life and you can take me. Take me now and I won’t care. Just don’t let my precious Bent suffer. Don’t let him die.

A loud tapping at the door startled Maggie. She’d been so far removed from the present moment that she had forgotten she had a houseful of concerned friends and relatives. The tapping turned into repeated knocks.

“Maggie, honey, there’s a phone call for you,” Janice said. “I told him that now wasn’t a good time for you, but he insisted. Mag, it’s Egan Cassidy.”

“What!”

“Do you want me to ask him to call back later?”

“No.” Maggie lifted herself from the floor, stared into the mirror over the sink and groaned when she saw her pale face and red eyes. “I’ll be there in a minute. I’ll take the call in the den. Would you make sure no one else is in there.”

“Sure thing.”

Maggie turned on the faucet, cupped her hands to gather the cold water and then splashed her face. After drying her face and hands, she unlocked the door and stepped out into the hall. She made her way through the throng of loving, caring, wall-to-wall people, as she headed toward the den. Slowed down by hugs and words of encouragement, it took her quite some time to finally reach the small, cosy room that she considered a private sanctuary.

Janice waited by the mahogany secretary, the telephone in her hand. Maggie hesitated for a split second, then took the phone, breathed deeply and placed the receiver to her ear. Janice curled her fingers into a tiny waving motion as she started to leave the room, but Maggie shook her head and motioned for her friend to stay.

“This is Maggie Douglas.” She was amazed by how calm her voice sounded.

“Hello, Maggie. It’s Egan Cassidy.”

“Yes, Janice told me.”

“I know you’re probably puzzled by this phone call.”

“Yes, I am. After fifteen years, I never expected to hear from you.” Why was he calling now? she asked herself. Today of all days?

“I need to ask you some questions,” Egan said.

“About what?”

“About your son. You do have a son, don’t you? A fourteen-year-old son named Bentley Tyson Douglas.”

“What do you know about Bent?” She couldn’t hide the hysteria in her voice. Had Egan found out that he had a son? Had he somehow talked Bent into going away with him? Was that why Egan was calling, to tell her that he had claimed his son?

“Then you do have a son?”

“Yes, I—is Bent with you? Did you find out that—”

“Bent isn’t with me,” Egan told her. “But your son is missing, isn’t he?”

“If he isn’t with you, then how do you know—”

“How long has he been missing?”

“Since this morning. I dropped him off at school and no one has seen him since.”

“Damn!”

“Egan, please, tell me what’s going on. How did you know about Bent and how did you find out he was missing?”

Long pause. Hard breathing. Although they were physically hundreds of miles apart, Maggie could feel the tension in Egan, could sense some sort of emotional struggle going on inside him.

“Egan, you’re frightening me.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice deep and low and the sentiment truly genuine. “Maggie, I need to know something and it’s important that you tell me the truth.”

The rush of blood pounded in her head. Her heartbeat accelerated rapidly. Adrenaline shot through her like a fast acting narcotic. “Ask me.”

“Is Bent my son?”

Maggie closed her eyes. A tear escaped and trickled down her cheek. Janice rushed to her side and draped her arm around Maggie’s waist.

“Are you all right?” Janice whispered. “Do you want me to talk to him?”

Maggie shook her head, then opened her eyes, her vision blurred by the sheen of moisture. “Yes, Bent is your son.”

Egan groaned. Maggie bit down on her bottom lip. The sound from Egan that came through the telephone was that of a wounded animal. A ferocious hurt. An angry growl.

“Listen to me very carefully,” Egan said. “I know what has happened to Bent—”

Maggie cried out.

“Don’t panic. For now, he’s safe. Do you hear me? He hasn’t been harmed. But in order to keep him safe, you’re going to have to let me handle things. Do you understand?”

“No,” Maggie said. “No, I don’t understand anything. Where is Bent? What’s happened to him?”

Janice gasped. “He knows where Bent is?”

“Who’s that?” Egan asked. “Who’s there with you?”

“Janice Deweese. In case you’ve forgotten, Janice is my dearest friend and my assistant at Rare Finds.”

“Then you can trust Janice?”

“Yes, of course I can trust her.”

“With your life? With Bent’s life?”

“Yes.”

“I assume you’ve alerted the local authorities,” Egan said. “But what I’m going to tell you, I want you to keep it to yourself. Or at least between you and Janice.”

“God in heaven, Egan, will you just tell me what’s going on?”

“Bent’s life could depend on your following my instructions, on letting me handle things without involving any law enforcement other than the ones I chose to bring in on this.”

“Bent’s life could—” Maggie choked on the tears lodged in her throat. Her son’s life was in danger and Egan knew from what or from whom that danger came. How was it possible that Egan was involved in Bent’s disappearance when he’d never been a part of Bent’s life? She didn’t understand any of this. Nothing made sense. It was as if she’d suddenly passed through some invisible barrier straight into the Twilight Zone.

“Maggie!” Egan demanded her attention.

“I don’t understand anything. None of this makes any sense to me. Explain to me what’s happening. Where is Bent? Why…why—”

“Don’t do anything. And don’t speak to anyone else tonight. If there are people in your house, get rid of them. I’ll fly into Parsons City tonight and I’ll explain everything to you when I get there.”

“Egan, wait—”

“I’ll get your son back for you, Maggie. I’ll bring him home. I promise you that.”

“Egan!”

The mocking hum of the dial tone told Maggie that Egan had hung up. She slumped down in the chair at the secretary, covered her face with her hands and moaned.

Janice knelt in front of Maggie, then pried Maggie’s hands from her face. “What’s going on?”

“I’m not sure,” Maggie admitted. “Somehow Egan found out that Bent is his son and he knows that Bent is missing. Egan said…he said that he knew what had happened to Bent and that he wanted me to let him handle everything. He promised me that he’d bring Bent home.”

“Is Bent with Egan?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Maggie stared straight through Janice. “Egan is coming here tonight to tell me what happened to our son.”

Bent glared at the plate of food his jailer had brought to him several hours ago. He was hungry, but he hadn’t touched the fried chicken, mashed potatoes and green beans. He had no way of knowing whether or not his food had been poisoned. But why his captors would choose to poison him, he didn’t know. They could easily have killed him a dozen different ways by now.

Although they had taken his book bag and his cellular phone, they hadn’t robbed him of either his wallet or his wristwatch. And other than drugging him initially in order to kidnap him and keeping him bound and gagged in the car and then on the airplane, his abductors hadn’t laid a finger on him. Of course, they had blindfolded him when they’d taken him off the plane.

He had heard one of them, the guy who’d approached him in the school parking lot, tell the other one, a younger, more clean-cut man, that the general didn’t want the kid hurt.

“He’s waiting for the kid’s old man to show up first.”

Bent didn’t understand. What did his father have to do with his kidnapping? He hadn’t seen Gil Douglas in over a year. And he hadn’t spoken to him in three months. After his parents’ divorce his relationship with his dad had slowly deteriorated. And it wasn’t as if his father was rich. Gil spent every dime he made, as a chemical engineer, on his new wife and two-year-old daughter.

Nope, it didn’t make any sense at all that his dad was involved in any way, shape, form or fashion with his kidnapping.

So what was going on? He had been abducted, flown across country to only God knew where and was being kept prisoner in a clean, neatly decorated bedroom and served a decent meal on a china plate.

Bent checked his watch. Fifteen after nine. He’d been missing for more than twelve hours. His mother must be out of her mind with worry. She’d probably called the police and had every friend and relative in Parsons City out scouring the countryside for him. And what had she done when no one had been able to find him? His mom would stay strong and hopeful. And she would go to her kitchen to think and plan. He could picture his mother now, in their big old kitchen, baking. For as long as he could remember, his mother had baked whenever she was upset, depressed or needed to make a decision.

Boy, what he’d give for some of her delicious tea cakes. And a glass of milk. And his own bed to sleep in tonight.

Eaten alive by frustration and an ever-increasing fear, Bent tried the door again. Still locked. Stupid! He scanned the room, searching for any means of escape. There were no bars on the two windows, both small rectangular slits near the ceiling. He shoved a chair against the wall, climbed onto the seat and peered out the windows. The moonlight afforded him a glimpse of the shadowy, enclosed courtyard below and the two men who seemed to be guarding the area. Scratch the idea of climbing out the windows.

He heard voices in the hallway, but couldn’t make out the conversation. His heartbeat increased speed. Sweat dampened his palms. What if they were coming for him? What if—

Footsteps moved past the door. Silence. Was someone standing outside the door guarding him? Had another someone stopped by to issue orders?

Bent balled his hands into tight fists and beat on the door. “Let me out of here! Why are you doing this? What are you going to do with me?”

He pummeled the door until his fists turned red, until they ached something awful. And he hollered while he banged on the hard wooden surface—hollered until he was hoarse. But no one replied. No one released him. It was as if no one could hear him.

Anger boiled inside Bent, mingling with fear and frustration. He kicked the wall, denting the Sheetrock with his toe. Damn! He couldn’t blast his way out of here. He was stuck, trapped, caught.

Bent flung himself down on the neatly made bed, shoved his crossed arms behind his head and glared up at the ceiling. He had to find a way to get out of here, to free himself from his captors. But how? He didn’t know. But there had to be a way. He sure as hell wasn’t going to give up! Not now. Not ever.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay with you?” Janice asked as she stood on the front porch with Maggie. “I can spend the night.”

“No, Egan said to clear the house. He doesn’t want anyone here when he arrives.” Maggie hugged her arms around her as she waited for her friend to leave.

“Why do you trust him? He’s the man who ran out on you and left you pregnant.”

“Egan never made me any promises.”

“No, but he didn’t have a problem taking advantage of you, did he? He sweet-talked his way into your bed, made you fall in love with him and then told you that he wasn’t interested in a committed relationship.”

“None of that matters now,” Maggie said. “All that’s important is that he knows what’s happened to Bent and he’s promised to bring my son home to me.”

“And you believe him?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Aren’t you the least bit suspicious? You haven’t heard from the guy in fifteen years and suddenly, on the very day Bent disappears, he calls to tell you he knows Bent is his son.”

“Yes, of course I’m suspicious. But I know—I know!—that Egan is as concerned about Bent as I am. I could hear it in his voice. He was in pain.” Maggie looked out over the front yard. Streetlights on either end of the block illuminated the manicured lawn and flower beds. She and Bent did all the yard work themselves—a mother and son project.

Janice gave Maggie a tight hug, then released her and walked down the porch steps. “I’m a phone call away. I can be back here in five minutes.”

“Go on home and get some rest. Call me in the morning, if you haven’t heard from me before then.”

“Okay. And don’t worry about the bookstore. I’ll take care of things there.”

Maggie remained on the porch until Janice backed her car out of the driveway, then she turned and went inside the house. In the foyer, the tick of the grandfather clock’s pendulum kept time with her heartbeat. As she made her way through the living room and dining room and into the kitchen, she found herself wishing Janice and the others hadn’t cleaned up after themselves. If they had left dirty glasses and nasty ashtrays, at least she’d have something to do, something to occupy her mind while she waited.

She had thought of nothing else for the past two hours except the fact that Egan Cassidy knew what had happened to Bent. She had gone over at least a dozen possibilities, but not even one plot line was based in reality. Her mind had run the gamut from Bent having left home to find his biological father to someone from Egan’s mercenary world having kidnapped Bent to hold him for ransom.

Maggie found herself alone in the kitchen, her favorite room of the house. All her life, since early childhood when she had hovered at her grandmother’s side and watched her beloved MaMa create mouthwatering meals, Maggie had found her greatest solace in this room.

She had redecorated the kitchen and the master bedroom shortly after her divorce, needing to wipe away any memories of Gil. Forgetting her five-year-marriage to her childhood friend had been easy enough, especially when he had remarried so quickly. In less than six months after their divorce was final. Even then, realizing that he’d probably been unfaithful to her for quite some time, she still couldn’t blame him for the demise of the marriage. How could she hold him at fault when he had always known that he was her second choice, that Bent’s father was the one man she had truly loved?

Rummaging in the cabinets for the ingredients to MaMa’s tea cakes—Bent’s favorite—Maggie let her mind drift back to the first time she ever saw Egan Cassidy. Oh, she’d heard about Egan for years. Bentley had talked about his old war buddy, when he was sober as well as when he was drinking. Her brother had admired and respected Egan in a way he had no other man. Several times over the years, Bentley had gone to Memphis to visit Egan, to share a few days of wine, women and song. But Egan had never come to Parsons City. Not until Bentley died.

Three weeks after Bentley’s funeral she’d gone to the cemetery to put fresh flowers on the grave. Just as she rose from her knees, she noticed someone behind her. The stranger stood by the willow tree at the edge of the Tyson plot. He didn’t say anything, didn’t make a move to come toward her. But when she passed him, she looked into his intense dark eyes and saw the pain.

“Did you know my brother?” she asked.

“You’re Maggie, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” She felt drawn to this man, as if he existed solely to comfort her.

“I’m Egan Cassidy. I didn’t find out about Bentley until yesterday,” he explained. “I’ve been out of the country on business.”

“I called and left several messages. And when I didn’t hear from you, I wrote.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here for the funeral.”

“He killed himself.” She heard her voice, heard her state the undeniable fact and yet she felt as if someone else were speaking. “He took his pistol, put it in his mouth and pulled—” She burst into tears.

Egan wrapped his arms around her and eased her up against his body, encompassing her in a tender, comforting embrace. “I should have been here for you. Bentley was the best friend I ever had. I owed him my life.”

Maggie had clung to Egan, feeling safe and secure. And knowing that this man shared her grief. Bentley’s Vietnam comrade understood as no one else did what it had been like for her brother. How he had used alcohol as a crutch to get him through each new day.

She had taken Egan Cassidy home with her and he had stayed for seven days. That had been almost fifteen years ago and she hadn’t seen him since.

Maggie mixed the ingredients together with expert precision. She needed no recipe. Indeed, she could prepare these little cakes with her eyes closed. Eggs. Butter—real butter. Flour. Milk. And vanilla. She would make fresh coffee when Egan arrived and serve him tea cakes and coffee in the living room, just as she’d done that day, long ago, when she had opened her home and her heart to Bentley’s friend.

At eleven o’clock, Maggie put away her cooking utensils, stored the tea cakes and the raisin-nut bread she had prepared and tidied up the kitchen. Just as she untied the strings on her apron, the doorbell rang. She jumped as if she’d been shot.

Calm down, she cautioned herself. It took every ounce of her willpower not to fall completely apart, not to scream and cry until she was totally insane. But she couldn’t come unglued. She had to remain strong and in control. For her own sake and for Bent’s sake.

Maggie hung the yellow gingham apron on the back of the Windsor chair at the table, squared her shoulders and marched hurriedly through the house. Before she reached the front door, the bell rang again. He was impatient, she thought. But then, he always had been.

Peering through the glass panes, she saw Egan Cassidy standing on her porch. Big. Tall. Lean. Just as he’d been fifteen years ago. She opened the door.

“Maggie.” He studied her face as if he were trying to memorize it, as if he had forgotten how she looked and never wanted to forget again.

“Come in, Egan.”

His short, jet-black hair was now laced with silver and he wore a neat, closely cropped beard and mustache that gave him a roguish appearance. An aging desperado. A renegade who lived by his own rules.

Khaki slacks covered his long legs, a brown tweed jacket clung to his broad shoulders and a navy blue cotton shirt covered his muscular chest. His appearance belied the dangerous warrior within him.

“Are you alone?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m alone,” she told him. “I did as you asked and sent everyone home. Janice wanted to stay, but—”

Egan lunged toward Maggie, grabbed her shoulders and shoved her gently back into the foyer. He kicked the door closed with his foot. Maggie gasped when she looked up into his eyes and saw fear. Never in her wildest imagination could she have pictured Egan Cassidy afraid of anything or anyone. He was the type of man who put the fear of God into others. But he was invincible, wasn’t he? He had not only survived Vietnam, but he had somehow managed to remain sane and return to warfare on an international level as a soldier of fortune.

What—or who—was Egan afraid of?

She trembled, her whole body convulsing in one long, uncontrollable shiver. If Egan was afraid, then she had reason to be terrified.

“Why didn’t you tell me that I had a son?” he demanded.

“What?” She tried to pull free of his tenacious hold, but he held her fast.

“If I’d known about Bent, I could have found a way to protect him, to protect both of you!”

“I don’t understand, dammit. What are you talking about? Why would Bent and I need protection?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked again.

Maggie had never thought this day would come. Not really. Oh, she had once fantasized that Egan would learn about Bent and how he would come to her, profess his undying love and claim her and her son for his own. But those daydreams had died a slow, painful death. After waiting five years for Egan’s return, she had finally agreed to marry Gil. Another monumental mistake she’d made.

“Why would I have told you? You’d made it perfectly clear that you and I had no future. You didn’t want any type of commitments in your life. No wife. No children. That is what you said, isn’t it?”

Egan released his grip on her shoulders, but quickly draped his arm around her and led her into the living room. She went with him quite willingly, not having the strength to argue.

“God, Maggie, I’m so sorry.” He stepped away from her and gazed into her eyes. “You’ll never know how sorry I am. You’re the last person on earth I’d want to hurt. I can’t blame you for not telling me about Bent. But heaven help me, I wish you had.”

“Would it have made a difference?”

“More than you know.”

“More than—are you saying that you would have cared, that you would have wanted to be a part of our lives?”

“I’m saying that if I had known I had a child, I would have found a way to prevent what happened to Bent.”

“What—what happened to Bent?”

“A man who hates me, a man with whom I endured months of hell in a Vietcong POW camp, a man who has spent over twenty-five years searching for a way to destroy me, has kidnapped our son.”

Chapter 3

Maggie couldn’t feel her body. Numbness claimed her from head to toe. She could hear the roar of Egan’s words as he continued speaking, but she couldn’t understand what he was saying. Suddenly the room began to spin around and around. Maggie reached out, grasping for Egan, but before she could grab him, she fainted dead away.

Egan caught her before she hit the floor, lifted her into his arms and carried her to the sofa. By the time he laid her down and placed a pillow under her head, she opened her eyes and moaned.

“Oh, God.” She tried to sit up, but Egan placed his hand in the middle of her chest and forced her to lie still.

“Are you all right?” He hovered over her, wishing so damned hard that he didn’t have to put her through the nightmare that lay ahead of them. It was unfair that Maggie was suffering because of him.

“I’m all right.” When she looked into his eyes, she smiled weakly. “Really. I’m okay. I don’t know what happened. I’ve never fainted before in my entire life. Not even when I was pregnant with— Oh, God! Bent!” She reached up and grasped the front of Egan’s shirt. “Bent’s been kidnapped by someone who wants to destroy you. This man knows…he knows that Bent is your son. But how?”

Egan helped Maggie to sit up, then eased his big, lanky frame down beside her on the tan-and-cream striped sofa. He ran his hand across the smooth silk fabric, but what he wanted to do was pull Maggie back into his arms. Comfort her. Tell her how sorry he was that this had happened. Beg her to forgive him.

“You put my name on your son’s birth certificate,” Egan said. “Cullen got hold of a copy. And he also has pictures of Bent. He told me that the boy looks a lot like I did when I was eighteen.”

Maggie nodded. “Bent does resemble you. He’s only fourteen and already six feet tall. He has your gray eyes. Your black hair.” Maggie’s quivering hand lifted ever so slowly and reached out toward Egan’s face. “Why, Egan, why?”

They stared into each other’s eyes, each seeking understanding, each sharing a realization that no parent should have to accept.

“He—he…this man you call Cullen, he’s going to kill Bent, isn’t he?”

Maggie’s hand dropped to her side. She sat very still. Egan could hear the sound of her breathing. Silence hung between them like a heavy veil.

“I won’t lie to you, Maggie.” He had never lied to her. Never pretended to be anything other than what he was. Never made her promises he knew he couldn’t keep. “I’m sure that’s Cullen’s plan.”

Maggie gasped loudly and the agony on her face was almost more than Egan could bear. For just a split second he had to close his eyes and shut out the sight of her.

“But Cullen won’t harm Bent,” Egan said. When Maggie’s eyes cleared and she looked to him for hope, he amended his statement. “Not yet. He’ll want me there. To watch.”

Egan shot up off the sofa. How the hell had this happened? He’d been so careful all these years, making sure no woman became important to him, so that Cullen wouldn’t have anyone to use against him. He had given up what most men wanted—a wife, children, a real home—in order to prevent this very thing from ever happening.

Pacing the floor, he forked his fingers through his hair and cursed under his breath. “I’ll move heaven and earth to stop Cullen,” Egan vowed as he halted his prowl and faced Maggie. “I’ll find a way to save Bent.”

Squaring her shoulders, Maggie lifted her chin and glared at Egan. “What did you do to this man to make him hate you so much? Can’t you undo whatever it is you did?” Although she sat perfectly still, her hands folded primly in her lap, there was just a hint of hysteria in her voice. “You can’t let him kill…kill my…” Tears glazed her soft, brown eyes.

Egan rushed to her, dropped down on one knee and grabbed her hands. “If I’d only known about Bent, I could have—”

Maggie jerked away from him, shoved him aside and rose to her feet. “Don’t you dare blame me for this! You keep saying if only you’d known about Bent, as if it’s my fault that he’s been kidnapped by some lunatic who wants to punish you.” She pointed directly at Egan, who rose from his knees to his full six-foot-three height.

“I didn’t mean to imply that this is your fault.”

“Then why don’t you place the blame where it belongs,” she glowered at him, anger and hatred gleaming in her eyes, turning them from brown to black. “You’re the reason my son was kidnapped, the reason his life is in danger. You—” she jabbed her finger into the air, pointing it in his direction and then at herself “—not me.”

“Maggie, let me explain.” He held open his hands, the very act a plea for her understanding.

“Explain what? That you’ve lead such an unsavory life, such a wicked life, that you have evil men, capable of murder, searching for ways to punish you.” Maggie flew toward him, her arms lifted, her hands cupped into taut fists. “The hard, cruel world you chose to live in, the ungodly way you chose to make a living is the reason Bent’s life is in danger.” Maggie hurled her fists into Egan’s chest. “You’ve never cared about anyone—ever! You’ve lived only for yourself, never wanting or needing me or my child. You don’t deserve to be a father!”

Her slender, white fists flayed him repeatedly. He barely felt the blows in a physical sense, but emotionally he felt as if Maggie had stripped him down to his bones, with one angry, cutting accusation after another.

He stood unmoving, allowing her to vent her frustration, to beat her fists against his chest until she was spent. He deserved her hatred. She was right. It was his fault that Cullen had kidnapped Bent.

When Maggie’s blows lost their strength and she seemed barely able to raise her hands, Egan wrapped his arms around her. If only she would allow him to hold her, to comfort her, then perhaps he could find some small amount of comfort himself. Her head lay against his chest as she sucked in her breath, gasping for air. Uncertain how to proceed, Egan lifted one hand to her head and caressed her hair. He remembered how much he had loved Maggie’s long, mahogany-red hair.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’d give anything if I could have spared you.”

As if suddenly realizing that the man who held her was the enemy, Maggie disengaged herself from his embrace and shoved him away. “I don’t want your apologies. Saying I’m sorry now is too little, too late. All I want from you is for you to save Bent.”

“I’m going to do everything—” Egan’s cellular phone rang.

Maggie jumped. “Would he call you on your cell phone?”

“No. There’s not any way he could get this number. All the phones issued to Dundee agents have restricted numbers and operate with a scrambling security frequency.”

Maggie laughed, the sound harsh and brittle. “You’re still in the cloak-and-dagger business, aren’t you?”

“Look, I need to get this,” Egan said, then removed his small cell phone from the clip on his belt. “Yeah?”

“Egan, I’ve called in our top six men,” Ellen Denby, the CEO of the Dundee agency, said. “And I’ve put in a call to Sam to alert him that you’re going to need not only manpower, but that he’ll need to use all his connections to make sure we head up this operation and we get full cooperation from the FBI. By the way, are you already in Alabama?”

“Thanks for handling things for me,” Egan said. “And, yes, I’m in Alabama, with the mother of my child.”

“Any word from the kidnapper?”

“Not yet. But it’s only a matter of time.”

“I’ve already called in a few favors of my own,” Ellen told him. “I’ll have a dossier a foot thick on Grant Cullen by morning. I’ll know what toothpaste he buys and how many times a day he uses the john.”

“Have the men on standby,” Egan said. “As soon as we hear from Cullen, I want to move in quick and hit him hard.” When Egan heard Maggie gasp, he glanced across the room at her and their gazes locked. “My one and only objective is to rescue my son. Getting Cullen will be a bonus.” Egan saw the startled look on Maggie’s face, the shock in her eyes, the very minute she realized that in order to save Bent, Egan might have to annihilate his abductor.

“When you’re ready to move, just let me know,” Ellen said.

“You’re the best, Denby.”

“Yeah, and don’t you ever forget it.”

Egan hit the Off button and returned his cell phone to its nest on his hip. “I work for a private security and investigation firm based in Atlanta,” he explained to Maggie, who was staring at him questioningly. “I’ve been with them for a couple of years now. Most of the agents are former special forces or former lawmen, all highly trained professionals. My boss has just called in the top six men at Dundee’s to be ready to act on my command, once we hear from Cullen.”

“You’re planning Bent’s rescue as if it’s a commando attack, as if this man Cullen is going to tell you where he has Bent and invite you to come and get him.” Maggie flung her hands out on either side of her body in an are-you-insane? gesture. “This is my child’s life we’re talking about. I’m going to call the FBI right now. I’ve had enough of this craziness.”

Maggie swerved around and headed toward the white and gold telephone sitting atop the chinoiserie cabinet positioned along the back wall. Egan reached her in three giant strides and grabbed her arm just as she lifted the receiver.

“Put the phone down.” His voice brooked no refusal.

Maggie glared at him, hesitating to obey his command. When he tightened his hold on her arm, she winced. “Why should I listen to you? Why should I do what you tell me to do?”

“Because handling this situation my way is the only chance we have of getting our son back alive.”

Maggie continued staring at Egan, but she gradually lowered her arm and replaced the telephone receiver. “So, what do we do now?”

Egan released her and when she rubbed her arm, he realized he might have held her too tightly. “Did I hurt you?”

“No, not really. You just don’t know your own strength.”

“You’ve got to believe me, Maggie, I’d never intentionally hurt you.”

“That’s debatable,” she told him. “But it isn’t important. Not anymore. But you didn’t answer my question, what do we do now?”

“We wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“Wait for Grant Cullen to call us and give us his demands.”

Grant Cullen strolled the grounds of his secluded Arizona camp, hidden away in the mountains southeast of Flagstaff. It had taken him years to build and stock his retreat and to man it with his own army. His troops, though few in number, were well-trained young men—schooled personally by him. Two dozen well-trained and obedient followers were worth more to him than a hundred ordinary men.

He had founded the Ultimate Survivalists thirteen years ago when he had realized that eventually he and other brave souls would have to defend themselves against an ever strengthening left-wing, liberal government. There were many men such as he who felt it their God given right to govern their own lives without interference from Uncle Sam. The time would come when chaos would reign and only those who had prepared themselves for the confrontation would survive. When martial law was declared and men were stripped of their rights and their weapons, he and his followers would be prepared to fight to the death.

He had spent a lifetime acquiring the means to secure land in the United States and create a hideaway where he could retreat after every mercenary mission. He and Egan had been in the same line of business, ever since they’d returned from Nam. The only difference was that he hadn’t been choosy about the people who hired him. He had no allegiances to any country, not even his own. He hired out to the highest bidder and did whatever nasty little chore that needed to be done.

And all the while he had been planning and preparing, he had known this day would come. The day of reckoning. The day he would finally have the revenge that was long overdue.

His rottweilers, Patton and MacArthur, trotted on either side of him, two ever-alert canines with the same killer instincts he himself possessed. And like the men under his command, obedient unto death.

After sunset, even springtime in the mountains maintained winterlike temperatures and tonight was no exception. A cold north wind whipped around Grant’s shoulders. He breathed deeply, dragging in as much fresh, crisp air as his lungs would hold. Invigorated by thoughts of triumph over his nemesis, he experienced a feeling of pure happiness that he hadn’t known since before Nam. Before having been a POW. Before having had his promising military career destroyed by an eighteen-year-old recruit with a Boy Scout mentality.

Grant Cullen had been the son, grandson and great-grandson of West Point graduates and no one had been prouder than he the day his name was added to that family tradition. And no one had been more willing to serve his country than he. Everyone who knew him had been certain that he would one day be a great general, just as his heroes, George Patton and Douglas MacArthur had been.

But Egan Cassidy had ruined any chances he’d had of a distinguished military career. Once Cassidy had exposed him as a traitor, even his own father had turned against him. It had been his word against Cassidy’s until that snot-nosed Vietcong major had been captured and had collaborated Cassidy’s story.

Revenge had been a long time coming, but finally Cassidy was going to get what he deserved. He was going to learn what real suffering was all about.

Grant entered the two-story fortress through the wrought-iron gates that opened up into an outdoor foyer. Two guards, one outside the gate and one inside saluted him when he passed by. He marched into the interior entrance hall, the rottweilers at his heels.

“Winn! Winn!” Grant called loudly. “Where the hell are you?”

The stocky, hard-as-nails Winn Sherman, stormed down the long corridor that led from Grant’s office and met his commander halfway. “Yes, sir!” He clicked his heels and saluted.

“Bring the boy to my office.” Grant checked the time. “In exactly forty-eight minutes. I’ll be making a phone call precisely at three o’clock and I want young Bent Douglas to say a few words to the folks at home.”

The corners of Winn’s thin lips curved into a smile. Grant liked his protégé, a man who shared Grant’s thoughts and beliefs. A man he trusted as he trusted few others.

“You will personally be in charge of Cassidy’s son from now until…” Grant laughed heartily, as he contemplated the various ways he could kill the boy—slowly and painfully while his father and mother watched.

In her peripheral vision Maggie saw Egan down the last drops of his third cup of coffee and then set the Lenox cup on the saucer that rested on the silver serving tray. The grandfather clock in the foyer struck the half hour. Maggie lifted her head from where it rested on the curved extension of the wing chair. Instant calculations told her it was now two-thirty. Her muscles ached from tension. Her frazzled nerves kept her on the verge of tears at any given moment. And her heart ached with a burden almost too great to bear. No mother should ever have to endure what she was being forced to endure.

But she had never been a pessimist or a quitter or a whiner. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—give up hope. She had to trust Egan, had to believe that he could do what he had promised—save their son. But who did he think he was, some kind of superhero? Maybe he was a rough, tough, mean son of a bitch. Maybe he did know a hundred and one ways to kill a man. And maybe he did have an elite force of Dundee agents prepared to do battle with him. But did that mean he could rescue Bent?

She watched Egan as he treaded across the Persian rug centered in the middle of the living-room floor. Weariness sat on his broad shoulders like an invisible weight. He plopped down on the couch and tossed aside a white brocade throw pillow, which landed on its mate at the opposite end of the camelback sofa. Bending at the waist, he dangled his hands between his spread legs and gazed down at his feet. He repeatedly tapped his fingertips together and patted his right foot against the hardwood surface, just inches shy of the large, intricately patterned rug.

Her feminine instinct told Maggie that Egan was suffering in his own strong, silent way. He hadn’t shed a tear. Hadn’t shown much emotion at all, except anger. And he most certainly hadn’t fainted, as she had. But she knew he was in pain. In some strange way she could feel his agony and understood that he probably could feel hers just as intensely.

Was he feeling guilty? she wondered. He should feel guilty! Because of something in his past, her son’s life now depended upon the whims of a madman.

A part of Maggie hated Egan, more than she’d ever thought possible to hate anyone. But a part of her pitied him and shared his grief. And yet another part of her, a small, nagging emotion buried deep inside, still cared for him.

You fool! she chastised herself. This is the man who broke your heart. He left you and never looked back. He didn’t want you and he wouldn’t have wanted Bent. The only reason he wishes he’d known of his son’s existence is so he could have figured out some way to have protected Bent from Grant Cullen.

Don’t you ever forget what kind of man Egan is. You were naive enough once to think that your love could change him, could liberate him from the bonds of a lonely, unhappy existence.

“Would you like me to make some fresh coffee?” she asked.

Egan’s head snapped up; his eyes focused on her. “Yeah, sure. And maybe something to eat, for both of us. I’ll bet you haven’t had a bite since lunch yesterday, have you?”

“I’ll fix you something,” she said. “I don’t think I could eat anything.”

“Why don’t I go into the kitchen with you and we’ll fix something together, and then I want you to try to eat something. You can’t help Bent by making yourself sick.”

I can’t help Bent at all, she felt like screaming. But she held herself in check, suppressing the urge to rant and rave.

Egan stood, walked over to her and held out his hand. She stared at his big hand, studying his wide, thick fingers, dusted with dark hair just below the knuckles. A tingling awareness spread through Maggie as she recalled exactly how hairy Egan was. Dark curls covered his muscular arms and long legs. Thick swirls of black hair coated his chest, narrowing into a V across his belly and widening again around his sex.

Sensual heat spread through Maggie, flushing her skin and warming her insides. How could she be reacting to Egan sexually at a time like this? her conscience taunted. What sort of power did this man have over her, that after fifteen years, she was still drawn to him in the same stomach-churning, femininity-clenching way?

Apparently tired of waiting for a response from her, Egan reached out, grasped her hand and hauled her to her feet. She wavered slightly, her legs weak, as she stood facing him, her gaze level with his neck. He had once teased her about being tall and leggy.

I’m a leg man, he had said. And you, Maggie my love, fulfill all my fantasies.

Without asking permission, Egan slipped his arms around her waist and held her, but didn’t tug her up against him. “You haven’t changed much, Maggie. You’re still… You’re even more beautiful than you were the first time I saw you.”

She told herself to move away from him, to demand that he release her and never touch her again. But she knew that all she had to do was slip out of his hold. His grip on her was tentative, featherlight and easily escaped.

Everything that was female within her longed to lean on him, to seek comfort and support in the power of his strong arms and big body. She was so alone and had been for what seemed like a lifetime. And who better than her son’s father to give her the solace she so desperately needed at a time like this?

Don’t succumb to this momentary weakness, to the seduction of Egan’s powerful presence and manly strength, an inner voice warned. If you do, you’ll regret it.

She lifted her gaze to meet Egan’s and almost drowned in the gentle, concerned depths of his gunmetal-gray eyes. “I have changed,” she told him. “I have very little in common with that starry-eyed, twenty-three-year-old girl who rushed into your arms…and into your bed, without a second thought.”

“I was very fond of that girl.” Regret edged Egan’s voice.

Fond of. Fond of. The words rang out inside her head like a blast from a loudspeaker. Oh, yes, he had been fond of her. And she had loved him. Madly. Passionately. With every beat of her foolish, young heart.

Maggie eased out of his grasp. He let her go, making no move to detain her flight. When she turned and walked away, he followed her.

“You put on the coffee,” she said, her back to him. “And I’ll make a couple of sandwiches.”

Egan went with her into the kitchen and although the room had been redecorated since his weeklong visit years ago, the warm hominess mixed quite well with the touch of elegance, just as the decor had back then. Creamy cabinetry, curtains and chairs contrasted sharply to the earthbrown walls, the brown-and-tan checkered chair cushions and dark oak of the wooden table.

He went over to the counter at the right of the sink and there, where she had always kept it, he found the coffee grinder. “You still keep the beans in the refrigerator?”

“Yes.” She didn’t glance his way. Instead she opened the refrigerator, retrieved the coffee beans and held them out to him, without once looking at him.

He grasped the jar, accepting her avoidance without comment, and pulled out a drawer, searching for a scoop. Then he asked her a question that had been bothering him. Tormenting him actually—ever since Cullen had told him that Maggie had married and divorced the man who had been her fiancé before Egan became her first lover.

“What happened with Gil Douglas?”

Maggie almost dropped the head of lettuce she held in her hand, but managed to grab the plastic container before it hit the floor. “Gil and I married when Bent was five.” After I’d given up all hope that you’d ever return to claim your son and me. “Gil and I managed to hold things together for five years and then we divorced.”

Beginning and end of story! Egan thought. Her meaning had been so clear that she might as well have made the statement.

“Gil adopted Bent?”

“Yes.” Maggie retrieved the makings for their sandwiches and dumped the ingredients on the work island directly across from the refrigerator.

Where was Bent right now? her heart cried. Was he hungry? Was he hurt? Was he frightened? Did he know that the lunatic who had kidnapped him intended to murder him?

“Are Gil and Bent close?” Egan asked. “Do they have a good father-son relationship?” His feelings were torn between hoping Gil was such a great dad that his son didn’t need him and wishing that he would have the opportunity to be a real father to Bent.

“Is Gil here, now, waiting with me, out of his mind with worry?” she asked, not the least bit of anger in her voice, only a sad resignation. “That should tell you what sort of relationship they have.”

“I assume Bent knows Gil isn’t his father.” Egan waited for her to respond. She didn’t. “Does he know…? Have you ever told him…? What I’m trying to say is—”

“He knows his father’s name is Egan Cassidy. Like you said, your name is on his birth certificate.” She opened the cellophane-wrapped loaf and pulled out four slices of wheat bread. “I’m afraid that I mixed truth with fiction when I told him about his conception.” She unscrewed the mayonnaise jar. “I told him that you and I had loved each other, but that we had ended our affair before I knew I was pregnant.”

Egan ground the coffee beans to a fine consistency, measured the correct amount, then dumped them into the filter. “What else did you tell him about me?”

Maggie searched a drawer in the island and brought out a knife, which she used to spread the mayonnaise on the bread. “I told him that you were a soldier of fortune who worked all over the world and that we had agreed there was no way a marriage between us would ever work.”

Egan filled the coffee carafe from the jug of spring water that rested on a stand in front of one floor-to-ceiling window. “You were generous, Maggie. More generous than I deserved.”

She washed the ripe tomato, placed it on the cutting board and sliced through the delicate skin. “I didn’t lie for you, Egan. I lied for Bent’s sake.”

Bent, her precious baby boy, who was alone and afraid. And probably asking why this had happened to him. Oh, God, where was he? And why hadn’t Grant Cullen contacted Egan? What was he waiting for? But she knew, as did Egan, that the man was prolonging their torture, savoring each moment he could make Egan suffer.

“Will Bent hate me when we meet?”

“You mean if you meet, don’t you?” Her hands trembled. The knife slipped and sliced into her finger. She cried out, startled by what she’d accidentally done to herself.

Egan rushed to her side, grabbed her hand and turned on the faucets of the island sink. Holding her injured finger under the cool running water, Egan said, “Cry, dammit, Maggie. Go ahead and cry!”

She snatched her hand from his and inspected the wound. Enough to require a bandage but not stitches, she surmised. “I’ll just wrap a piece of paper towel around it to stop the blood flow. Later, I’ll put a bandage on it.”

He stood by and watched her as she doctored her own cut, all the while wishing she would allow him to do it for her.

“Bent is safe,” Egan assured her. “And he’ll remain safe until Cullen has me right where he wants me.”

“Then don’t go.” Maggie shook her head, realizing how irrational her thoughts had become. “Don’t listen to me. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

Tears glistened in Maggie’s eyes. Egan wished to hell she’d just go ahead and break down. He’d rather see her screaming and throwing things than to see her like this. Deadly calm. Numb from pain.

If only she would let him hold her. But he knew better than to try again. Every time he got too close, she shoved him away. He was the one person on earth who could even begin to understand the agony she was experiencing, and yet he was the one person she wouldn’t allow herself to turn to for comfort.

The telephone rang. Egan froze to the spot. Maggie cried out, the sound a shocked, mournful gasp.

Egan walked over to the wall-mounted, brown telephone that hung between two glass-globed, brass sconces. With his stomach tied in knots and his hand unsteady, he lifted the receiver. Maggie hurried to his side.

“Cassidy here.”

Maggie grabbed his arm.

“Hello, buddy boy,” Grant Cullen said. “I’ve got somebody here who wants to talk to his mama.”

Chapter 4

Egan placed the receiver to Maggie’s ear. Her inquiring gaze searched Egan’s eyes, and then suddenly she heard the sweetest sound on earth.

“Mama.”

“Bent!”

“I’m all right, Mama. They haven’t hurt me. Don’t worry—”

“Bent? Bent?”

Another voice, one she didn’t want to hear, spoke to her. “Maggie, put Cassidy back on the phone.”

“No, please, let me talk to Bent,” Maggie said. “Whatever reason you have to hate Egan, don’t take your revenge out on an innocent boy. Bent doesn’t mean anything to Egan. They don’t even know each other.” Tears welled up in her eyes.

When Egan yanked the phone away from her, Maggie crumbled like a broken cookie, her nerves shattered. Before he returned the receiver to his ear, he grabbed her around the waist and hauled her to his side. Holding her securely, he spoke to Cullen.

“Name the time and the place,” Egan said.

Cullen chuckled. Egan’s stomach churned. Salty bile rose in his throat.

“Maggie seems a tad upset,” Cullen said. “I suppose she’s worried about her son. So, how does it feel, big man? I’m holding all the cards and there’s no way you can win.”

“Name your terms.” Egan tried to keep his voice calm. The last thing he wanted was for Cullen to pick up on the panic he felt. The bastard fed off other people’s misery.

“I could just kill the boy right now,” Cullen said, every word laced with vindictive pleasure. “That way your son would be dead and your woman would hate you until her dying day.”

“You want more than that, don’t you, Cullen? I can’t believe you’d be satisfied with such a paltry revenge.”

Maggie’s wide-eyed stare momentarily broke Egan’s concentration. He realized that she was on the verge of losing it completely. She’d taken just about all she could stand. Without giving his actions a thought, he pressed his lips to her temple and kissed her tenderly. She melted against him, her arms clinging, her body shaking, as she buried her face against his chest.

“You know me too well, buddy boy,” Cullen said. “After Nam my pretty little wife left me and took my kid with her. My father never spoke to me again and even disinherited me. I left the army in disgrace. And I owe all those good things to you.” Cullen chuckled again. “Now, it’s payback time. And payback is going to be a bitch.”

“Just name your terms. What, where and when. And I’ll be there.”

“You and Maggie.”

“No,” Egan said. “Not Maggie. Just me.”

Maggie lifted her head, puzzlement in her eyes. He shook his head, cautioning her to keep quiet.

“You bring your woman or there is no deal. I’ll put a gun to your boy’s head and blow his brains out. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

“Perfectly.” Egan narrowed his gaze, frowning at Maggie when he noticed she had opened her mouth to speak.

“You haven’t done something stupid, like calling in the feds, have you?” Cullen asked.

“Maggie notified the local authorities, but no one else.” He kept his gaze focused on her face. She had to keep quiet and let him handle things from here on out. She only suspected what they were up against with Grant Cullen, but he knew. God help them, he knew!

“Good. I figured you were too smart to screw up like that. As long as you keep using your brains and following orders, Bent stays alive. Screw with me and he’s dead!”

Egan heard the snap of Cullen’s fingers. His own heartbeat thumped an erratic rat-a-tat-tat, the sound humming in his ears.

“Your game, your rules,” Egan said. He rubbed Maggie’s back, trying to soothe her, but at his touch she tensed even more.

“Got that damn straight.”

“What do I have to do?” Egan asked.

“All you have to do is come get your son. You want to see him, don’t you? Flesh of your flesh. Bone of your bone. The fruit of your loins.”

“Yeah, sure, I want to see him.”

“Then why don’t you and Maggie hop a plane and come on out to Arizona for a visit. It’d be nice if you could get here within forty-eight hours. That way the boy would still be alive when you get here.”

“Forty-eight hours. I think that can be arranged.”

Maggie glared at Egan and he understood she wanted to speak, wanted to ask questions, but wisely remained silent.

“Won’t be as easy as you think, buddy boy,” Cullen told him. “My place is rather secluded. Can’t get here except on foot. Of course, I’ve got my own helicopter pad, but I don’t want you flying in. You might bring company with you and we wouldn’t want extra visitors showing up, now would we? If that were to happen, I’d have to execute your son immediately.”

“I understand. So, where exactly are you located?”

“Fly into Flagstaff, then take Highway 40 southeast. When you come to a town called Minerva, go to Schmissrauter’s Garage and ask for directions to the general’s fort. You can take a Jeep part of the way in, then you’ll have to switch to horseback. But I want you and Maggie to walk in, so leave your horses.”

Instantly Egan began calculating the scenario, trying to figure out the best plan of action. But any way you looked at it, the chances of rescuing Bent and his getting Maggie and himself out alive were—with the aid of the Dundee agents—fifty-fifty. If he discounted himself, then the odds rose to maybe sixty-forty in their favor.

“Anything else I should know?” Egan asked.

“That’s about it…except…I’m looking forward to meeting your son’s mother. Figure I’ll enjoy getting to know her and I’ll make sure she enjoys getting to know me.”

Egan clenched his teeth together. Even knowing what Cullen was doing, why he was taunting him with images of Maggie being raped, it took every ounce of Egan’s willpower to keep from telling the slimy bastard to go straight to hell. At that precise moment, he knew that if he ever got his hands on Cullen, he would kill him.

The dial tone hummed in Egan’s ear. He replaced the receiver, then turned and pulled Maggie into his embrace. No one was going to hurt this woman more than she’d already been hurt. If he had to move heaven and earth to protect her and their son, then that’s what he’d do. If it meant dying to save them, then he would gladly lay down his life.

Do you hear me, God? Are you listening? Do we have a bargain? My life for Maggie’s life and Bent’s?

Maybe he’d better improve the odds, he thought. More than likely his soul was going to burn in hell anyway, so maybe he should be making his bargain with Lucifer instead of the Almighty.

You want my soul, Old Scratch? I’m willing to make a bargain with you, too, if that’s what it takes to save Maggie and Bent.

“Egan?” Maggie’s voice rasped with emotion.

He looked down into her eyes, into those beautiful, warm brown eyes and his only thought was how dear and good and loving Maggie was.

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