“Pretend I want you? You think I’m going to have to pretend?”

She stood speechless, unable to move or breathe, or think of anything but the sweet ache building in her, wanting, hoping….

“You think it will be an act?” Tal pressed her, his voice soft, dangerous.

Mary-Anne managed a shaky whisper. “Don’t lie to me, Tal. Lie to the world if you need to, but not to me.”

“All right—you want the truth?” He took a step closer to her, his sudden grin half-savage, highlighting his scars. “I’ve forced myself to think about kissing you, touching you and pretending to want you, oh, about two hundred and forty times since I saw you yesterday. Just in case I needed the scenario for a mission, of course.” He smiled at her, his eyes dark, unfathomable—his body too close. “I must have been training for this mission for a long time, honey, because I’ve been pretending to want you ever since I was fifteen.”

Dear Reader,

What better way to start off a new year than with six terrific new Silhouette Intimate Moments novels? We’ve got miniseries galore, starting with Karen Templeton’s Staking His Claim, part of THE MEN OF MAYES COUNTY. These three brothers are destined to find love, and in this story, hero Cal Logan is also destined to be a father—but first he has to convince heroine Dawn Gardner that in his arms is where she wants to stay.

For a taste of royal romance, check out Valerie Parv’s Operation: Monarch, part of THE CARRAMER TRUST, crossing over from Silhouette Romance. Policemen more your style? Then check out Maggie Price’s Hidden Agenda, the latest in her LINE OF DUTY miniseries, set in the Oklahoma City Police Department. Prefer military stories? Don’t even try to resist Irresistible Forces, Candace Irvin’s newest SISTERS IN ARMS novel. We’ve got a couple of great stand-alone books for you, too. Lauren Nichols returns with a single mom and her protective hero, in Run to Me. Finally, Australian sensation Melissa James asks Can You Forget? Trust me, this undercover marriage of convenience will stick in your memory long after you’ve turned the final page.

Enjoy them all—and come back next month for more of the best and most exciting romance reading around, only in Silhouette Intimate Moments.

Yours,

Leslie J. Wainger

Executive Editor

Can You Forget?
Melissa James

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MELISSA JAMES

is a mother of three living in a beach suburb in New South Wales, Australia. A former nurse, waitress, store assistant, perfume and chocolate (yum!) demonstrator among other things, she believes in taking on new jobs for the fun experience. She’ll try almost anything at least once to see what it feels like—a fact that scares her family on regular occasions. She fell into writing by accident when her husband brought home an article stating how much a famous romance author earned, and she thought, “I can do that!” Years later, she found her niche at Silhouette Intimate Moments. Currently writing a pilot/spy series set in the South Pacific, she can be found most mornings walking and swimming at her local beach with her husband, or every afternoon running around to her kids’ sporting hobbies, while dreaming of flying, scuba diving, belaying down a cave or over a cliff—anywhere her characters are at the time!

To all those who love Beauty and the Beast stories, and to those who prefer healing and peace to war, yet know the realities of this life demand that some of us give our lives to protect others—I hope you enjoy this one. And to Maryanne, my dearest friend and natural healer, this is for you.

Special thanks must go to some of my dearest friends in the world, for making this story what it is: my critique partners, Maryanne Cappelluti and Diane Perkins, for putting aside a month of their lives to help me through my first deadline with style, grace and love, and a little cyber champagne at “the end.” Thanks also to my dear friends Olga Mitsialos and Anne-Louise Dubrawski for reading, encouraging and making suggestions. Very special thanks to Tracey West, reader, fan and suggestion person extraordinaire. And big, big thanks to Susan Litman, my editor, and to Gail Chasan and Leslie Wainger, for taking a chance with this book when it had so very much wrong with it at the start!

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

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Prologue

Tumah-ra Island, Arafura Sea

“There’s fresh blood in this.” Flashing a torch around the top of the cliff face, Tallan O’Rierdan, Nighthawk code name Irish, pointed out the stain to his team partner: a skidding footprint with a small dark pool near the heel.

Braveheart, the enormous bear of a man beside him, grinned, his teeth startlingly white against the camouflage-darkened face. “So you nailed him. That was one hell of a shot in the dark, Irish.”

Tal shrugged, squelching the instinctive surge of guilt. “Nowhere vital, by the looks of it.” Yet his gut roiled. Shooting people went against all he believed in. Even hitting scum like Burstall, a renegade Fed who’d committed murder and almost killed a fellow Nighthawk, cut deep in a place he didn’t want to analyze right now. But his objectives were clear: treat anyone injured by the rebel militia’s free-for-all attack, find Burstall and bring him in—or down. “He’s still on the move—toward Ka-Nin-Put.”

Braveheart nodded. “Let’s go.”

The black camouflage paint on his face drove him nuts, but his training forced him to not scratch. He had to be invisible, unrecognizable in the jungle fatigues Nighthawks wore on recon in Search and Rescue assignments: just another soldier in a faceless army.

But the people in his secret army were SAR experts, nonofficial hunter-gatherer spies in a network only the top brass of any government knew existed, in a world few dared enter. The shadowy world of the Nighthawks.

“I’ll go this way. You take that path and get to the village from behind. That way we cover our bases and block off escape.”

Braveheart looked doubtful, but Irish’s word was law on the field. “Meet in the middle?”

Tal nodded in detached interest, thinking how he’d treat the injured left to rot by the rebels. “ETA fifteen minutes.”

The whining of bullets came closer as he ran, half crouching, toward the village, slinging his assault rifle behind him. Mortar bombs dropped not far off, thunder-filled quakes beneath his feet. The night sky blazed with the hail of silver and bloody fire, harbingers of death outshining the stars.

Sudden eerie silence all around Ka-Nin-Put told him the rebels had bolted. The brave, strong rebel army walked the walk and talked the talk with harmless villagers and young girls, but bolted when a few men with guns came near.

Just as well. If I found any of the little bastards now… He kept the rifle firmly behind him. Temptation clawed at him as it was, the gnawing need to avenge what couldn’t be avenged.

Keep it together, O’Rierdan. You’re Search And Rescue, not search and kill.

From house to ravaged house, he found them all burned, with fallen and hanging doors and shattered windows bearing mute testimony to the rebels’ attack—almost no evidence remained of the lives that once filled this quiet jungle village.

Please, let the Navy have got them out first. He didn’t know if he could handle seeing any more people left for dead in a gaping, rubble-covered hole, or to find half-starved shivering kids hanging on to a cliff shelf until they fell into the sea. He had the skills to save them—and he would—but the nightmares the rescues engendered left him sleepless for months.

A pall of gray smoke hung beneath the night air, obscuring the stars. The stench of blood, fire and death lay everywhere. Casualties of war, they called this. Collateral damage. “What a load of crap,” he muttered. There was no acceptable number of dead when you walked in the shoes of the people who’d lost acceptable family members or you found the bodies of the casualties of war hanging from trees or hacked to pieces. He couldn’t let it happen if he could do anything to change it.

A long, quiet groan alerted him. He wasn’t alone here.

“Kumusta po kayo? Doktor po ako,” he called in Tagalog, hoping he got the words right and wasn’t asking for something stupid like an umbrella or a cat skin. Hello, are you okay? I am a doctor. “Gusto ko kayong tulungan.” I want to help you.

“Ai,” came a weak call to the left.

The man was old, frail, very thin. His sallow dark skin hung in loose folds all over him. His almond-shaped eyes held no pain. “I cannot move,” the old man said in his native language.

A puncture wound in the upper stomach, deep and lethal. The powder around the wound told him they’d shot this defenseless old man at close range: enough to have a near-identical wound coming out his spine, leaving him crippled. His vital organs would empty themselves out as he bled internally to death.

Tal didn’t dare move him. “I will help you,” he said in Tagalog, and gave the only help he could: a whopping shot of morphine. Then he sat beside the poor old guy and held his hand as he talked about his family and his lifetime in Ka-Nin-Put.

Ten minutes later Tal closed the man’s eyes, got to his feet and punched the tree the body rested against. It shouldn’t be like this! It was so bloody wrong to—

Sudden rustling let him know he had company in the steaming, acrid darkness. Probably Braveheart. But it could also be a villager hiding until the danger passed…maybe a child, injured, or dying… “Kumusta po kayo? Doktor po ako,” he called again, unpacking the rest of his kit in case of serious injury. Yeah, he’d blow his cover if it was Burstall or even a Nighthawk, but this was why he’d left the Navy to join the elite spy-rescue group. It wasn’t the worst risk he took on assignment. If the rebels found him, they’d take him as hostage to tend their injured—then barter him for a very high price. If he lived.

But the only answer was silence: no one called back, not in any language. “Hello? Who’s there?”

In the quiet punctuated by the whine of bullets, his scalp prickled. No time to pack up his kit. Even if it was a Nighthawk out there, he’d blown his cover as a burned-out ex-Navy guy turned beach bum pilot, with mountain climbing and rappelling experience. Only Anson knew he was a doctor. He was so fanatical about Nighthawk security no operative knew anything about each other’s life or background.

Except Songbird. An imp inside him gave the reminder. She knows more about you than Anson ever will.

Damn it, would he never stop thinking about her?

“G’day.” A man dressed in black limped out from the tangled undergrowth around the village. With the night goggles, Tal saw the blood flowing down the man’s left leg, and his savage grin. “Nice greasepaint on the face. Are you the bastard who shot me?”

“Yeah, and I can do it again.” Tal scrambled up to come face-to-face with him. He whipped his night rifle from behind, praying Burstall wouldn’t take up the challenge. In automatic mode, he checked Burstall’s injury. Crikey, was that a cracked patella? Knees were so tricky to repair—

“Don’t move.” His eyes glittering in the darkness, Burstall held a grenade right in front of Tal’s face. “Don’t move, all you painted-up boys playing spies in the bush, or this one’s dead meat. You shoot me, the pin’s gone.”

Despite the dank, sultry heat, Tal broke out in cold sweat. One year of psych training was enough to tell him this guy had a serious mental problem. He had to convince Burstall they were alone, then talk him down. “There’s no one there.”

Burstall sneered. “If you think I can’t hear your mates belly-crawling through the undergrowth, you’re even dumber than you look in your flak jacket and war paint, Rambo. So tell them to stay where they are,” Burstall said softly, holding the grenade right in front of Tal’s sweat-soaked face.

A lightning second to weigh his options, then he yelled, “Do as he says.” If Anson or Linebacker tried to play the hero, or Braveheart did something smart with one of his pyrotechnic gadgets—talk Burstall down, now.

Tal spoke with quiet persuasion: the soothing tone he’d always used for his unstable or distressed patients. “You’re surrounded. Give up, while you can. You may have some legal leverage now, but if you kill someone—”

“Yeah, I have leverage after trying to kill one of yours. I was a Fed, Rambo,” he sneered. “All you emergency service and government goons stick together. You’re one of them, this Mission Impossible group McCluskey’s involved with. You kept me from getting to McCluskey, and taking Lissa.” Burstall’s eyes narrowed in the dark. “I don’t like losing.” He took another step back, pulled the pin on the grenade, threw it and a smoke bomb to the ground right beside him. “’Bye, Rambo.” He laughed as he dove out of sight.

Tal bolted, but the grenade was already exploding beneath his feet. He flew through the air, feeling the flesh on his thigh sear, his bone crack and burst through the skin. His cheek tore apart when he hit the low branch of a tree face-first.

There’s no other doctor to patch me up, no chopper close enough to here to take me to Darwin in time. I’m gonna die.

And strangely, only one regret stabbed him about his pitiful circus of a life: he should never have given in to Anson’s dictate about leaving Mary-Anne alone, even for the sake of her safety. He should have kept asking about her. He should have found her, gone to her…made things right. Now it was too late.

I’m sorry, Mary-Anne. I’m sorry for everything.

When he landed on the ground, he was already out.

Chapter 1

Queen Victoria Theatre, Sydney

Fourteen months later

She took the massive bunch of dark red roses with a gracious smile, to the beat of thunderous cheers. Turning to her backup singers and the dancers, she handed each a rose and took her bows with them, knowing they’d resent the hell out of her for the audience’s enthusiastic response to her generosity.

Oh, Verity West is so magnanimous…

They’d all kill to have her life.

And all she wanted was to kick off the heels making her feet ache, go home, make a hot chocolate, curl up with her faithful dog Charlie Brown and sleep. Invite the family to stay. No hellish workouts or starving herself. No long hours in rehearsals and with stylists and couturiers. No adulation, groveling or saccharine-sweet impertinence from agents or producers, reporters, wannabe socialites or begging visits, letters, emails or tapes from singer-songwriters in her mould.

And best of all, no men showering her with compliments and gifts, all hoping to be the one to brag that they’d broken the Iceberg’s famous cold shell and gotten her in the sack.

Final night of the Sydney tour. Here we go. Party time…

Backstage, she donned a simple white sheath. The famous twisted curls glowed with flame, so the media said—better than the schoolkids’ taunts of “better dead than red”—pulled up in a clip, tumbling down to her waist. A gold rope pulled in the dress at her waist and showed off her breasts…and no one knew how much unflagging discipline it took to keep her glorious figure.

Fat girl, fat girl!

She plastered a smile on her face and headed for the limousine, smiling and waving, signing autographs. Wishing Gil was here to laugh at the absurdity of her life, to help her survive the predators—to hold her when she cried. For cool-as-ice, touch-me-not Verity West was a marshmallow inside. A shy girl living in the public eye. A stranger inside her own life.

The heart of the girl who hid from the world was still beating within the slender, lovely shell. Still sickly sweet, trusting and vulnerable Mary-Anne Poole somewhere deep inside, seven years after becoming Verity West.

She spent the evening encouraging hopeful singers, talking to kids who’d won contests to meet her and fending off men’s smug I-know-you-want-me advances with her trademark cool smile and quiet wit, counting the minutes until she could leave.

Then a waiter passed her. Inconspicuous; there one moment, gone the next. Pressing a note into her hand.

Change your key, songbird. In the shadows of the alley, a ghost from your past awaits.

Escaping through the kitchen and service elevator of the exclusive hotel, she ran past the blinding glare of flashing bulbs in her face and slipped inside the leather-lined luxury of the darkened car. “Thank you,” she sighed. “What’s the deal?”

Nick Anson, her secret boss, smiled at her. “Sorry, darlin’, but you’re getting a throat infection. You need a fortnight off.”

She sighed with the intense relief she always knew when she had to drop work for a mission. “My agent and manager will have collective heart attacks. Could be fun. Where am I going?”

“This is the most vital mission I’ve ever given you, Songbird.” Nick threw it at her, hard and blunt. “You’ll spend the first few days in Mekalong Island in the Torres Strait—and you know why, since you stole his file when my back was turned.”

Her heart stalled, then kicked again. All she could think of was, What can I say to that—sorry, yes, it was me? But she didn’t think she could speak right now. God help her, even in shock her body was primed already, pounding with excitement. She had to fight to get one croaked word out. “And?”

“And we need Irish back pronto. He’s refusing to answer my calls or messages. It’s up to you. Make him want to do it.”

She jerked up in the seat. “Me? But…his wife—”

“He’s been divorced for three years.” He slanted her an odd, probing look. “Wasn’t that in the file I let you steal?”

She kept her mouth clamped shut. He knew damn well it wasn’t on file. Nick Anson was too much a rabid perfectionist to leave it off file—unless he’d had a damn good reason to do so.

No point in drawing this out. “So you know about our past.” She drummed her fingers on her leg, the only visible sign of the internal explosion of her heart. “The tabloid stories, right?”

“It’s how I came to recruit you in the first place. I saw the possibilities in case a mission like this ever came up—and so I sought you out.” Silence filled the car as she absorbed, then accepted, her ruthless boss’s reasons for first contacting her to join the Nighthawks. Then he went on in his smooth-as-molasses Southern drawl.

“The future of the Nighthawks depends on this mission. No one else can possibly handle it, so the American office sent the request to me.” He hesitated. “Irish broke into the office several times to access your file, after you two ran into each other at headquarters that day. I believe you two have a mutual chemistry that, together in one place, would create an explosion big enough to rock the planet.”

God help her, Nick was right, and she didn’t know if Earth was ready for the explosion. Nick Anson had to be the gruffest, most irascible and unwilling Cupid ever to plague man and woman. She’d thought she’d never want to see Tal again, nor he her, yet it seemed neither of them could forget…

“Will you do it?” Nick asked quietly. “Will you work with him? This mission won’t be an easy one, on any level.”

Was she shaking with excitement, or fear of what seeing Tal again would do to her? “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“You’re not Mary-Anne now. You’re Verity West, and aside from your phenomenal talent, you’re a brilliant, brave and beautiful woman whose skills have saved more than one operative in the past. I’m proud to have you on my team. I know you can do this.”

“A penny looks pretty when you shine it up, but it’s still a penny.” She bit her lip, feeling rimmed by shadows of the past. Going to Tal would mean inflicting deeper cuts on old scars…and exposing her long-hidden heart—being Mary-Anne again. But Nick couldn’t know that: only Tal would ever know. She took a harsh breath, squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “All right.”

He nodded, having expected no less. “This is going to be harder than you know.” He pulled a bundle of photos from a folder and passed them to her. “I kept more than his divorce out of that file I let you steal. I’ve kept a secret from you about Irish for the past fourteen months.”

Mekalong Island, Torres Strait

No time left! No time! The typhoon’s gonna knock them off the cliff shelf into the sea. There’s only one chance now! If I don’t get the kids into the bird in time—

Tal woke with a start and a hard, guttural curse.

Would he ever be able to put the memories behind him?

Rolling jerkily off the lounge, he laid a towel over the sweaty plastic before he resumed his position, hat over his eyes to block out the violent sunlight. Not bad, the deal Anson made with him. For the hardship of hiding out under an assumed name—finally being the beach bum pilot his cover had always been—he got a massive payout and all operations paid for, past, present or future. Only two left to go to finish the muscle layering on his leg, and one to inject more collagen and massive doses of vitamins beneath the slow-fading scars on his face.

After the last op, he’d be almost as good as new…ready to face Mum and Dad with his new look. He couldn’t go home yet. The folks had all been through enough with Kathy’s sickness and death. Sending a few postcards from nonexistent Navy ships in different “postings” was better than telling them the truth.

The squeaking sound of feet shuffling over the hot, creamy-white sand gave him thirty seconds’ warning. Someone was here. Time again for the stares, the sidelong looks and whispers. “The poor thing, he must have been so handsome once…”

To add another twist to the rack, the stranger had a CD player on—there was no radio station on this remote island—and of course, it was that song.

“‘I never thought we’d break up, at least not for good. When it came to goodbye, I never thought we would. But I was wrong about you, you found someone new, and you were wrong about me, I found someone too…’”

“Farewell Innocence.” Her song…perhaps their song. Would he ever know? The jackhammer hit his guts with the first wistful refrain. Words and voice, so strong and incredibly pure, woven together like the strands of harp and violin and transposed into human sound. Sheer perfection. There was no way in hell he’d ever forget that voice—or the girl who’d owned it.

Had they made a new version of the song, without background music? Seemed even more haunting without harmony. She sounded so scared, so lost. As she had ten years before when—

He couldn’t escape her, no matter where he went. Even without the constant dreams of her, with constant radio airplay of her nine worldwide hits from three albums, avoiding the memories was the impossible dream. Her first smash hit—“Farewell Innocence”—had taken up permanent residence inside him from the first time he’d heard it…wondering every time if she’d written about their life and his betrayal of her ten years ago.

Mary-Anne, oh, honey, it wasn’t like that!

The singing stopped the same time the foot-squeaking ended. “Hello, Tal. Nice shorts—more casual than the Flying Doctor, Navy or Nighthawk getup. You do get around, don’t you?”

Great, now he’d upgraded from dream to hallucination. Her songs did that: he’d spend the next few hours creating scenarios where they’d meet again. So many years wasted in insane hope, hearing her voice, turning around so damn fast he got dizzy only to meet emptiness, the darkness of ghosts taunting him.

She’d never come to him. They were both different people now. He sure as hell was different—as was she. A reversal of lives. The cruelest joke ever played on a man.

But it didn’t stop his body from lighting like a blowtorch, filling with instant heat, his heart bounding up into his throat with useless, stupid hope against hope. From praying that this time it would be real—it would be her, his Mary-Anne, standing in front of him, with that sweet, high-lipped smile of hers.

Can it, O’Rierdan. She’s never coming back to you.

“Well, I see you’re as rude as ever. Don’t you say hello to old friends anymore?”

Well, that was new to his reunion scenarios…. In his dreams she’d been furious, smacking him as he deserved, or running into his arms and kissing him senseless. But the gentle amusement in this voice confused the hell out of him. He really was losing it…

“Aunt Sheila would be ashamed of your manners—and Uncle Dal would clip your ear, boyo.”

He frowned, blinked slowly beneath his hat. He’d all but forgotten that silly joke of hers. “Mary-Anne?” he croaked.

“Either that or your worst nightmare, O’Rierdan.”

The silver-gold shimmer of laughter rocked his soul. Now that his prayers had finally come true—she was here—what did he do, yell at her for taking so long, or pin her beneath him and love her until he’d slaked half a lifetime of aching fantasy?

Uh-huh. One look at the scars on his face and leg and she’d be begging him. Yeah, that was gonna happen.

“G’day, Mary-Anne.” He didn’t have to lift his hat to see her: she was a tattoo burned on his brain, seared on his soul with a branding iron. She’d lived and breathed, gasped and moved beneath or above him in his dreams every night in hot, vivid color, since he was sixteen. He lifted his knees to hide his hard, primed body, ready for her to say the word. Man, he hurt already, and she’d only been here a minute. “So Anson’s bringing out the big guns to make me answer his summons? He must be desperate to convince you to come to me.” He heard the guttural rasp in his voice, the hot, essential male-to-female thrust-and-parry he’d only ever known on this gut-deep level with her.

Another soft ripple of laughter, full of heart and soul and fire. “That’s what I said, but even though we’ve never worked together, we both know Nick. Never say die.”

“Yeah.” He grinned beneath his hat. Man, he loved her laugh—almost as much as he’d loved the gentle touch of her silky-soft fingers on his skin, as innocent and sensual as the kisses they’d shared as boy and girl. The unbidden fantasy was so intense he almost felt the tender glide of her hands…the kisses so saturated in love they filled all the empty places inside.

Can it, O’Rierdan. It wasn’t going to happen—and he didn’t want her here, re-igniting hungers that he’d never explore. Who are you kidding? They’re in permanent ignition, ready to explode. “Tell him you tried. Want a drink before you go?”

He could hear the grin in her voice. “I’m booked in at the local B and B for three days, so cut the rude stunts. I outgrew being hurt at them by the time I was about twelve.”

Despite the roaring inside him, the exploding Molotov cocktail of fury at his life and her expected rejection, he chuckled. Ah, it felt so good to talk to her outside the bondage of sleep. Never, in all their long history, had she let any of his gauntlets lie unchallenged, defusing his quick rages with a smile. It was refreshing after a year of overdone kindness born of pity and the sidelong glances of people unable to handle imperfection. And having her finally here, with him in the flesh, made him feel like more of a man than he had in years.

And what good is that going to do me? He’d spend the whole time she was here in knife-edged, gut-gnawing hunger. Variety might be the spice of life, but right now this particular life had all the pepper it could handle.

So find out why she is here and get rid of her. Fast. “So spill. What does he want from me? Whatever it is, the answer’s no, but what the hell, I can listen for a few. Entertainment’s kinda self-made in these parts.”

He heard the shrug in her voice. “Sure. But I’d like that drink. In private. I’m booking your services for the afternoon.”

His laugh sounded rusty from disuse…and its feel-good release unleashed hungers he’d worked long and hard to lock away in darkness. Yet the response in kind came, dragged from him against his will. “Baby, watch your terminology. There could be a journo behind any shrub, if they know you’re here. I can see the headlines now. Verity West Writes A New Song. ‘I go for banged-up bush pilots and pay them for their services.’”

She laughed again, its pure sound vibrating with the serenity his soul had hungered to know the past ten years—yet he heard the stress beneath. So it wasn’t any easier for her to face him than it was for him to know she was here… “Well, at least I know you, and you’re my age.”

“I’m more attractive, too,” he remarked blithely, hiding his pounding heart. Mad, crazy—totally certifiable—but the hope wouldn’t go away. She didn’t say no or retreat behind embarrassed silence at the thought of being with him…

He heard the sorrow in her voice as she replied, “Nick only told me about your accident two days ago. If I’d known—”

Sudden cold rage made him grit his teeth. “Yeah, right. We both know you wouldn’t have come. Anson must’ve painted you into a corner to get you to come here. But it’s a good revenge, seeing Tallan O’Rierdan, walking freak show, huh?”

“Oh, grow up, Tal,” she snapped.

His hat suddenly flew over the sand, leaving his unprotected face exposed to her gaze. Refusing to back down, he stared up at her, blinking against the harshness of the hot sun and its silver reflections off the water and bright sand all around. “Well?” He knew what she’d see: the destruction of the face women once compared to a blond-haired, brown-eyed, living angel.

Yeah, right. An angel with pink puckered scars down the left side of his face, perfect on the right. Sorta like those half-man, half-woman carnival freaks people used to pay to gawk at in horrified fascination.

Come on, Mary-Anne, do it. Gulp. Cry. Turn away. Just do it and get the hell away from me!

But he couldn’t drag his gaze from her. Oh man, she was more beautiful in real life than in her promo and society shots, or even his most erotic dreams. Her vivid, wildly curling hair fell free, tumbling over her shoulder blades and full, sweet breasts. Her face glowed pale and soft-freckled in the tropical sun, dominated by a sweet, high-lipped pink mouth, sleepy cat’s eyes and a delicately wide jaw, lending feminine character and strength to a pretty face: the vividness and fire she’d once had in abundance beneath her shyness. She wore a loose tie-up flowered cloth as a skirt and a sapphire-blue bikini—striking against her silky skin, glowing hair and eyes. A floppy straw hat half fell over her face, flat sandals on her feet. A smudge of zinc cream covered her pert nose to stop further freckling.

Lovely. Entrancing. His girl as he’d always wanted her, fat or thin, shy recluse or world-famous ice queen, because she’d never been an iceberg for him. Just natural, unadorned, innocent Mary-Anne, who took in all strays and came out of her habitual hiding with both guns blazing to take a passionate stand for the rights of any underdogs she took into her heart.

His girl, as God made her.

And true to form, her direct gaze stayed right where it was, traveling from his eyes to his messed-up cheek and back again. “Did you think Nick would send me to you without showing me the pictures first? He might be hard, but he’s not a sadist.” Her face softened then. “He wouldn’t hurt you after what you’ve already been through, Tal. And neither would I.”

It took all he had to not grit his teeth. “Thanks, but you can leave the pity at the front door,” he drawled.

“Pity? For what?” Her slumberous eyes blazed with the flaming aliveness that had always made her a goddess in his eyes, no matter what her weight happened to be at the time. “You chose your path, like all of us did when we joined the Nighthawks—I’m sorry you’ve paid the price for your dreams, but you did what you love best. Yes, I hurt for what happened to you, but I don’t pity you—and why would I hate you for marrying Ginny? There were no promises between us, just a lot of dreams on my part.” She sighed. “And even if Nick hadn’t shown me the pictures, I never had hang-ups about physical perfection. I was a nurse—and with my childhood, I can’t afford to judge people by their looks. I’m not Ginny. You should always have known that.”

The mention of his ex-wife released a store of anger buried deep beneath lazy mockery for months. “Oh, I don’t know. You both did a runner when life didn’t work out the way you wanted.”

She tilted her head, utter perplexity now mingled with the dark flash in her eyes. “What reason would I have to hang around home, except my parents? I had college to finish, a job in the city, friends, someone to love me.” Her hands fluttered up. “We used to be best friends, Tal. I thought you’d be happy for me.”

She spoke the words with genuine confusion, but they hit him like a careless blow right to the gut, and his heart—what was left of it. That was the crux of it: he’d never spoken the words. All the promises he’d wanted to give her remained locked inside a boy’s heart, filled with dreams of their future. His father’s son, all right. He’d never had the gift of the gab like Kathy, who’d been the only O’Rierdan to escape the family’s introverted, take-it-on-the-chin genetics.

The name jabbed at him, an uppercut he took in silence with the other blows life punched out. His cute, funny little sister was gone and he’d lost Mary-Anne, the only girl who’d just—

No use thinking, or feeling. He heaved to his feet. “You’re right. I was happy for you. Okay, I’m yours for the afternoon, for the minimal fee of one hundred dollars per hour including tax.” He picked up his Akubra, jamming it over his head—keeping one side of his face in shadow.

“You know, you could earn that much an hour working as a doctor—or back in Search And Rescue with the Nighthawks—and you’d get a lot more job satisfaction,” she said softly.

He wheeled around on her, his throat burning like the sudden prickling heat behind his eyelids. Damn it, didn’t she know he had to fight the longing every day? “Don’t go there.” His voice was harsh and as tortured as a crow in a bird-catcher’s trap. “I’m not coming back. Anson can go to hell.”

“Why, you want him to join you?” She stood him down, defiant, lovely in radiant emotion, and, like a flicked switch, a compass turned north, he was where he needed to be, with her—and it turned him on even more. “So it seems your lifelong hatred of self-pity suddenly looks good from the other side of the fence?”

He almost flinched, remembering his careless, thoughtless, get-over-it remarks about her size—then he understood. The unaccustomed gibes were deliberate, designed to make him think, feel—and fight back. “Call it self-pity if you like. I call it accepting life as it is.” He took a few steps. No hiding the limp. No exaggerating. “SAR operatives run, free-fall out of choppers, climb down cliffs and belay into caves. They climb trees to hide from the enemy and drop out of them to attack. I’m what you might call ‘out of shape.’ I don’t do that anymore.”

He finally obtained his first objective: she turned away.

In the awkwardness of sudden silence, laughter filtered from the other end of the beach from kids splashing, families playing together in the tropical warmth of the late-summer day. The scent of frangipani and fallen coconuts filled the air. It was picture-perfect, a secluded tropical paradise, and she was finally here—yet he felt so damn alone. Aching, needing to reach out, to have the sweetness of contact with her for the first time in more years than he could count.

She tugged at an errant curl dancing in the warm breeze. “So you’re just giving up? Leaving the life behind that once meant everything to you?”

The darkness unleashed…the trembling started deep inside, the damn-fool useless longing to go back. All he’d ever wanted was to be a doctor, to help those in desperate need.

The flash of agony ripped through his leg, the faceless enemy, the constant reminder that his life was over.

He had to get out of here before he fell down.

He tipped up her face, denying the searing heat that raced through him with the simple touch. He couldn’t afford to think about it. “Don’t go there,” was all he said—but even he heard the anguish, the need, and he didn’t have a clue which need it was right now, to have his life back or to have her.

Didn’t matter: his dreams were gone and he couldn’t have them back. He dropped his hand, ready to run.

Limp, his mind corrected in sardonic self-mockery.

The tender touch on his face halted him with the force of a Mack truck. She’d always had that way with her; her power all the stronger because she had no idea what she did to him. “Tal,” she whispered, holding him captive with warmth and caring. “Don’t go. Please.”

He turned his face back to hers and aching hunger ripped through him: the need to fall inside her arms, lips and body—and just maybe, lost inside her, he’d find himself once again.

“We’ll talk tomorrow.” Desperate, his voice sounded thready now, weakening under the relentless jagged hell in his thigh.

He couldn’t face her like this. When he could walk again—when he’d got his head together, drowned the roaring need under the force of a few cold showers—he’d feel more in control.

“All right.” Then both hands touched him, cupping his face. Her silky-soft fingers trailed over his scars, unconsciously erotic on the exquisitely sensitive skin. “You didn’t lose it all. Dreams change shape. You can still help. You can be so much more than you are now.” And the soft brush of her mouth on his shocked him to the core. “We’ll talk tomorrow.”

He swallowed down the ball of hot gravel in his throat. What a man—he wanted her like hell, but could barely stay on his feet. He couldn’t stand for her to see— “Just go, okay?”

As if she knew, she dropped her hands. “Okay. But we have to talk. Consider your services hired for tomorrow—all day.”

With a massive effort, he grinned. “I’ll look forward to that, Miss West.”

Already walking away, she flicked a strange, intense look over her shoulder. “I hope you still feel the same when you know what services the world requires from you—Dr. O’Rierdan.”

When she’d gone, he grabbed the walking stick he kept hidden behind the deck chair near the wooden shack he called his home-office. Gritting his teeth, he hobbled slowly into his cabin. As soon as he was inside he fell to the bed, pulling his legs up, fighting the fisted knuckle-punches gutting him from the inside, from thigh to groin. When he could finally pull it together, he rolled to the bedside table and grabbed the full syringe he kept there and injected his leg, right beside the scars.

He forced himself to lie flat on the bed, waiting for relief. He only took enough to take the edge off, never often enough to get addicted. But when it came, he had two choices: this or puke and pass out where he landed. If he was flying when the pain hit, he settled for a local anesthetic until he got back here.

At least he had a choice today: he could feel sorry for himself or think about why Mary-Anne was here…why she’d gotten mad with him, why she’d touched him—kissed him.

Could it be that maybe, just maybe, beneath the cool, controlled, icy Verity West persona that she presented to the world, his Mary-Anne—lovely Mary-Anne, so sweet and caring, so fiery and passionate as she’d only been with him—still existed? And if she did, maybe…God help him for even hoping—

Don’t think. Don’t go through this. She’ll be gone soon, back to her latest album or concert or high-society party, and your life will go back to crap.

Yet as he drifted into restless sleep he knew that, no matter why she’d come to him or what happened after, life was going to be a hell of a lot more interesting this week than it had been over the past fourteen months.

Chapter 2

But she slipped farther down…poor baby was hanging on to his knees, screaming, her eyes begging for help while the boy on his shoulders began to topple, flung against him in the gale-force wind. Held up by lines suspended from the chopper, they kept slamming into the cliff face. A man, three kids and a split-second choice: which kid did he save? Or did they all die?

Drenched in sweat, he jolted up in bed.

Five-thirty. Would he ever break the habit of jerking awake the second the sun peeped above the horizon?

At least it broke the nightmare.

If he’d never joined the Nighthawks, there’d be no blood-soaked visions stalking him whenever he closed his eyes. He’d be a hardworking Flying Doctor, helping people in isolated areas—

Stupid. I left the Flying Doctors and joined the Navy to make Ginny leave me—and I left the Navy for the Nighthawks because it was my dream to work in war zones, helping those in greatest need. I jumped at the offer, knowing all the risks.

Tal limped to the bathroom, gritting his teeth hard when he had to balance himself to use the john. At least he was walking again this morning—hell, he was lucky he could still walk at all. The docs in Darwin saved his leg from amputation when putrid infection set in, and the most up-to-date plastic surgeon put his face back together—but all the medical magic in the world couldn’t make his femur knit as it had before, or stop the pain. So this was life, Jim, but not as he’d known it.

You could be so much more than you are…

He stood face-up beneath the stinging spray of a cold shower, half wishing it would drown him. Why wasn’t it cold enough to freeze the mess in his head and douse the raging fire of turbulence inside? Just yesterday his life was quiet, serene—

And boring as hell. You know you want to do whatever this mission is. Any reason to be with Mary-Anne again is worth it.

No, damn it, he couldn’t afford to want her here. She’d gone light-years out of his reach…and there was no way he could be friends with her. The white-hot chemistry that confused and embarrassed the hell out of him when he was a kid was still in full force. He’d never be able to look at her without wanting to drag her somewhere and make fast, furious love with her.

Dripping wet, he looked at himself in the mirror. The daily grueling upper body work had done its job: he was in top condition. The days in the sun left his olive skin glowing with health. Even his other leg looked good thanks to the one-legged skip-rope jumps he wasn’t supposed to be doing. As good as he was going to get—nowhere near good enough for a star like her.

So get over it.

Yeah. After half a lifetime of obsession with her, that was gonna happen.

Fifteen minutes later he left the shack and headed for the massive garage-style hangar that housed his little Cessna. A solitary sunrise dip and swirl with Harriet, the one faithful love of his life, would do him good.

He jammed his Akubra on his head as he limped down the soft, sandy dirt track bordered with wild hibiscus and azaleas. If any of the few tourists here got up this early, they’d be off on the high bush tracks or running on the sand to worship nature at its finest: an unspoiled sunrise over a calm, pristine reef ocean. They wouldn’t even notice him.

The irony of it. All he’d wanted once was to be overlooked, unimportant, faceless—but he’d wanted it by his own choice.

Not like this. Never like this.

Passing the nearby B and B on a palm-shadowed, winding path near the beach, he heard soft, peaceful Eastern music. He turned to find its source—and lost his breath.

She stood gracefully on one leg on a towel on the creamy sand beneath a swaying palm tree. The other leg extended back, her arm forward in a balletlike stretch movement. Her hair glowed in the gentle morning light, roped down her back in a simple plait. Barefoot, wearing shorts and a lemon tank top, breasts free of restraint—Don’t go there—her face scrubbed fresh and shower-clean, she resembled the simple, natural girl she’d once been.

And he was gone. The old ache, the helpless longing he always knew when he’d see her waiting for him at the billabong between Eden, his family’s farm, and Poole’s Rest, filled him again.

Mary-Anne had been his since she was six and she’d first seen his face. He’d been hers from the same day, climbing a tree for her against his will, a sulky eight-year-old putting a nest of dead swallow’s eggs back up in the branch to stop her tears for the task she was too chubby and ungainly to perform herself.

Not wanting her then—but wanting to be like her. A timid girl hiding in the shadows of life, she still had the courage to love, to give, never anything but herself. She’d needed him to help with her makeshift hospital of limping wildlife rejects, and he’d needed someone to need him. Just…a friend.

When his feelings changed, he didn’t know.

Maybe when Kathy died of leukemia when he was fifteen? Mary-Anne had left him speechless with gratitude when she’d sneaked through the window into his room the night of the funeral and held him all night in empathetic silence, letting him cry.

The erotic dreams of her started that night, a crazy wildland fire out of control—but, confused and ashamed, he hadn’t called it sexual love for his best friend.

Perhaps he’d known on his eighteenth birthday. His parents, close friends of her parents, had invited her to his private party with just the families, knowing she wouldn’t come to face the town kids’ taunts in a pink fit. Yet, knowing how much it would mean to him if she showed up, she’d stood outside the door and fumblingly handed him his favorite coconut-cream cake. Ginny, rich, pretty, spoiled and his try-hard-wannabe-girlfriend, had seen the pride on his face for his best friend. Spiteful and jealous, she’d said the name Mary-Anne suited her, since she was straight from “Gilligan’s Island.” All the kids laughed, but Ginny couldn’t work out why Tal didn’t. She didn’t know he’d always had a secret crush on the more famous Mary Ann, for being so sweet and kind to dopey Gilligan.

Three months later he’d turned down a major football contract in Sydney—and of all the kids in town, only she understood. “Oh, Tal, I’m so glad I’m not losing you,” she’d whispered…and, seeing her unashamed love for him in her eyes, he’d kissed her for the first time. It was gentle, sweet, awkward and terrifying—a fragile moment of beauty he would never forget. A son of four generations of blunt-talking, hardworking farmers who didn’t know how to communicate, he’d prayed that his touch, his kiss, told her all he could never bring himself to say.

But he’d known he loved her the night his loving, distressed parents and Ginny’s rich, smarmy father, holding the mortgage on Eden and having ambitions for the boy he’d hand-picked to be his son-in-law, had backed him into a corner with two words. “Ginny’s pregnant.” They hadn’t had to say more: they’d known he’d stand by her, even if Ginny had had to find him in a drunken stupor after a college party to seduce him. Well, she’d claimed he’d been enthusiastic, but since his mate Carl had had to carry him back to his dorm, and the remains of his puke had lain on the floor beside the bed, it hadn’t seemed likely.

Years later, Ginny had taunted him with the truth—but he’d never questioned at the time that the baby was his. She’d suckered him, grabbed the chance to get a ring from the boy Daddy had planned for her to marry. The boy she’d known could barely stand her.

As the families planned his wedding, only one thought filled his mind. How the hell do I explain this to Mary-Anne?

He’d given a quiet, unemotional promise to marry Ginny and left them to the champagne Max had brought—refusing to lie or to act happy about it—and he’d run to the tiny billabong, desperately needing comfort. Home from nursing college for the summer, Mary-Anne had come to him—but with tears streaming down her face for what they both knew would be their last time together.

“Ginny’s pregnant,” she’d cried, her pure, clear voice sweet even in her severe distress. “The whole town knows—and they’re all laughing at me. How could you? Why didn’t you make love to me? Why her? I thought…I thought—” She’d broken off then, her face ravaged and white, her eyes dark and burning.

He’d ached to comfort her…and to get comfort himself. Caught like an animal in a trap from one damn time he couldn’t remember. But he’d been in it then, for better or worse. Much worse. “I don’t love her. I—I don’t even like her,” he’d stuttered, desperately needing someone to talk to…aching to hold her, one last time…

“But you slept with her. You gave her your baby.” She’d flung off his touch, his pleading hands. “Go on then, marry her—have your baby—have a nice life with your skinny, pretty wife—but she’ll never love you the way I love you!”

The words he’d always longed for her to say as woman to man, said a day, a week, a year too late, while Ginny listened in from the shadows. Ginny, who’d thought she could cheat and lie to get him, and he’d love her anyway.

Ginny had made him pay for the love he’d only given to Mary-Anne. She and Max had made him pay every hell-filled day of the five years he’d been forced to stay with her, long after their mythical baby returned to the world of fairy tales and any real baby she might have had could have been any guy’s in town.

And Mary-Anne had disappeared into a fairy-tale ending. She’d hooked up to the stars, and dropped his Mary-Anne carelessly in some other galaxy where he’d never find her again.

As if dragged by magnets, he limped over to her now. “Well, I never thought I’d live to see this sight. Mary-Anne Poole is exercising of her own free will.”

“I didn’t lose those sixty pounds by crying in my coffee.” She turned her face to smile at him, sweet and unselfconscious. “And it’s rather hard to keep up a schedule of two hours of dancing and singing almost every night without some basic fitness skills.”

“I thought you famous pop-star types slept ’til midday.”

She smiled at that, too. “You’re still a farmer’s son, why shouldn’t I be a farmer’s daughter?” In a movement shimmering with tranquil beauty, she lifted her arms to a sky alight with the colors of sunrise. A gentle scent of rose and lavender floated to him, filling him with a sense of peace and rest.

“What are you doing?” he asked gruffly, gulping down a ball in his throat at the sight of her effortless grace, the fluid movements of her body. Oh, man, I’m losing it already…

“Tai chi. I finished my yoga a few minutes ago.” She sighed. “I feel like a sloth. I usually do an aerobic dance workout, run five kilometers and do an hour of weights, but I ‘officially’ have a throat infection, so I’m taking a week or two of R and R.”

He shook his head, laughing. “Mary-Anne Poole running five Ks every day and working weights. Is this the same girl who hid behind the equipment shed during phys ed?”

“No, it’s Verity West and Songbird.” Her tone measured, even. “I work out every day. I have to stay fit to keep my jobs.”

“And the jobs are so important to you?”

She gave him a look hard to interpret. “Verity West is my cover, like being a beach bum pilot was yours until you quit. I have to work hard at getting it right, but the life I lead for my cover is no less important to me than yours is to you.”

“Right. You lost the weight first. You were famous four years before you joined the Nighthawks, and you reveled in it!”

She didn’t blink at his knowledge of her life. “So you asked about me,” she said softly. “You found out about me after that day we passed each other in the hall at headquarters.”

He flushed. Had Anson told her about his attempted theft of her files, the suspensions he’d endured for refusing to drop what Anson called his obsession with her? Had she asked about him, or was the gnawing need for them to be together again only in his mind and heart? “Can you answer the question?”

“Fame was important once.” She swung her body around in another motion of unselfconscious confidence. So unlike the girl who hunched over to hide her breasts, walking with a shuffle, as if apologizing to the earth for being such an unwanted part of it. “I thought I’d feel better about myself, being accepted. But being chased and photographed by the press, or enduring endless speculations about my sex life—no, I don’t revel in it.” She shrugged. “I just wanted to be like everyone else.”

“Why?” To him, she’d always been a miracle, a true human in a world of wannabes. A girl who just loved him for what he was, in a town where everyone adored him in an awed manner as Cowinda’s sports star and valedictorian. In their anxious eyes, he was only as good as his next performance or exam result, his university entrance mark and the beautiful girl on his arm.

“Being normal has its merits, Tal.” She lunged down, her arms reaching out, fingers reaching to emptiness—but it didn’t seem to bother her, the emptiness. But she’d never had the emptiness inside, like him.

“Why are you here?” He had to end this farce, the pretense that they were still friends, soul mates—anything but the lovers he couldn’t stop aching for. “What does Anson want?”

“Are you sure you’re ready to hear it?”

He shrugged. “I know Anson. Always expect the unexpected.”

She scouted the area to be sure they were alone. Then she looked him in the eyes with her usual directness. “Here’s the deal. We have a whirlwind public courtship, then do a fake marriage ceremony in either Sydney or Cowinda within three days. Then we begin a European honeymoon where, under the cover of a happy couple, we investigate the activities of a black market arms dealer and an apparent houseguest wanted for murder.”

The world swung around him like her body in that Tai chi movement. Oh, man. Was this a twelve-year dream coming true or yet another king hit from life? Trying to reorient himself, he lifted his brows and sucked in a breath. “O-kay,” he said for the sake of saying something, vaguely proud of the fact that he hadn’t fallen over. Yet. “Why us?”

She gave him a resigned grin. “The tabloid stories Ginny sold. What else?”

He felt the flush creep up his neck. After he’d left her three years ago, Ginny had made a fortune by selling stories to TV, radio and the print media that her husband had taken the Iceberg’s virginity by a billabong. When the story grew cold, she’d added her belief that Mary-Anne was cold to all other men because she was still, and had always been, wildly, madly, deeply in love with Tal O’Rierdan—even when she was married to Gilbert West.

“But the stories are lies,” he argued.

“And no one knows that but you, me and Ginny,” she said quietly. “You and I won’t argue, and Ginny’s not likely to recant the story. Nick thinks we can use it to our advantage.”

He shook his head. “But it’s breaking all his you-can’t-know-your-fellow-operative rules—and it’s bloody dangerous for both of us. We know too much about each other—homes and families, our backgrounds, strengths and weaknesses. This is crazy. The mission had better be something right outside the box.”

“Um, you could say that.” She looked around the beach again, checked the path. When she spoke, it was low and urgent. “One of the Nighthawks is working with the arms dealer and his houseguest—an international criminal who’s out to destroy us. Operatives are dying or disappearing on the most basic missions. Some found alive were loaded with a chemical cocktail that left them with no memory of who they’ve been with or what they’d been doing. Top-secret information’s reaching the wrong people—stuff that could only come from a Nighthawk. It can’t be us, since you’ve been in hospital and here, and I was on the Blue Straits tour. Through a few loyalty tests, Nick’s narrowed the field down to three probabilities—Solomon, Angel and Jack.”

“I don’t know any of them,” he remarked, frowning.

“That’s why it has to be us. Neither of us has worked with them. They’re among the few who don’t know I’m a Nighthawk. If we go undercover to find the rogue, they won’t know who we are.”

Feeling as though she’d loaded him with some chemical cocktail that had robbed him of the ability to think, he rubbed his scar. “Why do we have to appear married? What’s the full deal?”

“Think about it. Verity West is the most famous iceberg since the one that sunk Titanic. ‘The woman so faithful to Gil West’s memory she lets no man touch her,’” she parroted, mimicking her press. “Taking a lover would bring on rumors and speculation that could blow my cover. But marrying my ‘first lover’ should be a reasonable marriage in the eyes of the world.”

“And?” he pressed, trying to focus on the mission rather than the old obsession with them finally becoming lovers—and the instinctive knowledge telling him they’d be lovers hotter and more eternal than the fires of hell, as infinitely beautiful and unforgettable as the gates of heaven.

“And anyone can check our supposed history. Ginny’s version of our hot little teenage affair is documented in a hundred places.” She shrugged, but the soft rose touching her cheek and throat told Tal that, if she didn’t want him now, she sure as hell had back then. Did she hate herself for loving him once or—yeah, right, O’Rierdan—was she hiding the fact that she wanted him still? “So we’re legitimate. Our marriage won’t be questioned, nor the fact that we’re hiding out for a honeymoon.”

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, just to fill the silence. For the sake of saying something because he could never say it, could never ask her… Will it be real, Mary-Anne? Will we be lovers, as we both wanted so badly to be, once? “I guess they’re right.”

She held herself tense for a moment before she relaxed. He could feel her palpable relief, but he didn’t know why. What had she been so afraid he’d ask her, or say? “The certificate looks so real it will pass any scrutiny. The registry will keep it on file for a month. The press won’t find the celebrant—Nick’s flying in some Nighthawk friend or relative. Not that we’ll ever know who she belongs to, or where she lives.” The ironic twist to her smile told him she found Anson’s never-know-your-fellow-operatives rule as frustrating as he always had.

“And after?” He watched her closely. “What happens after the mission? Taking a lover might destroy your cover—but so will the act of getting married again. Even if we make the breakup look realistic, it shoots your reputation to pieces. Imagine the tabloids. Verity West’s Marriage Fails After Only A Week.”

“I know.” She sighed. “This is the most vital mission we’ll ever do. If it has to be my last, it’s worth doing. It’s more important than my feelings or yours, or even the rules on secrecy between operatives. If the Nighthawks are destroyed—”

He tapped his foot. “I know the drill. I did the introduction course, too. Nighthawks come first or regional stability is in peril. Lives could be lost.”

Her eyes burned into his. “Why are you talking like you don’t care? You always cared too much before, taking stupid risks to save people! Flipper and Braveheart told me about the time you belayed down a two-hundred-foot cliff during a freak storm to save six kids on that island off East Timor. None of the others would touch it, not even Braveheart. You nearly died, yourself, you broke your shoulder and severed your Achilles tendon, and got a severe concussion, but you saved them!”

He flushed again, stuffing balled fists into his pockets. “The guys are exaggerating again.” And he hadn’t saved them all.

“Why, Tal?” she insisted, her face vivid, alive with her lifelong passion to help others. “Why don’t you care now?”

He turned away, fighting the old longing again. “You tend to get less emotional when you’ve become a statistic, too.”

“I don’t believe it!” she cried. “You know how many people died the night the grenade hit you—but do you know how many innocent Tumah-ra people lost their homes and families? They’re not statistics any more than you are. I was there before the war, gathering information—I knew their names, I’d been to their homes, ate and drank with them, cuddled their kids…and now they’re gone! I—” She choked and wheeled away, dashing at her face—and she gave a wobbly little hiccup of distress, one that melted his heart, that made him care, made him want to be something better. For her. And, if he was honest, for them: the faceless sufferers that his girl took into her heart and soul and made real to him.

He couldn’t stand there as she ached and cried for the fate of people she didn’t know. The statistics she made so real by her vividly stark words. “Mary-Anne?” He touched her shoulder.

“Linebacker died last week,” she muttered, scrubbing at her face. “Shot through the head at close range.”

He staggered back until he found something to lean on: a rough-hewn post on the beach path. “My God. Linebacker was twenty-two, twenty-three at the most. He was a real nice kid—”

“He was such a sweet boy. He wanted to save the world.” Tal watched her tears well up and overflow without shame: a purity of grief he’d always associated with her. “I don’t want anyone else to die, Tal—not if I can do anything to stop it. I know what these people are feeling—and I’d do anything to stop it. Anything.” Without warning she turned into his body, burrowing against him, gulping so hard he could almost feel it hurting her throat. “I’ve lost someone I loved so much I wanted to die…”

The unforgettable Gilbert West. She’d met the pathologist at her last teaching hospital before graduation. Gil had adored her from first sight, married her within six months and created the legendary singer-songwriter Verity West from the cripplingly shy Mary-Anne Poole, by the simple act of believing in her. He’d entered her in a contest where she’d sung the haunting “Farewell Innocence.” Within weeks a major recording label picked her up, and when her first album, Nobody’s Lolita, went triple platinum, Gil gave up his career to manage his wife, to be beside her through good times and bad. And he was, until the day he died.

No wonder she’d written the poignant hit, “Making Memories,” when they’d got the shocking diagnosis of Gil’s impending death from multiple, inoperable brain tumors. Gilbert West had made all her dreams come true.

And this was totally the wrong time to be reacting, burning with the feel of her breasts pushing against his chest, the soft mound of her femininity pushing against him as she cried. Can it, O’Rierdan. She wants comfort from an old friend, that’s all.

But his rock-hard mate inside his jeans didn’t have a conscience, just one hell of a long-denied need for her—and an intense instinct that he’d finally find his way home in her soft warmth, so close beneath those flimsy layers of clothes.

A couple of tourists emerged from their huts. Turning the scarred side of his face away, he watched from under the protection of his hat. Did they recognize the famous trademark hair and statuesque beauty of Verity West? Was that the Iceberg, burrowed into the body of some island hick?

He could see the headline: The Iceberg Melts On The Cripple.

The reality of their situation cooled his libido in an instant. He’d be damned if she’d have to face another sleazy tabloid headline because of him. “Let’s get out of here.”

She nodded as he snatched up the bag beside her towel, grabbed the tape deck and towel with it. “We don’t want tourists grabbing free Verity West souvenirs,” he said dryly.

He took her along the path to his plane’s steel hangar and, once inside, slammed the roller door behind them. “So you’d do anything to help those people—even marry me?”

Had she flushed again, or was the color rising in her cheeks because of the heat of the day? “If that’s what it takes, yes.” The huskiness in her voice lingered. With the gentle flush in the valley of her cleavage, it made a lethal chemical catalyst for his libido, sending it right back into hyperdrive.

“We’d have to make the marriage look like a real one in case any paparazzi break in,” he said bluntly, struggling to keep focused on the mission. “We can’t use two beds.”

“I know.” It might have been a trick of the light, but the rose in her face and throat seemed to deepen as she looked anywhere but at him. “It doesn’t have to be awkward, does it? We…we’ve slept together before.”

He chuckled. “Slept being the operative word, Mary-Anne. We were kids. We haven’t slept together since that night we camped by the billabong when I was sixteen—and I never touched you.”

“I know that,” she said—too quiet—and he wondered what was going on beneath the surface. Gentle, smiling, cool and calm one minute—erupting with mini explosions of passionate emotion the next. It was like playing Blind Man’s Bluff or Murder in the Dark. “We didn’t touch then, we won’t now.”

He wheeled around to look at the half-dark hangar wall, watching shadows of waving palms chasing each other through the window’s early morning light. “You might be able to control your passion for me, sweetness, but you’d better ask before you assume the same for me. I’m a man now, even if I don’t look like much of one—and I’ve still got a man’s needs.”

“I heard about your needs.” He jerked his head around to look at her. A flash of ancient pain, the sense of a wound too deep and raw to touch, crossed the banked fire in her eyes. Yet she met his gaze without flinching or apology. “Ginny made sure I knew all about those needs of yours. She gave me every detail.”

A helpless curse ripped from his throat, strangled fury that had nowhere to release. “Mary-Anne—”

“There’s no need.” Another careless shrug: a flimsy defense against this too intense conversation in a hangar that was way too hot, humid with diesel fuel, morning mist and late summer sun. She was all rosy now, flushed and damp, as if they’d spent the past hour— Oh, man, was he trying to kill himself? Why keep fantasizing about what he’d never have?

“What matters is stopping Darren Burstall and his rogue from taking down the Nighthawks one by one.”

He went totally still. Something cold and slimy touched him, slithering into his soul like hideous poison. “Burstall?”

She licked her upper lip, taking the sweat beading it, he noted absently. “Yes.”

“You’re telling me he’s not dead?” he muttered through stiff lips. “Anson left Burstall alive—and he didn’t tell me?”

“They chased him, but they had to save you, then he shot some villagers. They couldn’t leave innocent people there to die. Then Burstall hooked up with the rebels in Tumah-ra,” she sighed. “It seems he’s made interesting connections, rendering him useful to people Interpol would like to take down—people with billions in offshore accounts and vested interests in the oil off Tumah-ra’s shore. Too many reasons to keep those dumb rebel kids on the island rigged with weapons and stop the UN taking control.”

He barely heard her. Burstall was alive. Anson didn’t get him! Burstall was alive—the insane bastard lived and breathed, killing and maiming innocent people to feed his mania—and Tal’s rage, cold and flippant for so long, boiled over.

“Anson’s a noble, interfering, self-righteous jerk!” His fists slammed into the hot steel wall so hard it buckled outward and his knuckles scraped raw and bleeding. “Why the hell didn’t Anson tell me all this? Didn’t he know I’d want to go after him myself—and not just for me, but for what he did to Skydancer, Countrygirl and all the poor villagers he shot in Tumah-ra?”

“I don’t know. You’ll have to ask him.” With folded arms, she watched him destroy the hangar wall, her high-lipped rose mouth rimmed with a touch of fastidious distaste.

“So the Iceberg’s wondering what sort of husband she’s got after the sainted Gilbert?” he sneered, baiting her. “Well, look on the bright side, sweetness—it’s all a game of pretend. You can dump me at the end of the mission, guilt-free.”

She didn’t bother to answer his taunts. Instead her lips curved in a slow smile. “I’ve got something more constructive for you to do than breaking walls, Tal,” she breathed, “and I think you’ll agree that it’s a lot more fun.”

She moved a step closer, her eyes dark and slumberous, her body radiant, as if in the afterglow of hours of scorching-hot lovemaking. “It’s something I want—something I wanted so badly for years—but I never found the courage to go after.”

Rage took wings as he watched her move toward him, her eyes alight, her mouth curved in promise. His heart slammed against his ribs. His head spun with the hope his body wouldn’t let him ignore. What was she saying—that for all those years, she wanted him…that even now, looking like he did, she’d—

Uh-huh. He got real turned on looking at himself in the mirror every day. Why wouldn’t she?

But the cynicism wouldn’t take hold. His man’s need, hot and hard and urgent, kept hammering at him, Do it, do it, do it. Ask her. Touch her. Take her. So many years wanting her, needing her, and she’s so close…so damn beautiful it hurts. Do it!

It almost killed him to speak, but he managed to say, “Well?” in a strangled croak.

She moved to him, step by slow, sultry step. She lifted her mouth to his ear and whispered, in the gentlest, most seductive of tones, “Revenge…”

Chapter 3

“I’m on. I’ll take Burstall down—for Linebacker’s sake, if nothing else.”

Mary-Anne—for though the rest of the world saw her as icy Verity West, she never had, could never think of herself as anything but plain old farm girl Mary-Anne—sighed in quiet relief at his words. She’d been pretty sure he was hooked even before she spoke Darren Burstall’s name—but it was hard, so hard, proposing this mission to Tal.

She couldn’t show him how she ached for him, that she had all the empathy in the world for his suffering. Growing up different, plain and overweight but with extraordinary talent, gave her some insight into how he must feel about his injuries. Golden-haired, olive-skinned Tal, handsome, athletic and brilliant, Cowinda’s pride and joy, must be chafing so hard against the physical restrictions he couldn’t change.

But the harsh, dark-souled man in front of her, so unlike the sweet, caring, tongue-tied boy he’d been, could still fire her rebellious body’s response to him like fast-melting honey…

With the exception of her poignant four years with Gil, she’d only ever wanted one man to be her lover—and if anything, his scars made her want Tal more. If he was less of an angel now, he was all male—all strong, dark, tense man. The brooding depth gave him a raw, pulsing sexuality that left her screaming for fulfillment. Tal was her sweetest taboo, the forbidden fruit: her best friend, confidant and rescuer too many times to count, pain and rejection and dark, hot temptation rolled into one man. Fantasy and reality in blue jeans and black T-shirt, his muscles bunching in riveting, superb maleness as he buckled the hangar walls with a punch.

How could she tame her heart or stop the midnight call of her body? Within a year of Gil’s death, the dreams she’d had of Tal all through her teen years started again—and all the guilt in the world couldn’t kill off the wanting. And five years later, Gil was a faint, sweet memory…and she called another name when she woke up at night in a sweat of fevered, aching need, after white-hot erotic dreams of the man she could never have.

“Okay, let’s get out of this sauna and make arrangements. I have the license. Nick faxed it to me last night,” she said crisply to hide her pounding heart and sweating palms.

“He always counts on getting his way,” was all he said. Then he gave her a curious look. “Nick? That’s…unusual. He’s always Ghost or Boss to the rest of us—or sir.”

She shrugged. “We have an unusual relationship, because of my fame. I call him Ghost or sir on missions, of course.”

But he merely shrugged. “Who’s our backup?”

“Ghost is taking this one. It’s been ranked top secret, and apart from Braveheart and Wildman, all the other operatives are coming in from Virginia, hand-picked by the brass and absolutely trustworthy,” she answered, lost between relief and a kind of sick despair. Once upon a time, Tal had always known when she went into hiding and he’d always come to her, made her talk out her fears or pain. He’d made her love him more every time, just by caring so much. But it seemed he’d lost his radar with her. They were drifting further apart every moment, and she couldn’t do a damn thing to stop it, unless she wanted more operatives to die.

He frowned. “I’d have thought Skydancer would want to be in on this. This whole thing started because of a private show between Burstall and Skydancer, right?”

“Skydancer does want in on this—so does Countrygirl—but she’s pregnant and they have kids. Ghost won’t bring them in because Burstall’s primary target’s still Skydancer. Skydancer’s also worked with Jack and Angel in the past. And Burstall has an obsession with Countrygirl. We traced a call he made to her through four computers and two different satellites.”

“Nice complication,” he remarked, frowning in concern. “If Burstall ends up taking one of us, he’s likely to demand hostage exchange to get Countrygirl.”

“You’re right.” She looked in his eyes, willing hers not to show the aching hammer of desire hitting her. She could die and not care, when she looked into his eyes… “This whole assignment will be dangerous, without the complication of being conducted in the public eye. My fame is the only ticket we have to get into where Burstall’s hiding—but it’s a flimsy cover at best. We’ll be lucky if they don’t suspect us from the get-go.”

Tal frowned. “Where is he? Where are we going?”

She grinned at him. “That’s one advantage to this—we’ve hit the jackpot. He’s in Amalza. One of the smallest Mediterranean islands outside the Mallorca group off the coast of Spain—”

“Where famous honeymooners hide out, and tax cheats, illegal arms dealers and financial wizards from the wrong side of Wall Street abound,” he filled in with his own special blend of unique grinning irony. He leaned against the hot wall, folding his arms across his tight, muscled chest as he smiled still, making her gulp. “So are we going to an ‘Embassy’ do?”

Grateful for the distraction, she laughed. The “Embassy” was infamous among those in the know. The Embassy was an enormous white castillo of indecent luxury owned by Robert Falcone, an illegal arms dealer who absconded with billions of dollars when his British financial empire collapsed. Anyone who was someone on the international black market partied there—and any spy worth their salt longed to infiltrate it. Every Interpol operative or connected agent dreamed of being the one to take the slippery-smooth Falcone down. A party there was a potential gold mine for the arrest of the century.

“That’s the point of us going, Irish,” she shot back with a lifted brow and a quirky grin. “Why do you think Nick wants me in on this? Burstall’s in Amalza. We’ve heard rumors he’s in hiding out at the Embassy. Falcone has made it obvious he’d love to get up close and personal with me. Falcone’s castillo has tighter security than the White House, but if I go to Amalza—even on my honeymoon—you think he won’t send me an invite?”

“Oh, he will,” Tal retorted dryly. “The question is, will I get an invitation to come with my lovely wife?” He limped to the roller doors and with a bunching heave he let fresh air in, tropical-warm and sweet-scented. “It’s too hot in here.”

Oh, yeah, baby, it was hot all right…she was so hot she could barely think. Those well-worn jeans molded his butt like a loving glove… “Doesn’t matter,” she made herself say through a lump in her throat that felt like sticky tar in summer. She’d had a love affair with that butt for more years than she wanted to remember. “I can’t afford to go without backup.”

He turned back to her and frowned. “Mary-Anne, this is your venue. What use will I be in this beyond window-dressing? I am—was—Search And Rescue. A field operative and medical officer. I might be a doctor, but I’m a bush kid. Tact and subtlety, or sophisticated man-about-town, I don’t think I’ll handle well.”

“Maybe it’s time to stretch your skills.” She hoped her lifted brow, her cynical smile, would stop the unwanted question forming, unbidden, on her rebel lips. “I learned to play the game quick enough. I’m sure you’ll pick it up.”

He gave her a strange, intent look. “Are you willing to risk your life on me being able to do that?”

“As much as you are, I guess.” Could she handle a fake marriage with Tal, when it could all end in a week and she’d never see him again, except on trips home to see the family—

The thought slammed into her like a truck hitting a kangaroo on a dark Outback road. She felt the blood drain from her face. “Tal,” she whispered, “our parents—”

He jerked around to her, taking her words and running with them. “Not just them. Your brother. My grandparents. Bloody hell, the whole town of Cowinda.”

“My mum and dad and Greg always wanted us to get married,” she whispered, her mind racing along with the horror of the scenario unfolding in her mind.

“My family, too. Dad dreamed of Poole’s Rest and Eden being one property, after Greg chose vet science instead of farming. And you know how much they love you.” He looked at her, his face dark as a sudden Outback storm. “We can’t do this to them.”

“Ghost wants our families as part of the thing, to make it authentic. They’re to come to the wedding, but they can’t know the truth about us being Nighthawks, or our marriage being for the mission…” Her mind went blank. “It would put them at risk.”

“The media will hound ’em as soon as the mock-up starts. Our mothers would give the lot of ’em the scoop on us, along with a bang-up dinner to celebrate.” His muscles bunched again as he leaned both hands on the metal wall. “They won’t just be heartbroken when we break up—they’ll be publicly humiliated.”

Tal always called a spade a spade. A hand lifted to her mouth. “When we break up after the mission…if it leaks out later that our wedding was a fake, I don’t think they’d get over it…”

Still leaning on the wall, he turned his face to her, his eyes burning. “It’s crunch time, Mary-Anne—regional stability or the people we love. We either let someone else handle the assignment or we break our parents’ hearts and shatter the illusions of everyone in Cowinda.”

More ramifications Nick couldn’t possibly have taken into account, because he wasn’t born and raised in a tiny, close-knit Outback town of less than eight hundred people. “We’re the shining kids of Cowinda. We put the place on the map.”

“I was just a doctor. You’re the one who put Cowinda on any maps that matter, sweetness,” he interjected dryly.

She waved that off. “Our marriage would be a fairy tale come true for everyone in town—well, except your ex-wife, her daddy and a few of their followers,” she added, just as dry. “There’s no way everybody wouldn’t know, or find out. The wedding being leaked to the papers is a vital part of the assignment. The paparazzi would bolt to Cowinda to get the scoop. Everyone’s going to have a point of view, want their moment of fame. And when we break up, it’ll make them all look like fools.”

Still slow and thoughtful, he said, “I don’t know about you, but I can’t do this to Mum and Dad. Not since Kathy died. I’m all they’ve got left—and they want me to remarry and have kids.” His mouth twisted in a cynical slash as he finished.

Mary-Anne almost gaped at him. “You haven’t told them about the accident, have you?”

He shook his head. “Anson wanted it kept secret until my contract runs out. I wanted to wait until after the final operation, anyway. After Kathy’s death…I couldn’t scare them like that, or wreck their dreams of me finding another wife.”

She clenched her jaw shut. The man was stone blind, deaf and stupid…he had to be. A woman stood right in front of him, almost dying with the pain of wanting him, and he couldn’t even see it…

Don’t make a fool of yourself over him again. Once is enough.

“Tal, people have died.” Though a tad croaky, her voice was calm, a thin cloak hiding her anguished desire. “The Virginia office is right—only you and I have any chance at all of pulling this mission off. My fame will give us bona fides. Falcone’s interest in me guarantees us an invitation into the Embassy. Ginny’s lies about us will help make our marriage look above suspicion. Any other newcomers to the island would be too heavily scrutinized.” She couldn’t stop the words tumbling from her mouth like falling dominoes. “It’s not only the Nighthawks that will be destroyed with this, Tal. Falcone’s latest arms cache is big enough to start a war or three. The rumor mill inside Interpol has it that he’s not just sending guns to Tumah-ra, but bombs. He’s got caches ready to send to rebel militia and fractious religious groups in volatile countries in Africa and Eastern Europe.”

Tal bit out a gritty epithet. “Then what the hell do we do? I won’t sacrifice our families, but I can’t risk innocent lives for them, either.”

She bit her lip and held on to the too warm wall, feeling the discomfort vaguely as she took on possibilities and discarded them. “I don’t know.”

“There’s only one thing to do.” The note in his voice made her heart hammer. He tipped up her chin, and looked deep into her eyes. “We sacrifice our feelings, and get married for real.”