Blind Instinct (18 page)

Cavanaugh didn't know what she'd had in the pack. She deliberately hadn't told him; the risk was hers. Reichmann had no interest in interrogating her. He wanted her dead and all knowledge of his crimes wiped out.

Something flashed in the trees. A message in Morse.

Courage
.

Cavanaugh. Still here, and impossibly close.

The dreadful sense of isolation eased. The moment of connection she had experienced in the forest grew stronger, swelling her heart, followed by sheer unadulterated panic.

Reichmann's men had seen him. They were already running, shouting orders.

Cavanaugh. You shouldn't have stayed
.

She stared at Reichmann, and the solution to preserving Cavanaugh's life. She knew Cavanaugh; he wouldn't leave until she was gone. “Traitor,” she said succinctly.

Reichmann levelled the Mauser at her chest.

“
Thief
.”

B
right light catapulted Sara out of the dream.

Bayard was looming over her, pushing on her chest. The room swam, her vision dimmed.

“Dammit,” he roared. “
Breathe
.”

His head dipped, his mouth pressed on hers, the pressure urgent. Air forced past the tight rigor knotting her chest.

She gasped; oxygen flooded her lungs.

He continued to breathe with her, as if he couldn't fully believe that she could do it on her own.

Her fingers threaded in his hair, framed his face. She stared into his fierce, dark gaze. Emotion welled, sharp, urgent, and for a brief second time dissolved. Her hands tightened around his
neck, pulled his mouth to hers. The first kiss was deep, the second wrenching.

Her fingers dug into his shoulders.

She was literally shaking with cold. Heat blazed from him, burning her chilled skin. She slipped her fingers down across his taut abdomen and found his erection.

“Now?”

Her mind was still reeling, her body icy. The recall had been too stark, too perfect. She needed warmth, life.

Positioning him between her legs, she pushed down, shoving herself onto him. He began to move, his mouth on hers, his body tight against her, as if
he
couldn't bear the separation. Her fingers bit into his hips. Heat and a piercing pleasure rolled through her, so intense that for an endless moment she thought she might faint.

When it was over they lay together, still and silent. Eventually Bayard moved, but only to flick on the lamp and retrieve the duvet, which had ended up on the floor.

When he got back into bed, he leaned back against the headboard, his arms folded across his
chest. “Okay,” he said grimly. “Now you tell me exactly what was going on. You stopped breathing.”

“I dreamed I was dying.”

When she didn't continue, his jaw tightened. “Tell me about it.”

“Trust me, you don't want to hear.”

“Isn't that what your father used to do? Talk you through the dreams? I was there, staying over with Steve one night when you had one.”

Her stomach tensed. “What did I do?”

“Not much, but enough that I could see how real it was. I told you that I'd done some reading on the subject. Your father gave me a couple of books.”

“
When?
”

His mouth thinned, his dark gaze was distinctly irritable. “A few years ago. The day after your eighteenth birthday.”

“After the kiss.” That made sense. He had wanted to know why she had rejected him, and somehow he had figured out that it had something to do with the dreams.

In short, clipped sentences she explained what she knew about that previous life. Stark images resurfaced as she told the story in cold sequence, but with the blunt retelling they lacked the clarity and
punch they'd had in dreams. When she was finished she felt exhausted and wrung out, but oddly emotionless, as if whatever part of her had held on so fiercely to those memories had finally let go.

She studied Bayard, abruptly curious. He was Cavanaugh, and yet not. “Do you want to know what really happens to me?
You do
. You trigger the dreams. They started when you moved next door then stopped when you went away to boarding school. The night you kissed me, I had a flashback.”

“I don't see the connection.”

Now for the bit that was going to get her checked into a nice little “hospital” somewhere. “Because you were there. In 1943. Only your name wasn't Bayard, it was Cavanaugh. You were an American agent working for the British Special Operations Executive, and you parachuted into France to get me out.”

Rain was pounding on the windows when she woke. Bayard was already dressed for work.

Her face burned when she remembered just how much she'd told him the night before. “You must think I'm crazy.”

He pulled her out of bed and kissed her. “I've
been hanging around since I was nine. Figure it out.”

“Then maybe you should consider that you're the crazy one.”

He gripped her chin and turned her head so she could see the way they looked together in the full-length mirror affixed to his wall. With Bayard fully dressed and her naked, her hair trailing, the picture was decadent. “Not crazy. Fully sane.”

He checked his watch. “I have to go. I've got a meeting to make. And I'll be late home. There's a private party tomorrow night. Nasser Riyad's on the guest list, and it's possible that Helene Reichmann and Lopez will be there.”

She shrugged into the shirt she'd started using as a robe. “If that's the case, I need to go.”

“No.”

“I can identify them both.”

His expression was cold. “If those messages are correct, Lopez is planning on shooting Riyad.”

“In that case, the place will be crawling with security.” She gripped the lapels of his suit. She couldn't explain her urgency to him. He couldn't remember being hunted by Stein and Reichmann,
or that he'd been shot, but she could. “I can ID him. It's possible I can ID them both. How many people have you got who have seen Lopez in the flesh, who know how he walks, the way he moves his head. Marc, I know—”

“You called me Marc.”

She stared at his expression. “I can do it more often if you'd like.”

“Damn.” He bent his head and kissed her neck. “You are so wasted in that library.”

“If you let me come to the party, I'll do whatever you say. I'll stay out of trouble.”

“I'll think about it, but I'm not making any promises.”

After breakfast, she made space for herself at Bayard's desk, set up her laptop and dialed up a library search engine. The system gave her access to a large number of city and university libraries and a huge base of online research material. An hour later, after wading through repetitive sites detailing the history of the Special Operations Executive and the French Resistance, and without finding the specific, personal information she was searching for, she logged off and picked up the phone.

She hadn't really expected to find the names
and details of SOE agents. The information would have been classified, and only available to military personnel or the government officials of the countries involved—with the appropriate security clearance.

Searching the library database had been a stab in the dark. She had been counting on the fact that, like the Enigma information, after so many decades had passed, details of operations might have seeped into the public forum.

It hadn't, which meant that the only way she was going to find the information she wanted was to gain access to classified military and government records.

She dialed Bayard's office. He was in a meeting, but Lissa made it clear that she had been instructed to help her in any way she could.

“I need to get into personnel files that were generated in the 1940s.”

“That will require a security clearance, but I think I can wangle it. Can I call you back?”

Half an hour later, Sara got Hudson to drop her off at Marc's work, and took a seat in a small interview room adjacent to Lissa's office, which was equipped with a desk, computer and two chairs.

Lissa pulled up a chair beside her and accessed
a military database using her security clearance. “And now for the magic carpet ride. Bayard's access code.”

When the menu came up, Lissa left her to it. Heart pounding, Sara typed “Cavanaugh” into the search box. The name wasn't that common, but the list of hits was in the hundreds. Next she initiated a search on agents who had been seconded to the SOE. There were only two Cavanaughs listed.

She brought up the file on the first one then discounted it because this Cavanaugh had died in 1942. On the second try she hit gold.

Marc
Cavanaugh.

The unexpectedness of Cavanaugh having the same first name as Bayard hit her like a punch in the chest, the sense of time shifting, dissolving, suddenly powerful.

She hit the print button and scrolled through his details as the pages printed out.

He had been seconded to the SOE in 1943. His hometown had been New Orleans, Louisiana. The information fitted with what she remembered. The fact that he had been from Louisiana and still had the same first name sent a cold tingle through her. It was as if, even though he had died, his identity had, essentially, remained the same.

He had died
.

Grief hit her like a wave, even though she knew that, logically, Cavanaugh was no longer alive.

She scrolled down the file. The place of death was listed as France. The date, 1944.

There had to be a mistake. He had gotten away. He had been
safe
.

It didn't make sense. Unless he had been sent back. But after the exposure of the fight with Reichmann and Stein, he should have been removed from the roster of agents.

Bayard, Bridges and an older man with iron-gray hair and a military bearing, strolled into the office as she was leaving.

Bayard introduced the older man as Rear Admiral Saunders, his boss. When the introductions were completed, Saunders politely excused himself. Bayard directed her into his office, flipped open his briefcase and handed her a printed invitation.

She was coming to the party, but on a limited basis. She would have an assigned bodyguard. If she didn't see anyone within the first hour, she was gone. If there was going to be an attempt on
Nasser Riyad's life, they expected it to take place at a small official ceremony later on in the evening. Riyad would be briefly exposed while he received an award. If she wanted, after she left the party, she could join the surveillance team in a van off the premises. That was the offer, take it or leave it.

“I'm going.” Bayard was worried about her, but she was worried about
him
.

Lissa stepped into his office, followed by Bridges.

Bayard pulled out his wallet and handed her a credit card. “You're going to need an evening dress.”

Sara tried to push it back at him. “I've got money. I can pay for my own things.”

“Use the card. We'll fight about it later.” He pulled her close. The kiss was short, but thorough. Seconds later, he followed Bridges out into the hall.

“Wow.” Lissa fanned herself. “Sorry, Marc's my boss. I'm not used to seeing him…like that.”

Sara touched her lips. They felt swollen and a little chafed. Like the rest of her body, they weren't used to physical intimacy. Every step reminded her of exactly what they had been doing for the past two nights.

Sara slipped the credit card in her bag. She wasn't using it. It wasn't a departmental credit card; it was Bayard's personal account. “He's lived in D.C. for years. He has to date.”

Lissa shrugged. “Not that I've ever heard, although I'm sure he has. He's the consummate professional. He
never
mixes business with pleasure… Sorry, I'm putting my foot in it.”

Sara hooked the strap of her purse over her shoulder. “It's okay, I shouldn't have asked.”

But she was glad she had. She had needed to know that Bayard wasn't a playboy. In some respects she had to wonder if it wouldn't be better if he had been. Women, she could compete with. His job was another problem entirely.

S
ara showered and dressed in the black silk underwear she'd bought, then pulled on the stockings and fastened them to the garter belt. She didn't need to wonder if Bayard would like the underwear. She knew he would go nuts the instant he saw her in it.

A light tap at the door made her jump.

“Bridges is downstairs with the car. We need to leave.”

“Just one minute.” Sara slipped the black dress on, the thin silk sending a small shiver down her spine as it settled and warmed against her skin. She wound her hair into a smooth French twist, then checked her makeup. When she was finished, she slipped on the small set of fake diamond studs Bayard had given her to wear. One
of the studs was a simple piece of jewelry, the other was a state-of-the-art transmitter and global positioning device. Wearing it, she would be able to pick up transmissions and if there was a problem, Bayard could find her fast. She would also be wired with a mike, but that wouldn't be fitted until just before they went into the party.

With the makeup she'd bought, her eyes looked smoky and exotic. The jersey silk dress, simple as it was, clung to her figure. The neckline dipped low, the draped line emphasizing the curve of her breasts.

Bayard appeared in the mirror behind her just before his hands curved around her upper arms. He looked large and imposing in a formal black tux, his hair still damp from his shower, his jaw freshly shaven.

His mouth brushed the curve of her neck and shoulder. He released her and produced a flat case. “You need to wear these.”

The diamond necklace settled around her neck, a waterfall of cold fire.

She touched a finger to one of the gems. “Are they real?”

“They belonged to my grandmother. A courting gift from my grandfather.”

“He had taste.”

His mouth twitched. “
Grandmère
was a beautiful woman and wealthy in her own right. She had suitors lining up.”

Sara had seen the Bayard family portraits. Jean Bayard had been tall and dark, but he hadn't been the most handsome of men. He would have had to pull out all the stops to get Heloise.

Bayard's phone buzzed. He released her and answered the call, his answers brief and monosyllabic.

When he hung up, his gaze was remote. “Timetogo.”

She picked up the gauzy silk wrap that went with the dress, draped it around her shoulders and collected her evening purse. Bayard's measured gaze tracked her as she strolled toward the door, making her heart pound.

She was in love with Bayard and the emotional risk was huge. As close as she'd been to her family, no one had gotten as intimate with her as Bayard. He had gotten under her skin. His taste, his touch, his scent were indelibly imprinted on her memory not through one lifetime, but two.

When they had made love the first time something
inside her had clicked into place. She had been attracted to other men and had dated, but she hadn't been able to fall in love, or even in lust with any of them. She had made love, but she had never been able to climax during lovemaking. She had thought the lack was some internal quirk of her own, that she was frigid, but now the reason was clear. She hadn't been able to climax because at some powerful, underlying level she had remembered Marc.

If she couldn't have him, she knew suddenly that she would never marry or have children. She wouldn't grow old with a husband and her family around her. Life would go on. She would continue to work, take occasional holidays, maybe once in a while she would even get to be part of Steve's and Taylor's and their children's lives, but essentially, she would be alone.

Bayard locked the apartment door behind them. His arm automatically curled around her waist as they strolled toward the elevator.

The elevator doors slid open. She stepped into the warmly lit interior. The mirrored rear of the compartment threw their reflections back at them: Bayard, tall, broad-shouldered and remote. Herself, sophisticated and unexpectedly voluptuous
in the clinging dress, like an expensive courtesan with diamonds at her throat.

His arm tightened. “What's wrong? If you want out, just say the word. I don't want you near either Lopez or Reichmann.”

“Nothing's wrong. I'm fine.”

Just a little shaky because there was too
much at stake
.

Bayard was worried about her safety, but he was the one walking into the front line.

Marisa Sutton strolled through the crush, snagging a champagne flute as she walked, although she had no intention of drinking it.

She didn't pause to make conversation as she headed for the hall, although she knew some of the faces in the room. Knowing the intimate details of people's private lives, including an endlessly surprising amount of scandal and dirt, didn't make for easy conversation. In the years she had worked as an agent, she had seldom, if ever, socialized.

She paused by an elegant fireplace filled with an arrangement of pale silk flowers and pretended to sip champagne as she skimmed the crowded room. Wintry eyes met hers. Setting the flute down on the sideboard, she slipped from the room.

The hall was filled with security personnel, both male and female. She acknowledged a White House agent. The president wasn't here, but thanks to the presence of Nasser Riyad, a large contingent of his people were.

She waited impatiently in the garden. When a figure separated itself from an archway covered with a fragrant white climbing rose, she moved out of the shadows. “Are we running to schedule?”

“Calm down, everything's covered.”

“What do you mean,
everything?
The room's wide-open. I don't know who most of those people are and that scares me.”

“Trust me.”

Marisa studied Saunders's controlled expression, suppressing her instinctive dislike and distrust of a man who had uncovered her secrets then used them remorselessly to maneuver her. The only thing that made their partnership bearable was the simple fact that she could destroy him just as easily as he could destroy her. “I want out of this alive.”

“Then do as you're told.”

Sara studied faces. In 1943 Helene Reichmann had been a child, which put her in her early seventies.
The room was filled with older women, and the predominant hair color was blond. Identifying Helene, a woman who had successfully blended for years, wasn't going to be easy.

To make things more difficult, silent black-and-white movies were being projected onto one wall, and the flicker from the old film was distracting.

Her gaze lingered on an elegant blonde with high cheekbones and light eyes as she strolled in out of the garden. The woman was in her late thirties, maybe early forties. Her head turned as if she had logged and noted Sara's scrutiny. Sara adjusted her focus past the woman. She couldn't be Helene—too young—but the resemblance was striking.

Bayard, who had been systematically working the floor, slid an arm around her waist. “See anyone you know?”

“Not yet.” The only people she had recognized so far had been Lissa and Rear Admiral Saunders.

“Keep looking. Bridges is going to keep an eye on you while I check the perimeter security.” He moved away from her into the crowd.

Bridges was wearing glasses, but the lenses weren't prescription ones. The disguise, at first glance, was effective, but it didn't hide the fact
that he was lean, muscled and more likely to be security than ambassadorial staff.

“Have you worked for Bayard long?”

Bridges cupped her elbow and moved her out of the path of a waiter carrying a tray laden with empty champagne glasses, then instantly resumed his respectful distance. “Six months, give or take, but I've known him for longer.” His mouth curved at one corner, and suddenly he looked boyish rather than dangerous. “I'm from Shreveport. I don't know your parents, but I used to work with Steve.”

“You know that we're cousins?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“You don't have to call me ma'am. Sara will do.”

She circulated with Bridges, doing a slow tour of two reception rooms and a chilly garden. She hadn't seen anyone who looked remotely like Lopez, however, she was almost certain she had spotted Dennison. She mentioned it to Bridges.

He shrugged. “We've already got him under surveillance.”

She checked her watch. She had fifteen minutes before Bayard would have her removed from the party. On a large blank wall Charlie Chaplin
twirled his cane, drawing a small round of applause from a group of exquisitely dressed Japanese guests. Sara stopped, concentrating only on facial features and let her gaze go loose. The blond woman with icy-blue eyes she had noticed before refused a glass of champagne, the action drawing her attention.

An older woman moved into her line of sight, her features instantly familiar. Ambassador Cohen was currently based in D.C. with a regular seat at the United Nations and an advisory role to the president. Cohen's rise to power had been quiet, but steady. A prominent magazine had tipped her to be the next Secretary of State.

Her gaze moved onto the next knot of guests. The flash of diamonds jerked her gaze back. Cohen had diamonds at her throat, the lobes of her ears and her wrist. The settings were discreet, but the diamonds were impressive.

Frowning, she studied the ambassador. She didn't look seventy—midfifties at most—which was why she had automatically crossed her off her list of possible suspects.

Mistake. A lot of older women had cosmetic surgery or procedures of some sort. As long as money wasn't a problem, neither was looking
ten years younger. Looking twenty years younger was more difficult, but with enough wealth and discipline, it was doable.

The ambassador was average height, her hair tinted honey blond with elegant streaks of gray. She turned, the tilt of her head imperious, and for a millisecond the room wavered as Sara looked directly into Heinrich Reichmann's eyes.

She jerked her gaze away almost immediately and stared blankly at Bridges. “That's her over there, in the gray silk.”

“Cohen. Shit.” He turned away and talked rapidly into a microphone.

The younger blond woman with the ambassador turned. Sara caught the discreet bulge of a shoulder-holstered weapon beneath the woman's satin jacket, and her sharp watchfulness registered. Not Cohen's daughter, despite the resemblance: she was security.

Bayard appeared. When Sara checked on Cohen, the area that she and the younger blond woman had occupied was empty. She caught the gleam of light off blond hair and gray silk. “She's leaving.”

Bayard spoke into the microphone on his collar. His fingers closed over her arm. “So are you. Now.”

She gripped her skirt, holding it to one side as Bayard hurried her toward a side exit. “What about Cohen?”

“Bridges is following.”

A split second later the room dissolved and Sara was knocked to the floor. When she came to, her nose was bleeding, her ears were ringing, and she was having difficulty breathing.

Strong fingers wrapped around her arm, hauling her to her feet. “Can you walk?”

The room was blotted out with thick smoke and dust. “Yes.” Not Bayard.

Panic gripped her as she searched for Bayard. They had been in the middle of the reception room when the bomb, if that was what it had been, had exploded. A gaping hole had been ripped in the ceiling, and the entire landing and a wall had collapsed.

The man who was helping her, a security guard, kept her moving as they threaded past injured people and mounds of debris. He left her on the front portico, which was jammed with agents checking IDs and people talking on phones, trying to get their cars.

Rear Admiral Saunders materialized out of the crowd, waves of security parting automatically
for him. “Sara, thank God you're all right.” He handed her a pristine white handkerchief which she used to blot the blood from her nose. “Lissa's just getting the car. I think we're next in the queue.”

Saunders's icy calm was almost incomprehensible, when all she wanted to do was plunge back into the building and find Bayard. “Marc's still
in
there.”

A limousine pulled out and another pulled in. The window rolled down and Saunders took her arm. “He checked in with the command post about a minute ago. He's fine. That's our ride.”

“What do you mean,
fine?
”

Saunders's phone rang. He lifted it to his ear, spoke briefly and slipped the phone back in his pocket. “I told him I'd take you home. He'll meet you back at his apartment.”

He opened the passenger door. Sara stepped into the rear of the limousine. Saunders joined her and told the driver to move on.

As the car accelerated into traffic, she fastened her seat belt. “Where's Lissa?”

Saunders produced a gun. “I'm afraid she's not coming on this trip.”