Eye of the Storm

Chapter 1

The man sitting on the corral fence had killed her fiancé. He belonged in prison.
And
two months from now, she would send him there.

Reigning in her fury, she walked toward former Marine Major Michael Stormwalker, who was watching a mare and her filly nuzzle beneath a brilliant South Dakota sun. Pretty as it might have been, the scene left her cold.

Stormwalker also seemed at odds with the idyllic setting. Every aspect of his posture radiated the edgy power of a man alert to any sign of threat. Beneath a black leather vest, his broad shoulders hunched as if waiting to spring into action. Long, powerful legs tapered to ragged boot heels resting lightly on the bottom rail. Smoke from his cigarette streamed past a rugged profile nearly hidden by the satiny black hair falling across his cheek. Massive and brooding, he personified danger. He was exactly what she expected of a stone-cold killer.

Until he faced her.
His startling sea-green eyes warmed with appreciation and the ghost of a smile turned up one corner of his mouth. Expecting curiosity, even a hostility echoing her own, she found his undisguised interest both disconcerting and infuriating; his admiration an unwelcome intrusion. Her hands curled into fists and she shoved them into the pockets of her linen jacket. She would not allow herself the luxury of anger when all her energies must be directed at bringing this man to justice.

As if reading her thoughts, he let his gaze turn cool and detached. "You're Zan McLaren."

"Alexandra McLaren," she said. Her steady voice pleased her.

"Sorry. Your brother always calls you that."

"My brother can."
  

The smile returned. Some women might have considered it a sexy smile. She, of course, did not.

 
"You have your brother’s concise way with words,” he said. “Do you also share his objectivity?"

"Is that a family trait?"

"If it isn't, I can't trust you'll do the right thing."

"And that
is.
. . ?"

"To get at the truth even if you don't like what you find."

"What if you don't like what I find?" she asked.

"An informant tipped your brother that I’d been set up by a mole buried deep in his beloved Federal Security Agency. That new information allowed him to negotiate my release. I may be outside a cell, but unless I can restore my career and reputation I might as well be back there."

He braced his shoulders. The movement told her that being "back there" had no place in his plans.

We’ll see, she thought. "Who restores Dar's life?" she asked.

"I wasn't responsible for his death. Not even the Navy Tribunal could make that charge stick." His eyes narrowed. "Look, you'd have to be a saint to help someone you believe committed treason and killed the man you loved. So if you can't, I'll understand. I'll find another way."

"As far as I'm concerned, you're guilty on both counts." She took a slow breath to calm her pounding heartbeat. "But I'll search until I find the truth. Is that objective enough?"

He seemed to be evaluating her response. And well he should, she thought. Only a fool would accept her at face value. He was no fool.

"Why did you come here if you think I'm guilty?"

Someone had to pay for Dar
s death. She straightened to her full height and met him eye to eye. "I want to be the one who sends you back."

One eyebrow
raised
. "You're honest."

"I try."
 

 
"You don't mind being on the reservation?" he asked.

"I think this so-called new information is a crock and I intend to prove it. Where I do my work is irrelevant." She matched his penetrating gaze, steeling herself against the wicked gleam in his blue-green eyes.
What matters to me is your spending the next 25 years behind bars.

 
Breathing a sigh of relief, she turned and started up the street toward the newspaper building. She'd managed to get through their first meeting with her composure still intact.
Almost.

"Where're you off to?" he called out.

 
He strode toward her. When his long legs brought him to her side, she did nothing to hide her annoyance. He raised one hand palm out.

"I'm not checking up on you," he said. "I thought if we were headed in the same direction we could walk together. That's all." He repeated the gesture of a moment before. "That's all."

His proximity left her too conscious of his powerful build, too aware of his quiet but potent masculinity. She gave herself a mental shake. His smiles and magnetism would never change the fact that the man had deprived her of the love of her life.

"I'm going to see the newspaper editor," she said.

"Same here."

She shrugged and they walked north beneath a sun-drenched summer sky. The air floated light and dry without any hint of humidity to give it weight. Their steps raised small puffs of dust that settled on the tips of her boots, dulling their spit and polish shine.

Several people passed, greeting Stormwalker warmly and nodding politely in her direction. When a man in his forties stopped to talk, pleasure softened the major's features. They spoke in Lakota, freeing Zan to look at the houses lining Thunder Valley Reservation's main street.

Some were well-kept, the grounds surrounding them tidy. Others showed signs of the poverty and apathy of their occupants. Paint had peeled, brick facing lay strewn on the ground; broken windows had been mended with cardboard or plastic sheeting. Like bizarre and rusting sculptures, remnants of worn-out machinery and vehicles dotted the landscape.

Zan felt something smack softly against her toe and looked down at a battered soccer ball. A boy watched her. Somewhere off to her right a screen door slammed. A horse whinnied in response, setting a dog to bark. She kicked the ball back to the youngster. He scooped it up and cradled it under one arm, his face expressionless except for the laughter dancing in his dark eyes. A familiar yearning tugged at her. She and Dar had wanted a big family.

"Sometimes I think about having one of my own," Stormwalker said.

"A soccer ball?"

"A kid."

"I did, too . . . before. . . ." Before you killed the dream, she thought.

Anger and sadness washed over her in unbearable waves. She had to distance herself from the man who had caused them, or be overwhelmed. She turned, but had taken only a step or two when she felt the gentle pressure of his hand on her arm. Though momentary, his touch lingered on her skin with the warmth of a soft desert breeze. Why hadn't the bitterness churning in her gut protected her against its effect?

"I'm sorry for what you've lost."

His voice seemed to echo her pain. She stared at him without responding.

"I know you don't want to believe this," he said, "but I'm innocent. I didn't compromise either the Agency's or the nation's security. I didn't trade secrets for money. And I did not kill Dar O'Neill. By the time you're finished here you'll know the truth. I guarantee it."

The sincerity that burned behind his eyes and vibrated in his voice might have given her pause if she didn't know better.

With a calm she didn't quite feel, she countered, "I'm just as positive that when my two months are up, you'll be on your way back to prison."

All emotion fled behind the mask he assumed. Satisfied that she'd made her point, she walked away. Once again, he matched her steps.

"Why are you still here?" she asked.

"I have a message for you from your brother."

"Couldn't you have told me sooner?" She really didn't want an answer and held up a hand as he started to respond. "What did he say?"

"He wants you to get in touch with Ken Becker."

"From the Agency?
What's he doing here?"

"He retired some years back. He's running the probation department in town and acting as liaison between us and the Federal Security Agency."

Apparently the mole in her brother's organization worried him enough to send him to the outside for help.
 
As head of the FSA, the decision was his to make, but she wasn't sure she agreed with the move any more than she'd agreed with his assigning Dar to the case that had gotten him killed. Reversing direction, she started for her car.

"Change your mind about going to the newspaper office?" Stormwalker asked.

"For the moment."

 
With its top down, the MG sped along the highway. Zan gripped the wheel with a white-knuckled ferocity born of rage. Her pulse pounded with it; her lips flattened to a thin, tight line. How she hated dealing with a man who'd killed with impunity, who'd violated every principle of loyalty and honesty she lived by. Hated this world of intrigue and the fact that she'd allowed her brother Mac to drag her back into it when she'd promised, vowed, never to return.

Yet here she was, about to plow through the very agency databases she once maintained, on a search for evidence of
Stormwalker's
innocence or, she hoped fervently, guilt. Because
she'd
refused to set foot inside the
Virginia
compound, Mac had okayed
Thunder
Valley
as a work site. If the mole followed Stormwalker there, Zan would provide backup in a confrontation. Big Brother had decided that "covering the major's butt" was a small price to pay for the chance to return him to federal prison. A lot he knew.

The brief first encounter with Stormwalker had taken every ounce of self- discipline she possessed and still had nearly broken the back of her restraint. So how could she hope to function during the next eight weeks? She slammed her palm against the steering wheel. What did eight weeks matter when measured against the five years since Dar's death?