According to his source, the guy was the real deal—a high-ranking CIA agent with enough knowledge inside his brain to push DMH to the head of the class.
If that were true, Mr. CIA already had enough evidence to take DMH down brick by brick. The risk they always took with a new initiate.
But now he had leverage.
He stared at the pretty blond woman on the back of the thick, hardbound book, and he smiled.
The man he’d known only as Gabe would bring so many plans to fruition once he started talking. And he would talk.
Any man who nearly gave his life for his child would no doubt do so again. All Elijah had to do was get Skylar Slavin in his grasp, and he’d have a nice chunk of the world for his taking.
CHAPTER
2
S
kylar Slavin cursed her BlackBerry’s spotty service and realized she was way too addicted to the little machine.
Way too addicted to avoiding work as well, and she threw the device across the room to the couch, watched it land with a soft bounce on the cushion. Then she shoved her sleeves up and bent over the open notebook in front of her, because she couldn’t bear to think about actually opening the laptop just yet.
Her brain felt dusty from neglect, like if she shook her head, the cobwebs might actually clear. Maybe then she could let her pen fly across the pages, merely a scribe to her story.
God, she’d loved those days, the early ones, when the writing was simply a part of her and she’d never had to question its loyalty.
But now, as she’d feared, the words wouldn’t come. Constant worry and a long-assed recovery from surgery did not make for a happy writer.
She’d thought coming back from the dead would be the hardest thing she’d ever done in her life, but she’d been dead wrong.
Disgusted, she threw down the pen and stared out the window.
She’d purposely chosen to vacation-slash-work in the mountains of the Adirondacks, rather than Florida, to avoid the distraction of beautiful, warm weather outside her door. Here was only cold and snow and inside was cozy and warm—perfect writing weather.
She rubbed her arms and then threw on a cardigan. She continued to have a hard time regulating her body temperature, but the doctors assured her that would improve.
Her lower back still ached, but the meds had finally stopped making her sick. Five months and counting and life was pretty well back to normal for her. Better than normal, since she’d survived the transplant and her body hadn’t rejected the kidney.
She was still in the danger zone, had to get past the first year to dramatically improve her chances of survival, but she refused to think of the alternative. Been there, done that for the better part of the six months leading up to her surgery, while they’d exhausted a donor list and she was pretty sure it was the end for her. Until her father had saved the day by donating one of his kidneys.
Her father, who could be anywhere in the world right now. Together, they’d recovered for two months. She didn’t know how or why he’d gotten that much time off—that had never happened before. Ever.
It had been really nice, even though she’d spent most of the first month on pain meds, weak as a newborn kitten.
She’d been so close to the edge, so close to death, and her father had risked his own life for hers.
She could only hope karma would be as kind to him. Couldn’t check on it, because who the heck had heard from the man?
Three months, and nothing.
If he’d been sick, she would’ve known—he’d be home and would have no reason not to contact her. But his secretary refused to give her any information, which screamed mission, and MIA, always a possibility. Still, it had been ingrained into her not to panic easily during stretches of non-contact like this one.
Growing up, there had been times that saw her father gone for the better part of a year, only to have him stroll in one evening as though he hadn’t missed a day of her life, sit down to supper and, for that moment, life would be normal.
Bitterness swelled in her throat and she choked it down. Tried to forget about the odd fan mail that had come to her P.O. box.
I know who you really are
.
That same message, received daily for a week. No return address on the envelope, no way to trace it, all with the same words inside.
Her publicist, Pam, who’d discovered them, had wanted to call the police—her agent and editor had agreed, but Sky told them they were overreacting. The letters hadn’t come to her home address, she reasoned, but they weren’t buying it.
And so she’d sat in her apartment with two detectives who were nice and hadn’t heard of her or her books and she’d lied to them about her father—told them he was long since deceased. No other family. No known enemies.
They suggested she change her P.O. box and make sure her address and numbers were unlisted. Easily done.
But still, Sky had to admit she was relieved to be able to get out of town and away from the city. She’d refused Pam’s offer to go with her, or to hire someone to watch her.
With any luck, she’d hear from her father soon.
I know who you really are
.
Her father had accrued many enemies over the years—powerful ones. Men, and women, who’d like nothing more than to take out their vengeance on his family.
They’d already done so to her mother, who’d also been a CIA agent. After her murder, Skylar’s last name had been officially changed, along with her Social Security number. Her past was reconstructed and life went on.
After years of tight security, things loosened. Her life was divergent from her father’s and he stayed away so much that tying the two of them together as family would be nearly impossible.
Receiving odd fan mail had happened before—usually, it was nothing, a fan who’d gone into creepy mode or someone who thought she looked good on the back of the book and decided they loved her. Those were random, few and far between, and each time, her father would investigate, and the problem would go away. But those were different, never anything that was a true threat based on who she was.
She’d feel better if she could simply talk with him, tell him. Get his reassurance that he’d take care of everything. She’d been calling about that daily, sometimes twice a day, for the past week—and nothing.
Nothing
.
With that worry hanging over her head, she padded to the kitchen in her thick socks and began to prepare dinner—a nice, big, complicated meal, because procrastination was an art form and these days she’d become a damned master.
Twenty minutes later, the knock on the door was sharp and sure. She heard it over the music she played loud as she stirred the sauce.
Hurriedly, she went to answer. The staff of the resort where she’d rented the townhouse told her they typically checked in on their guests staying alone, especially right before a storm. So she threw open the door expecting to see … anyone but the mountain man with the thick beard in front of her.
Every impulse told her to shut the door in his face, to scream, except … those eyes. Ice blue. Intense. Kind. And really, really sexy—enough to make heat flood her body and the cardigan she wore unnecessary even with the freezing air.
She really needed to get a life. “Can I help you?”
“My name is Cameron Moore. I’m here on Gabriel Creighton’s orders,” he said, and at the sound of her father’s name, her world spun.
She wanted to ask if her dad was all right, but stopped herself.
The man looked over her shoulder. “Can I please come in, ma’am?”
Ma’am
. She must look worse than she thought. “I need to see some ID.”
Even as she spoke, he was handing her a military issue ID card as light snow blew in from behind him. Cameron Moore. Sergeant First Class. Army.
“Your father sent me. You are Skylar Slavin, his daughter, correct?”
She nodded, relieved that he knew that information, and still she shifted her weight from foot to foot, as if preparing for flight. Except there was nowhere to run.
This man probably thought his military background would be a comfort to her, but Skylar didn’t trust military. Didn’t trust FBI or CIA agents either; that had been drummed into her early, thanks to her parents. Always start with suspicion, they would say.
They had always tried to ensure that she could take care of herself in any situation. She was fully firearm trained and knew a variety of self-defense moves. She could handle explosives, pick locks, hotwire cars and generally get into places she wasn’t supposed to be. She knew how to get information from people who weren’t supposed to—and didn’t want to—talk.
As a writer of thrillers, that last skill was priceless. Her work held an authenticity noted by reviewers and she was often jokingly asked in interviews if she was indeed a spy herself.
It wasn’t true at all, but if it helped her to sell more books, Skylar would neither confirm nor deny.
Having kidney failure—and nearly dying—had been something she hadn’t been prepared for. And now, firmly on the road to recovery, she hadn’t expected to find herself facing life or death again. But when her father sent someone to her like this, it was that serious.
If he’d sent Cameron.
But if Cameron wanted her dead, he could’ve killed her already. The area was secluded enough. And so she moved aside to let him pass while self-consciously pulling the sweater more tightly around her. Underneath, she wore a tank top and her pajama bottoms, which had tiny hearts all over them. Like she was twelve or something.
God, she was babbling inside her head—she knew that—but it was better than thinking about what the hell was wrong with her father and why he hadn’t come for her himself.
Cam dropped his heavy bag in the middle of the living room—it looked like standard military issue.
But he spoke quickly and calmly once she shut the door behind him. “I’ve worked with your father and the CIA on and off for eleven years now. Only for him.”
She handed him back his identification. “You said my father sent you to me.”
“Yes.” He was walking through the house, closing blinds and curtains tight. “There’s been a threat.”
No mention of the many calls she’d put in to her father. “When did you talk to him?”
Cam didn’t answer her, was still walking around the rental house as if danger was imminent.
And suddenly, she was tired of being ignored—by her father and his assistant, and by this big man stomping through her working vacation and her life.
She was next to him in seconds, tapping him hard on the shoulder. “Hey, I asked you a question.”
He turned to stare at her, unblinking. “About five hours ago.”
She searched his face for any indications of a lie. Of course, if he wasn’t telling the truth, she wouldn’t be able to tell—these men were trained in the art of the lie until they didn’t even know what end was up any longer. “I need to speak with him.”
“That’s not possible tonight.”
She was already going for her phone, before remembering the no-signal thing. She stared at the useless piece of equipment, spoke to Cam without looking at him. “I haven’t heard from my father in three months—he never answered my calls. I need to know he’s really okay, I want to hear his voice. You have to understand that.”
“I’ll give you more information when I can,” he told her in a tone that said,
Deal with it
. “I know this must be hard on you.”
She wanted to tell him to shut up, that he didn’t know anything—but there was something in his voice akin to a secret pain that stopped her. “You’ve got to tell me the truth about what kind of danger I’m in and from whom.”
He rubbed his forehead with a palm, then held it there as if trying to ease a massive headache. “It’s deep and it’s real. It’s a kidnapping threat from an enemy of your father. And if they can’t take you …”
“They’ll kill me instead,” she heard herself say, and fiercely forced that thought from her mind. “My dad doesn’t know about the letters I’ve been getting.” She hadn’t mentioned them when she’d called her father—couldn’t, just in case. Just left messages and asked for him to call her.
But at the mention of the letters, Cam snapped to attention. “Do you have them?”
She had one she’d kept back—it had been waiting for her in the old P.O. box the very afternoon she’d met with the detectives. She’d decided to take it with her in case she’d heard from her father. “I have one in my suitcase.”
“And they’re threats?”
“Very much so.” To her anyway. To her publicist, agent, and editor, who had no idea who her father was and what those words might mean, it seemed more like a stalker—bad enough, she reasoned, although that was nothing compared to the type of people her father knew.
“Why didn’t you do anything about this sooner?” he demanded. So either her father wasn’t getting her messages … or Cam was full of shit.
“I tried to get in touch with my dad. He’s the only one I contact. I can’t just call the CIA. My father hasn’t been around much, but he’s always made sure I was safe, especially since—”
She stopped abruptly, because she’d said too much, revealed something she’d sworn never to do. And, as her near admission hung between them, she wondered if he’d push her to say more.
“I’ll go get the letter,” she offered casually. The letter, and her gun.
He nodded, seemed distracted as his gaze continued to sweep the townhouse and she hightailed it to the bedroom. Her suitcase was on the chest at the end of the bed—she’d only been here for one night, and although she’d promised herself she’d unpack today, thus far she’d avoided the task.
Last night, she’d been so tired after the long drive, the only thing she’d done after taking her medicine was retrieve the gun from her bag and put it in the bedside table drawer. Now she opened the drawer, relief washing over her at the sight of the familiar black-and-chrome piece, and reached inside to grab it.
Cam’s hand curled around her arm, his breath warm against her ear … and he was so close. Too close. And yet, for some reason, she wanted him closer, even when his words came out harshly. “Drop the fucking gun.”