Without A Trace

by Nora Roberts

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  Gillian woke after a solid twelve hours of sleep. The room was dim, and she lay still, waiting for her mind to clear. Quickly, and in order, the events of the previous day came back to her. The bumpy, nerve-racking flight from Mexico City to Mérida. The fear and fatigue. The frustrating search from hotel to hotel. The dingy little cantina where she'd found the man she had to believe would save her brother and her young niece.

  This was his room. This was his bed. Cautiously she turned her head—and let out a small groan. He was sleeping beside her, and in all probability he was as naked as the day he was born. The sheet slanted across his bare back, from below the shoulder blade to the waist. His face, a little less harsh, a little less forbidding, in sleep, was inches from hers. She felt then, as she had felt when she'd first seen him the evening before, that it was the face of a man a woman would never be safe with.

  Yet she'd spent the night with him and had been safe-safe from him and from whatever forces were after her. More significantly, the moment she had stepped into the room and had finished unburdening herself, she had felt a wave of relief and confidence. He would help, reluctantly, resentfully, but he would help.

  Sighing, she shifted in bed, preparing to get up. His hand shot out. His eyes opened. Gillian froze. Perhaps she wasn't as safe as she'd thought.

  His eyes were clear and alert. His grip was firm, and just shy of being painful. Under his fingers, he felt her pulse speed up. Her hair was barely mussed, which told him that exhaustion had held her still through the night. The hours of sleep had faded the shadows under her eyes, eyes that watched him warily.

  "You sleep like a rock," he said mildly, then released her and rolled over.

  "The traveling caught up with me." Her heart was bumping as though she'd run up three flights of stairs. He was dangerous to look at, and too close. Perhaps it was the morning disorientation that caused her to feel that dull sexual pull.

  Before she managed to resist it, her gaze had flicked down—the strong column of neck, the broad chest—and froze. A long red scar marred the tanned skin just right of his heart. It looked as though he'd been ripped open, then put back together. And recently.

  "That looks… serious."

  "It looks like a scar." His voice held no inflection at all as she continued to stare at the wound with horrified eyes. "You got a problem with scars, Doc?"

  "No." She made herself look away, back at his face. It was as hard and blank as his voice. Not my business, she reminded herself. He was a violent man who lived by violent means. And that was exactly what she needed. She got out of bed to stand awkwardly, smoothing her clothes. "I appreciate you letting me sleep here. I'm sure we could have arranged for a cot."

  "I've never had a problem sharing a bed." She was still pale. It gave her a delicate bone-china look that made him edgy. "Feel better?"

  "Yes, I—" She reached a hand to her hair as she felt the first wave of embarrassment. "Thank you."

  "Good, because we've got a lot of ground to cover today." He tossed the sheet aside and noted her instinctive flinch. His own discomfort turned to amusement. He wore flesh-colored briefs that left little room for modesty or imagination. Rising without any sign of self-consciousness, he gave her a slow, cocky grin. He liked the fact that she didn't avert her eyes. Whatever her thoughts, she stood where she was and watched him coolly.

  Her throat had gone dry as dust, but she made a passable stab at casualness. "You could use a shower."

  "Why don't you order up some breakfast while I do?" He turned toward the bath.

  "Mr. O'Hurley…"

  "Why don't you make it Trace, sweetheart?" He looked over his shoulder and grinned again. "After all, we just slept together."

  The water was running in the shower before she managed to free the breath that was trapped in her lungs.

  He'd done it on purpose, of course, she told herself as she sat on the edge of the bed. It was typical of the male of the species to flaunt himself. The peacock had his plumage, the lion his mane. Males were always strutting and preening so that the female would be impressed. But who would have guessed the man would be built like that?

  With a shake of her head, Gillian lifted the phone. She didn't care how he was built as long as he helped her.

  He'd have preferred it if she hadn't looked so frail and vulnerable. Trace kept the water cold to make up for three hours' sleep. His problem. Lathering his face, he began to shave in the shower by feel. He'd never been able to resist the damsel-in-distress routine. It had nearly gotten him killed in Santo Domingo. And nearly gotten him married in Stockholm. He wasn't sure which would have been worse.

  It didn't help a hell of a lot that this one was beautiful. Beautiful women had an edge, no matter what modern-day philosophy said about intellect. He could admire a mind, but—call him weak—he preferred it packaged well.

  By God, she was some package, and she'd dumped him into an international mess when all he wanted to do was wander around some ruins and go snorkeling.

  Hammer. Why in the hell did it have to be Hammer? He'd thought he was done with the half-baked, destructive group of renegades. It had taken him more than six months to infiltrate the organization at one of the base levels. He'd been working his way up, nicely, keeping a low profile with a Slavic accent, his hair dyed black and a lot of facial hair to complete the disguise.

  Ten miles out of Cairo, he'd made the mistake of discovering that the man he'd been working with on a small-arms deal had been making a few deals of his own on the side. Nothing to him, Trace thought now, bitterly. God knew he'd tried to tell the man he didn't give a damn about his private ventures. But in a panic, the terrified entrepreneur had blown a hole in Trace's chest and left him for dead rather than risk being reported.

  It was well-known that the man who wielded the power and money at Hammer had little patience with private enterprise.

  For nothing, Trace thought in disgust. The months of work, the careful planning, all for nothing because one half-crazed Egyptian had had a sweaty trigger finger.

  As a result, he'd brushed close enough to death to want to spend some time appreciating life. Get drunk, hold a willing woman, lie on white sand and look at blue skies. He'd even started thinking about seeing his family.

  Then she'd come along.

  Scientists. He rubbed a hand over his chin and, finding it smooth enough, let the water beat over his head. Scientists had been screwing up the order of things since Dr. Frankenstein's day. Why couldn't they just work on a cure for the common cold and leave the destruction of the world to the military?

  He turned off the taps, then reached for two undersized towels. Two phone calls the night before had given him enough information on Gillian Fitzpatrick to satisfy him. She was the genuine article, though he'd been wrong about the Swiss school. It was Irish nuns who'd taught her posture. She'd completed her education in Dublin, then gone on to work for her father until she'd accepted a position with the highly respected Random-Frye Institute in New York.

  She was single, though there was a link between her and a Dr. Arthur Steward, head of research and development at Random-Frye. Three months ago she'd spent six weeks in Ireland, on her brother's farm.

  A busman's holiday, Trace decided, if she had indeed [ worked on Horizon while she'd been there.

  There was no reason to disbelieve her, no reason to re-fuse to do as she asked. He'd find Flynn Fitzpatrick and the angel-faced little girl. And while he was at it he'd find the men who'd killed Charlie. He'd get a hundred thousand for the first and a great deal of satisfaction for the second.

  The towel covered him with the same nonchalance as the briefs. He walked back into the bedroom to find Gillian shaking out what was left of her clothes.

  "Shower's yours, Jill."

  "Gillian," she told him. Fifteen minutes alone had done a great deal to help her regain her composure. Since she was going to have to deal with Trace O'Hurley for some time, she'd decided to think of him a
s a tool rather than as a man.

  "Suit yourself."

  "I usually do. I don't have a toothbrush."

  "Use mine." He pulled open a drawer of the bureau. He caught her look in the mirror and grinned. "Sorry, Doc. I don't have a spare. Take it or leave it."

  "It's unhygienic."

  "Yeah, but then, so's kissing if you do it right."

  Gillian took her clothes and retreated to the bath without commenting.

  She felt almost human when she came out again. Her hair was damp, her clothes were wrinkled, but the scent of food and coffee brought a very healthy pang to her stomach. He was already eating, poring over the newspaper as he did. When she moved to join him, he didn't bother to look up.

  "I wasn't sure what you liked."

  "This is fine," he told her over a mouthful of eggs.

  "I'm so glad," she murmured, but the sarcasm bounced off him without making a dent. Because her hunger was urgent, she applied herself to her own plate and returned the compliment by ignoring him.

  "They make it sound like it's only going to take a couple of nice chats to ratify the new SALT Treaty."

  "Diplomacy is essential in any negotiation."

  "Yeah, and—" He looked up. He knew exactly what it felt like to take a hard fist in the solar plexis. He knew how the body contracted, how the air vanished and the head spun. Until now he hadn't known he could experience the same sensation by looking at a woman.

  Her hair curled damply past her shoulders, the color of a flame. Her skin was ivory, touched with a rose brought back by rest and food. Over the rim of her cup her eyes, as deep and rich a green as the hills of Ireland, looked into his questioningly.

  He thought of mermaids. Of sirens. Of temptation.

  "Is something wrong?" She was nearly tempted to peach out and take his pulse. The man looked as though he'd been struck on the back of the neck. "Trace, are you all right?"

  "What?"

  "Are you ill?" Now she did reach out, but he jerked back as if she'd stung him.

  "No, I'm fine." No, he was an idiot, he told himself as he lifted his own coffee. She wasn't a woman, he reminded himself, she was his ticket to an early retirement and sweet revenge. "We need to clear up a few points. When did they snatch your brother?"

  Relief came in a tidal wave. "You're going to help me."

  He smeared more butter on a piece of toast. "You said a hundred thousand."

  The gratitude in her eyes dulled. The warmth in her voice cooled. He preferred it that way. "That's right. The money is in a trust fund that came to me when I turned twenty-five. I haven't needed it. I can contact my lawyer and have it transferred to you."

  "Fine. Now when did they take your brother?"

  "Six days ago."

  "How do you know who took him and why?"

  It didn't matter that he was a mercenary, she told herself, only that he would save her family. "Flynn left a tape. He'd been recording some notes when they came for him. He left the tape on, and I suppose no one noticed during the struggle." She pressed a hand to her mouth for a moment. The sounds of the fight had come clearly over the tape, the crashing, the screams of her niece. "He didn't go easily. Then one of the men held a knife to Caitlin's throat. His daughter. I think it was a knife because Flynn said not to cut her. He said he'd go quietly if they didn't cut her."

  She had to swallow again. The breakfast she'd eaten with such pleasure rolled toward her throat. "The man said he'd kill her unless Flynn cooperated. When Flynn asked what they wanted, he was told he was working for Hammer now. They instructed him to bring all his notes on the Horizon Project. Flynn said… he told them he'd go with them, he'd do whatever they wanted, but to let the child go. One of the men said they weren't inhuman, it would be too cruel to separate a child from her father. And he laughed."

  Trace could see what this was doing to her. For both their sakes, he offered her no comfort. "Where's the tape?"

  "Flynn's housekeeper had been at the market. She found the mess in the laboratory when she got back, and she phoned the police. They contacted me. Flynn's recorder had an automatic shutoff when he reached the end of the tape. The police hadn't bothered with it. I did." She linked her hands together as Trace lit a cigarette. "Ultimately I took the tape to Mr. Forrester. It was gone when I found him dead."

  "How do you figure they know about you?"

  "They would only have to have read Flynn's notes. It would have been recorded that I worked with him and took part of the project back with me."

  "The men on the tape, they spoke English?"

  "Yes, accented…Mediterranean, I think, except for the one who laughed. He sounded Slavic."

  "Anyone use a name?"

  "No." On a deep breath, she ran both hands through her hair. "I listened to the tape dozens of times, hoping I might catch something. They said nothing about where they were taking him, only why."

  "Okay." Trace tipped back in his chair and blew smoke toward the ceiling. "I think we can get them out in the open."

  "How?"

  "They want you, don't they? Or the notes." He was silent for a moment as he watched that sink in. "You said you had them with you. I didn't find them in your bag."

  The consideration in her eyes turned to indignation. "You looked through my belongings?"

  "Just part of the service. Where are they?"

  Gillian pushed away from the table to pace to the window. It seemed nothing was hers alone any longer. No part of her life could be private. "Mr. Forrester destroyed them."

  "You told me you had them with you."

  "I do." She turned back and placed a fingertip to her temple. "Right here. With a true photographic memory, one sees words. If and when it becomes necessary, I can duplicate the notes."

  "Then that's what you're going to do, Doc, with a few alterations." He narrowed his eyes as he thought the plan through. It could work, but it all hinged on Gillian. "How are you fixed for guts?"

  She moistened her lips. "It's not something I've had to test to any extent. But if you mean to use me as bait to find out where Flynn and Caitlin are being held, I'm willing."

  "I don't want any grand sacrifices." He crushed out his cigarette before he rose and walked to her. "Do you trust me?"

  She studied him in the hard, brilliant light of the Mexican sun. He was scrubbed and shaven and, she realized, no less dangerous than the man she'd met in the cantina. "I don't know."

  "Then you'd better think it through, real careful." He cupped a hand under her chin. "Because if you want to stay alive, you're going to have to."

  It was a long, mostly silent drive to Uxmal. Trace had made certain everyone in the hotel knew they were going. He'd asked for brochures, gotten directions in both English and Spanish, then gone to the gift shop to buy another guidebook and some film. He'd asked the clerk about mileage, restaurants along the way, and insect repellent. In general, he'd played the enthusiastic tourist and made a spectacle of himself.

  Anyone looking for Gillian would know she could be found at the rums of Uxmal.

  The vegetation on either side of the road was thick and monotonous. The Jeep was canopied, but it didn't have air-conditioning. Gillian drank bottled lemonade and wondered if she'd be alive for the drive back.

  "I don't suppose we could have found someplace closer."

  "Uxmal's a natural tourist spot." The road was straight and narrow. Trace kept an eye on the rearview mirror. "We'll have some company, but not enough, I think, to put our friends off. Besides, one of the reasons I'm here is to check out the rains." If they were being followed, the tail was first-class. Trace shifted in his seat and adjusted his dark glasses. "It's not as big or as popular as Chichén Itzé, but it's the most impressive site on the Puuc Route."

  "I didn't think a man like you would be interested in ancient civilizations and pyramids."

  "I have my moments." In truth, he'd always been fascinated by such things. He'd spent two months in Egypt and Israel using a cover as an anthropology major early i
n his career. It had given him a taste for both history and danger. "We should be able to pull this off, and soak up the atmosphere, as long as you follow orders."

  "I agreed, didn't I?" Even with the thin buff-colored blouse and slacks she wore, the heat was irksome. Gillian concentrated on it rather than the anxiety that was gnawing at her gut. "What if they're armed?"

  Trace took his eyes off the road long enough to shoot her a grimly amused look. "Let me worry about that. You're paying me to handle the details."

  Gillian lapsed into silence again. She must be mad, she thought, trusting her life and the lives of her family to a man who was more interested in money than humanity. Taking another swig of warming lemonade, she tried to comfort herself by remembering what Charles Forrester had said of him.

  "A bit of a renegade, and certainly not a man who would be considered a good team player. If he was, he'd be running the ISS by now. That's how good he is. If you want a man who can find a needle in a haystack—and you don't care if the hay gets a bit mangled in the process—he's the one."

  "This is my brother's life, Mr. Forrester. And the life of a little girl, not to mention the possibility of nuclear repercussions."

  "If, out of all the agents I've worked with, I had to pick one to trust my life to, it would be Trace O'Hurley."

  Now she was trusting her life to him, a man she'd known less than twenty-four hours. He was crude, and more than a little rough around the edges. Since she'd met him he hadn't offered one word of sympathy about her family, and he hadn't expressed more than a passing interest in a formula that could change forever the balance of power in the world.

  And yet… there was the quietly supportive way he'd slipped an arm around her waist when she'd been staggering with fatigue.

  Who was he? A quick bubble of panic started in her throat as the question finally broke through. Who was this man she was trusting everything to?

  "How long have you been a spy?"

  He looked at her again, then back at the road, before he burst out laughing. It was the first time she'd heard the sound from him. It was strong, careless, and more appealing than she'd counted on. "Honey, this ain't James Bond. I work in espionage—or, if you like a cleaner term, intelligence."

  Unless she was mistaken, there was a trace of bitterness there. "You didn't answer my question."

  "Ten years, more or less."

  "Why?"

  "Why what?"

  "Why are you in this kind of work?"

  Trace punched in the cigarette lighter and ignored the little voice in his head that reminded him he'd been smoking too much. "That's a question I've been asking myself lately. Why physics?"

  She wasn't foolish enough to think he cared. It was simply a way to switch the conversation away from himself. "Family tradition, and I had a knack for it. I was all but born in a laboratory."

  "You're not living in Ireland."

  "No, I was offered a position at Random-Frye. It was an excellent opportunity." To finally slip out from under her father's shadow.

  "Like the States?"

  "Yes, very much. At first it seemed everything moved faster than it should, but you find yourself catching up. Where are you from?"

  He pitched the cigarette out into the road. "Nowhere."

  "Everyone's from somewhere."

  His lips curved at some private joke. "No, they're not. We're nearly there. Want to go over anything?"

  Gillian drew a long, steadying breath. The time for small talk was over. "No."

  The parking lot was half full. When the winter season got under way, the ruins, less than a two-hour drive from Cancun, would do a brisk business. With his camera slung over his shoulder, Trace took Gillian's hand. Her initial resistance only caused him to tighten his grip.

  "Try to look a little romantic. We're on a date."

  "You'll understand if I find it a bit difficult to look starry-eyed."

  "Shoot for interested." He pulled the guidebook out of his back pocket. "The place dates back to the sixth and seventh Centuries. That's comforting."

  "Comforting?"

  "Over a thousand years and we haven't managed to destroy it. Up for a climb?"

  She looked at him but couldn't see his eyes behind the dark lenses. "I suppose."

  Hands linked, they started up the rough steps of the Pyramid of the Magician. She wasn't immune to the atmosphere. Even with sweat trickling down her back and her heart thudding with dull fear, she was moved by it. Ancient stones lifted by ancient hands to honor ancient gods. From the top she could look out over what had once been a community filled with people.